Feck Valentine's Day 2: A disgruntled saint writes....

Although stories vary, one of the main accepted ‘origin stories’ for St. Valentine is that he was priest who continued to offer Christian weddings while the Romans were outlawing them. He was jailed and eventually executed, before this he apparently wrote letters to the jailor’s daughter signing them…’from your Valentine’. I used to think he actually got his heart ripped out by Salome type character, which would make a better story.

The following is an open letter from St. Valentine to the sundry couples of the world for this shittest of holidays, I apologise in advance for the language, he’s a very angry saint:


To whom it concerns,

Cheers!...thanks a lot!...I get beheaded by those fecking Romans for continuing to offer Christian marriages, and you lot celebrate by being guilted into buying sundry pink plastic crap and chocolate lumps of shite to give each other. Oh and, lest we forget, you try that little bit harder in the sack with your embarrassing fumblings…to make your sweaty gruntings extra ‘special’ on St. Valentine's Day...good luck with that.

While hovering around this stinking plane the other day, I saw pink Pringles...pink fucking Pringles! I shit you not, they looked like slices of pig innards...what the fuck does that have to do with me being incarcerated in a prison and writing a love note to the jailor’s daughter. It was hardly love, I was in fucking prison for fuck’s sake, you know, death row stylee, I would have written a love note to a discarded mop if I had to suffer another month in that hole...the jailor’s daughter was the only ‘lady’ for miles around...and I’m not even sure she was a lady.

I myself will be celebrating ‘my’ day on a bed of pornography with some autoerotic sex experiments that go tragically right, (why do you only ever hear about the ones that go wrong on the news?) watching down laughing as this excuse for a holiday (i.e. it doesn’t involve eating until you burst, drinking till you puke or having sex with as many people as possible) strains all your relationships to the point of heartbreak. I might nip out and watch you all trying to get a table at Pizza Express and spending hours deciding who has the last dough ball.

Peace out, breeders….

St. Val.
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