Thank fuck, it’s Valentines day.

What’s even better is that my spine feels like it’s made of Wendslydale and I was lucky enough to come into work by public transport, something I always enjoy. I particularly relish commuters’ bad breath, sneering teenagers and old folk that move as quickly as still photography. And I love Feb 14th, I really do.

Last night a very close friend came over for dinner. I made a roast chicken for the first time in a device called a ‘chicken brick’, a ceramic balloon cut in twain in which the chicken lies (NB It’s best the chicken has passed away) and brushed with a little oil. I rubbed garlic over the inside of the brick and took time to shove a lemon and lime right up the (dead) chicken’s arsehole. The brick is then put into a cold oven (I know, crazy) and cooked undisturbed at a high temperature for an hour and half, leaving plenty of time to sod about with roast potatoes, root vegetables and have a jolly good poo.

Now, being an optimistic sort of a chap, I have to admit, even I was a little sceptical this alchemy would actually work, but, by the Lords of the New Church it did! In addition, the bloody brick makes it’s own gravy, you don’t have to do nuffin. The subsequent meal went down as well as tramps cider, so good was it in fact, that my friend did a Sunday-afternoon-dad and feel asleep on the sofa. Wasting no time at all, I drunk and smoked heavily knowing acknowledgment the evening had been a triumph. I even smacked my lips, what ever that means. I’m sure Pete Doherty could tell me.

I woke this morning with the dulcet tones of my friends mobile, set about 2 hours before mine, informing me that it was the start of a new fresh day, but wait, not any day, Valentine’s Day! I farted loudly just catching the tail before it licked brown all over my Egyptian cotton sheets. Actually, I’m pretty sure it was the fart that was responsible for putting my back out.

Anyway, once in work (I didn’t mind that the bus was late, that the tube sat on the platform for a full 17 minutes, gradually filling until even the Nazi’s loading for Belson would’ve raised a brow of concern at the plight of the occupants) I celebrated the prospect of facing an entire day with an embittered handful of failed actors and musicians not wanting to be there any more than I do. I wished it could be Valentine’s Day every day.

So, to the meagre parties that bother to check out this dwindling blog, to you all, and yes, that does mean you mum, Happy Valentines day.

Your cards are in the post.