Valentine's Day Massacres

There is something seemingly irresistable about the big date in the calendar upon which to present one's beau with the order of the boot. Christmas and New Years' Eves, birthdays, or at the airport on the way for that fortnight in the Canaries are always choice. But for those of a more ironic bent Valentines Day looms large. Few things highlight the difference between the sexes more than the concept of Valentines. Breakfast in bed with a ticket for a weekend in Paris under the croissant or a garage forecourt bouquet and an invitation to come down the pub and watch the fitba.

The surge in couples seeking counselling after the Christmas period is well documented, but you're not really out of the woods until 15 February. Of the many factors responsible for this phenomenon, the obligatory meal a deux has got to be the chief culprit. The very idea of romance to order is almost by its very nature doomed; nothing says ‘this isn't happening’ more eloquently than a limp pizza, three bottles of cheap white and stilted conversation while the unvocalised ‘yeah but what have you done for me lately’ hangs in the air like a cloud of pissed off cupids.

During extensive research for this article a few beauties deserve particular mention. A (hem) friend, on one memorable Valentines, spent over three hundred quid in the Witchery on the Royal Mile, only to end up blubbing alone under the piteously amused eyes of the staff, stubbornly quaffing malts whilst a full glass of Barolo coagulated on his stupidly expensive shirt. The real tears, however, were reserved for the discovery that the malts in question were fifteen quid a pop.

Or one could bribe the maître d' to greet you warmly at the table, regard your date sniffily and say (preferably in a faux Italian accent) “but where is the beautiful one you were here with last week”. At least you wont be stuck for conversation. (This actually happened to my brother although no money had changed hands.)

Booking a table at a classy joint and then simply not turning up is undoubtedly effective but lacks a certain finesse. Turning up with flowers and a card with someone else's name on it scores highly on comedy value and eating the meal at said classy joint and then slipping off just after the coffee but before the bill has a distinct Edinburgh style appeal.

It has to be said that chasing each other up and down the road shouting obscenities, roses in the gutter, a broken stilletto and a ruined shirt are regarded in many cultures (Glasgow, I'm looking at you here) as part and parcel of the courtship ritual, so if you are going to do it, do it in style. For a quicky, the local kebab shop is hard to beat, says it all and still leaves time for that crucial Partick Thistle fixture in the Methadone Cup.

Then again it might go swimmingly. A great meal, a walk swathed in crisp moonlight, some smooching and the consolation that there is always next year.