Gagging on Valentine's

It is that time of year again, when anybody who writes about any topic under the sun must come up with something novel, witty and useful (or better, all three) to say about Valentine's Day.

It's damn hard. The usual roses and dinner date stuff is dull.

I like cheap pink Chinatown fluff as much as the next silly person, but on Valentine's, everything - even the kitsch - seems to suffer a massive sense of humour failure. But then that's the trouble when Hallmark takes ownership of a day, isn't it?

February 14 should be much more interesting than puffy heart cushions and cheesy cards. It should be more like Halloween really, as it's marking the gruesome death of poor St Valentine, the Roman priest who was beaten, stoned and then decapitated under order of Emperor Claudius for his promotion of Christian marriage (and Christian belief in general).

In fact, St Valentine may be a conflation of three different martyred saints. Valentinus was a popular name back then. That just makes it thrice as gruesome and fascinating.

If you happen to be in Rome, a fitting meal might be loads of cooked artichokes - the vegetable most like a flower and, I think, the most beautiful vegetable of all. They could be taken on a picnic to his memorial site on the Via Flaminia that leads out from the north of Rome.

If you are anywhere else, perhaps something terrifyingly bloody is the order of the day. Or find food you can decapitate. Even symbolically bloody could work - that way vegans can join in the fun, too, with beetroot and tomato soup.

The one piece of advice I can give: do not venture out for dinner. Well, perhaps to a friend's house or a road-house, but not to anything resembling a proper restaurant. Go out any other night of the year. Eating out on February 14 is the surest way possible to have a bad meal and a bad vibe (dozens of whispering or fighting couples do not create a merry buzz).

It is also the surest way to have an emptier than necessary wallet. Restaurants specialising in Valetine's dinners, poor sods, will very often mark everything up by at least 30% (to make up for the whispering and fighting endured), and offer what could politely be called dainty portions - apparently dainty is romantic, though I think a rack of ribs might be more so.

Who needs this?

Extremely good real champagne and the best, fat, shiny wild oysters do not require a chef's know-how, just some clever shopping. And without the restaurant's mark-up, you can eat copious amounts, lolling on the couch with a great video.