Bucko's World

Ok, quiz time. So what do we think about when we hear the name St Valentine then? Do we think of the massacre in Chicago back in 1929, when Al Capone’s thugs saw off business rival Bugs Malone (now that sounds familiar…) before making off with his bootleg whiskey? Do we think of the “Traditional” saint type figure, strung up on a cross and killed for failing to renounce Christianity? Or do we think of card manufacturers and chocolate, pink champagne and expensive meals out, and the festival that brings every red blooded male cringing to his knees, knowing he is going to be ripped off, and get it so completely wrong to boot….

Actually, other than knowing that he may be possibly one of three ancient figures - nobody can agree exactly which - it seems not a lot is known about the real (or not, as the case may be) St Val. All I know is that due to the stupid festival that has grown up in his name I am pissed off, confused as to its purpose and fifty six pounds and thirty three pence out of pocket. Yes, this week, I will be mostly be having only £1.17 left from my giro and I’m not a happy bunny. In the immortal words of that legendary lover Johnny Rotten “Ever got the feeling you’ve been had?”……

My first gripe is this. Isn’t it the tradition that on this 14th day of February, we can take the opportunity in the name of this saint, to make an anonymous (and quite often inappropriate I might add) declaration of love for some other individual who, under normal circumstances, would run a mile if you so much as talked to them? Please note the important word in that previous sentence – ANONYMOUS. Surely therfore it’s so spotty 17 year olds in accounts with braces, windscreen sized glasses and poor personal hygiene can declare their undying horniness for Trisha in the typing pool – you know the one in the white stilettos and Greyhound skirt? No? Girls Aloud tan and penchant for Malibu? More info still? Too much make up and a prescription treatment for Chlamydia? Ah, got there in the end.

So how come I’m in Clinton Cards looking at a whole rack of cards which say “To my boyfriend on…” to my Husband on…” or indeed, the one that suckered me in at £6 a pop “To my Wife on….” How the fuck are they going to be anonymous??? Even when you sign the silly fuckers with an “X” (yes, I did – what a berk….) the recipient, unless they’re a bigamist or something, is going to have a pretty good clue as to who the bloody thing is from. Actually, my card could well have been designed for a bigamist. It declares on the front “To my special wife” possibly to allow for the purchase of an additional one saying, for instance, “To my ordinary wife” and therefore allowing the long distance lorry driver not to get the cards for Valerie and Siobhan mixed up. He’s pretty safe though, it’s all anonymous of course, and only signed by an “X” so they won’t know who it's from even if he did mix them up…;-)

My second gripe is of course that a card just isn’t good enough. Oh no, present is required as well. Buy chocolate at your peril, just coz Thornton’s window is full of the stuff you’ll be damned if you do……perhaps not straight away, but once that top button won’t do up on their favourite one-size-smaller-jeans you’ll be solely to blame. What’s the choice then? A bottle of champers then. But it has to be pink. And expensive, otherwise you don’t love them enough. So its £50.33 spunked on a bottle of Laurent Perrier Rose in a posh box and the giro’s virtually all gone. I’ve now go to rush back to the car to make sure I’m under an hour coz I don’t have £1.80 left for the parking.

And then there is dinner. Have you ever had a decent meal out on SV? Of course not. Even the best greasy spoons get greedy and it’s cram ‘em in and a "special" menu and shit, cold or overcooked rubbish and fuck off to 120 smackers. Thank you very fucking much and 15% on top or you’re a tight bastard. No, a lovely candlelit meal in will do just fine…….

And so to my third gripe. I’m out of pocket to a whole week’s sovs but I’m the one up to my elbows in scallops and lyonnaise potatoes and bloody Béarnaise sauce. And why? No matter how much effort you put in it just never goes right. I try a new way of doing the Béarnaise and it goes to scrambled egg. For convenience I’ve got frozen scallops and they taste like - and have the consistency of - rubber bungs. But don’t worry, the "Lazy Chilli", garlic and white wine reduction has coated them in a brown goo which masks the chance of any other flavour coming through. The potatoes seem to have been sliced too thin and have ended up as burnt crisps covered in cremated onions. Fortunately they’ve had the good grace to stick fast to the baking tray they’re on to spare us from having to eat them. And that was the good bit. What a bunch of arse, sausage and mash would have been much better.

And so to my final gripe. Why the flip does any man’s wife expect all this? Christ, we married them for god’s sake; isn’t that enough? We’ve done that thing that no man does other than under duress, and we sleep in the same bed, and don’t comment on the extra pounds or wrinkles or grey hair and even usually manage to remember their birthdays, but no, that’s not good enough.

So what can we do about all of this chaps?…………………………
Well, unless celibacy is on the cards the answer would appear to be Sweet Fanny Adams. What a total and utter bunch of arse.