Aidan Moffat's City of Love

Every couple of years or so around this time, my city likes to remind everyone that somewhere in Glasgow Cathedral lies a box with a few bones that used to be part of Saint Valentine. Of course, this almost certainly isn't true – the Irish, among others, lay claim to the remains, and then there's the fact that no-one can agree on exactly which one of the Saints named Valentine we're supposed to be celebrating every February 14th. It's really just an attempt to remind everyone to go out and spend money on hideous tat and splash out on restaurants they normally couldn't afford in the 'City Of Love'; the first attempt to boost the retail economy after the January clear-outs.

Perhaps that's a little too cynical – I'm not entirely against some elements of Valentine's Day. For instance, I think it can be great fun for kids, if also somewhat heartbreaking and emotionally scarring. I remember pulling a hat over my face in an attempt to anonymously post a romantic missive through Vivien Gilles's front door when I was about 8 – but someone saw the whole thing, and I was consistently ridiculed for my secret desire until a class member was found doing something even more pathetic and the attention turned.

Anyway, the song below – and available for download for your listening pleasure – is called City Of Love. Half of it used to be a poem I wrote for a spoken word album, but then I added a couple of choruses so I could sing it live, and it all seemed to make sense.

Happy Valentine's Day. Suckers.

CITY OF LOVE

Saturday night’s the night for fun,
but where’s the boy that made your make-up run?
The pubs emptied out, you pushed past on the street,
but where was the guy that made your green eyes greet?
Were your knee-high boots and tiny skirt
all for the boy that made your heart hurt?
Did the big hoop earrings and new hair-do above
have little effect on the boy that you love?

The streets are full of broken hearts,
of useless pricks and stupid tarts;
the city’s filled with love to save
as Saint Valentine spins in his grave.

Did he turn up late in your favourite place
and throw his last drink right in your face?
Could he tell something’s wrong, could he tell you were lying
before he decided there’s no point in trying?
Did you make a mistake, give in to your lust
and prove yet again you’re not someone to trust?
Did you think about begging, pleading and kneeling?
If so, i think i might know how you’re feeling.

Tonight we’ll both get our own way –
there’s no-one else to have their say.
In filthy sheets we both shall lie,
and do our best to let love die.