Valentine's Day is a hangover waiting to happen

Those of you who are not devoted Roman Catholics might have missed it, but in 1969 the church removed St Valentine of Terni from its General Roman Calendar, due to the lack of verifiable biological information about him.

This minor cloud over the authenticity of the St Valentine story hasn't deterred the retail sector, though. Shopping malls from the Mall of the North to Canal Walk ensure that the spirit of this saint, who may or may not be a figment of our collective overactive imagination, remains alive.

They are doing exactly what they are supposed to be doing. And that is creating an opportunity to make everyone bleed through their pockets at least once a month. 

Last month, it was back-to-school. In March it is either Easter or the Human Rights Day weekend. In April it's either Easter or the Freedom Day braai-athon. In May we're all encouraged to love our mothers. It's the dads' turn in June.

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In July we must head to the coast with the kids. In August we're encouraged to venerate women by ... you guessed it ... shopping and braaiing. In September Jan Braai makes us braai for real because that's apparently our heritage.

In October we get our first Christmas TV ads and decorations. And then we're back to school in January. It's a beautiful cycle if you're Shoprite or Spar.

And this is how it came to pass that on Sunday February 14 1993, I set off for The Wheel mall on the Durban beachfront. (Like a lot of shopping malls, it has since been reincarnated as the China Mall.)

The occasion was a date with a sexy little thing; the mission, to dazzle her with my general Don Juan skills so that by the end of the evening she would agree to be separated from her undergarments. Don't judge me. That's pretty much all that occupies the vacuous space where the brain of a 21-year-old misogynist should be. And it was a double date, with my friend Sbu and the sister of my boo.

After five years in boarding school, I was schooled in the traditions of Valentine's Day and believed I was well-prepared. Back in high school, what a lovesick fellow did was go into Vryheid on Saturday and purchase an expensive card from CNA.

block_quotes_start The mission, to dazzle her with my general Don Juan skills so that by the end of the evening she would agree to be separated from her undergarments block_quotes_end

If he could afford it, it would be one of those cards that play Stevie Wonder's I Just Called To Say I Love You. If not, it would just be a card with a cheesy "roses are red, violets are blue" message.

On this fateful Sunday in 1993 I was armed with a card and a box of Quality Street chocolates. No, silly. Not the big one. I was a student.

The date didn't start on a particularly high note. We were meant to meet at the BP Centre on West Street (later renamed after the appropriate comrade) at 11.30am. We were then supposed to proceed to The Wheel to watch A Few Good Men, starring Jack Nicholson, Demi Moore and Tom Cruise at 12 noon.

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But the girls only arrived at 1pm, much to my friend's irritation. And then they protested when we said we were walking to The Wheel, about 900m away. Why not take a minibus taxi, they asked. I didn't want to ruin what little ambience remained, so I hailed one down. As we disembarked at the mall, we were already R1 poorer each; a substantial dent in our budget.

In anticipation of this day, I had bought a pair of red All-Star sneakers. OK, let me stop lying. Converse All-Star takkies cost about R150 back then; a mini fortune. So I had bought a pair A1-Stars; a convincing knockoff, some R120 cheaper.

Unbeknown to me, right opposite the Gillespie Street entrance to The Wheel, was a giant billboard with a Wimpy ad. It was simply a picture of red Chuck Taylor sneakers with the caption, "Go grab a Wimpy burger now." The girls burst out in giggles, pointed at my All-Stars — sorry, I mean A1-Stars — and, in perfect unison, screamed, "Go grab a Wimpy burger now!" It was downhill from then on.    

They complained about the seeds in the popcorn. Why did we watch A Few Good Men when there was a perfectly good romcom showing? The aircon was too cold. The movie dialogue was boring. Someone needed to go to the bathroom but they needed to be accompanied there.

It was complaint after complaint. Why had God put our country on the southernmost tip of Africa? OK, I made up that last complaint, but it wouldn't have surprised me if they'd complained about why men have nipples.

Sbu was ready to commit murder. After the movie, we convened in the gents to confer about our strategy going forward. In the coldest tone I have ever heard come out of his mouth, Sbu outlined our strategy: "Basijwayela kabi laba. Yenza yonke into engiyishoyo." (These two think we're idiots. Just follow my lead.)

From then on, the only word escaping from his lips was "No". Can we have some juice? No. Hawu, aren't we taking a taxi back to the rank? No. Can we go see your flat? No. Is it OK if we breathe some oxygen? No. Suffice to say, my lovely companion's drawers remained firmly around her nethers.

The fact that this is my most memorable Valentine's Day in my four-and-a-half decades on earth speaks volumes about what I think of the day.

• Follow the author of this article, Ndumiso Ngcobo, on Twitter: @NdumisoNgcobo