Valentines Day

You might have noticed or you might not have been all that bothered, but it was Valentines Day today. An important night of the year for the master Thongster, you might think. And you'd be wrong. You'd be wrong because you've not given it enough thought to realise that for a stripper, Valentines Day is like Christmas Day for Santa Claus. It's the one day of the year we can be sure to have rest.

For tonight was the night when the nation went thong crazy. Across the land, cries of pain will have been heard from the two dozen men that statistics tell us will be made permanently infertile after pulling off their thongs without having read the instructions carefully. At least two men, statistically speaking, will have severed their manhood in the heat of passion. And statistics will tell us that at least one goat will also be injured in the rush to woo the nation’s ladies. A thong is a dangerous tool in the wrong hands. As, I might add, is a goat but, for the sake of one of my Lib Dem friends, I don’t want to linger on a point that's so close to his hearts. Well, at least seven inches lower down, to be precise.

I, on the other hand, have not worn a thong all day. It’s only day of the year I can be sure to have off so I’ve been relaxing in an extremely large and baggy pair of Y fronts. To me that’s exotic when every man in the land is donning his thong, greasing himself liberal, and generally doing the pudding for his dearest and nearest.

Which leaves the night open for a man like me. I remained fully clothed and rested.

Gabby understands. She’s seen me naked so many times that I think it’s beginning to bore her. Do you know that last week, I accidentally walked naked through her meeting with the immigration officer dealing with her case? It was bad enough that neither of them blinked an eyelid but they actually asked me for my national insurance number. What does that do for a man’s sense of being a sexual being.

So, Valentines Day is something of a no show in the Chipster’s household.

And I can’t say I’m not glad. The whole thing makes me sick to the pit of my stomach.

What is it about a nation of supposedly free spirits that makes it act in unison? Did Shakespeare write his sonnets to be read only on his birthday? Where has the sense of spontaneity gone? Where is the desire to sing Sinatra in the supermarket? Dance the tango in Tesco? Do men not know how to woo? And is it true that you can only get a woo with Typhoo?

We should be told.

Before before you go off and demand to be told, think of those poor men tonight, wounded by too tight thongs ripped off too quickly.

And also spare a thought for the goat. Won't somebody spare a thought for the goat.