God, you lot disgust me. Each and every one of you. You may have managed to brainwash some poor idiot into thinking you’re worth shagging, but I’m wise to your ways. You probably think you and your unlucky genital servicer deserve a nice romantic evening this Valentine’s Day. News flash: you don’t.
So here I present the absolute worst things going on in London this Valentine's Day, all overthought, sex-themed nightmares by people who have never had fun in their lives. This is the kind of Valentine's I wish on you all
I will never understand why anyone would wilfully go watch a spoken word performance. Watching someone who thinks they’re funny wang on at the pub is bad enough, let alone on a stage in front of people. It feels like getting a crossbow bolt of embarrassment straight to the heart.
Vagina Club is this, but all the spoken word is about vaginas (wh-wh-what?!) in the latest desperate bid to make sex organs seem more interesting than they are. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but they're not as captivating as you think.
MORLEY'S VALENTINE SPECIAL
"Right, so, Fabian yah, get this: there’s this hilarious chain of poor people chicken troughs called 'Morley's', yeah? And what they’re doing, right, is their normal fare of pissed up idiot feed, yeah, but a bit more 'posh' so it's a kind of alt-Valentine's day, cuz it's novel and has pretensions of being romantic, but really we’re all having a big old laugh at V-Day cuz it’s fried chicken! And it’s in Peckham, so after we can head to John the Unicorn and I'll end up vomiting on some old man's fruit stall and get an Uber Exec home because I have too much money. The banter will flow like wine!"
FALL IN LOVE WITH A STRANGER
In this exciting redo of the speed dating genre, Hoxton Bar and Grill want you to fill out a questionnaire of 36 curated questions, and then match you with the person of your dreams. The problem with this, of course, is that no one likes strangers and no one likes talking to strangers. When some random cunt comes up to you in a pub or something and starts talking to you, you don’t think, 'Oh cool! A friend I haven’t met!' You think, 'I wonder how long it would take me to bleed out if I slashed my arteries with a broken piece of this Stella Artois chalice?'
Secret London Runs – Sex and the City is… sigh … a sex-themed 10k jog around London with a glass of prosecco, presumably resting on a table in the middle of the road somewhere, so you can grab it and pour it on your face as you run past. The only people who would get turned on by this sort of shit are psychotic healthy sex freaks who suck Huel out of each other’s arseholes and join their sinewy, spider’s web bodies together in timed, heart-rate-monitored coitus, uploaded to their Nike+ so all their other exercise-weirdo mates can comment.
Running, much like cycling, is lame. You look lame doing it, everyone hates you and thinks you’re a dickhead, you’re not impressing anyone, stop thinking you’re special.