Beaten, Beheaded, and Buried in a Road

Ah, St Valentine's Day.
I've had so much love this morning that I had to register my phone on a telephone preference service just so that I could take five minutes to pleasure myself and have a wash. I've had calls coming all the way from Massachusetts to India, which tells me that rumours of my sexual prowess have got out and masochism is on the rise.
That's not to say that I'm into chains and leather, but if someone makes the right offer it would give me pause for thought. At present though I'm more about disappointment followed by a cuddle.
As a single man you might expect a rant from me about St Valentines but that's not the case, I like that there's a designated day when people are supposed to at least pretend that they still love each other. And when that is the case, hate-sex is great.
Like most people I fancy myself as being great at spotting when someone likes another person but short of a dead rabbit showing up in a pot on my stove I couldn't tell the difference between someone being interested in me and them having bad gas. I've got crap sinuses too so the smell isn't even a hint.
Then there's that one thing I always forget: The Barmaid Rule.
If you aren't familiar, this is when guys think they can pull the attractive barmaid because she smiles at him because they forget that it's her job to be nice and tips are nice. Consequently I'm known as a good tipper. Although I do try to tip fellas as well, I don't know if that means I'm naturally flirtatious or if I'm just trying to give them hope.
The same rule applies to baristas, waitresses, and pretty much everyone in the service industry, although you don't see as many people going on the pull in Tesco. Round my way though if you want a classy bird you go to Lidl, nothing says romance like standing in a queue in your slippers with 3 litres of own brand vodka and a crushed soul.
I will admit that I have been caught out by the Barmaid Rule myself, I think it's something of a rite of passage for every growing boy to have that little bit of humiliation, although I maintain the last time it happened wasn't entirely my fault.
Elsewhere butchers will be rubbing their palms together today because they can get rid of all that fillet steak that has been building up in their fridges since Christmas. And off licenses will be setting up romantic displays of prosecco, sauvignon blanc, and Buckfast. And don't forget to stop in the garage for the chocolates and condoms.
You'd nearly think that St Valentine had planned his martyrdom to coincide with the January credit card bills being cleared. Maybe that's the case, he was a prophet for profits?
Oh I'm being wilfully facetious, I know personally tonight I'll be settling down to a nice steak and a bottle of wine, and staring lovingly across the room at my freshly lubed Fleshlight.