Friday the Thirteenth and Valentines Day! 

Friday the Thirteenth! 

Who’s afraid of Freddy Krueger then? Lights a fag from the stub of the last one and sneers. 

Look at yourselves will you. Frightening yourselves shitless about a random date and a fictional monster. 

Get a grip!

Friday the Thirteenth is just another day. It is no more unlucky than any other day. 

To illustrate: I met my late and unlamented spouse on a Friday. Only it wasn’t the thirteenth. And I couldn’t blame luck. Nope. I wound up married to the louse because of the effects of rough cider not the friggin’ date….

So. Get out from under the bed. Get your legs down the appropriate holes in your trousers (or pants if you are a bloody colonial), and try to act like you have a brain cell.

Stop watching horror films if you don’t have the balls to realise they are fiction. 

Don’t be looking for lucky items of clothing, just put your adult panties on and get on with the day.

Do not walk around with your fingers crossed. You will only wind up hurting yourself.

Put the bloody rabbit foot down. It isn’t lucky for f***’s sake. The poor bloody rabbit is dead!

To cut a possibly very long rant a little shorter here is the bottom line.

Superstition is crap. It will never be anything but crap. It is designed to sell crap. And to allow the feeble-minded to blame their inadequacies on a higher power.

Again I say crap.

If I see anybody surreptitiously turning their money in their pocket, or avoiding their reflection I shall be kicking ass…

And as for tomorrow being Valentine’s Day, do you really want to get me started on that too?

You do?

That bitchfest in the name of lerv? That commercialisation of affection? That show the world how perfect your relationship is? That Gw***** P*****w of festivals?

In case you hadn’t guessed, Granny really don’t approve.

When I was a gel, your boyfriend sent you a card he had bought in Woolworths and probably forgot to take the price ticket off of. You showed it to your mum and your best friend and put it in a box with all your souvenirs. End of. And if nobody sent, well only you and your mum  and your best friend knew. No real harm done – unless your best friend was a bitch.

Nowadays nothing is that simple. Today you have to Instagram the card, the flowers, the jewels, the wine, the food, the guy, the naughty underwear…

Stop it. For the love of sanity. Do. Not. Do. It.

But. Given that it will occur and every halfwit on the planet will be posting the biggest lie they can concoct… 

Here’s the plan.

Buy yourself a bouquet of something pretty. Photograph it. Post it on all your social media with no explanation.

When somebody is rude enough to ask simply say the flowers were from your greatest admirer. Truth. And. Sorted…

Advice for chaps. If you are from the side of the room with dangly bits and facial hair the advice to you is Do Not Forget. Your life may depend on it… also a large present and a suitably soppy card can result in the sort of sexual favours you have only dreamed of.

Piss off. I’ve said all I’m going to say and you are annoying me now.

Happy Friday suckers!