“I am a wolf man
Under skies heavy with snow
My eyes are convex lenses of ebony
Embedded in amber
I am a man-wolf
The fat bourgeois and his doppelganger
Are buried in their solid glare
Twin specimens of insect, set for display”

— Hawkwind, Steppenwolf (Astounding Sounds, Amazing Stories, 1976)

I don’t like Valentine’s Day.  This will probably not surprise anyone who knows me.  And it is not because I have been single for the past seven years and am jealous of those in relationships.  Rather, I am not a fan of being told what to do and when to do it, and state-sanctioned romance with hearts and flowers is really not my bag. 

Fortunately, the Romans have supplied a dark alternative to the festival of Hallmark cards in the form of Lupercalia (also giving its name to a splendid poem by Ted Hughes*).  Although Valentine’s Day may share its name with a Christian saint**, many people think its origins lie in this pre-Christian Roman holiday (although truth be told that your date may not be terribly impressed if you turn up with a dead goat rather than a bunch of roses tomorrow night). 

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