Andy Richardson: V-Day? 'Tis the season to lose reason

Christmas is all about credit card bills and New Year is all about making resolutions we can't keep. Easter is all about chocolate and summer is all about the beach. This means that Valentine's Day is the day for overblown declarations of love.

It's the day to paint: 'I luv ya, Shazza' in the middle of the road, the day to whisk your partner to Paris to propose at the Eiffel Tower, the week to throw caution to the wind and just tell her/him/them* how you feel.

*If it is 'them', then good luck. That's one helluva complicated love life and I'm sorry, but we probably can't help you. You need a real expert. A KING among men you may be, but, jeez, good luck with that one, two, three fella.

Valentine's is the time for bended knee and overblown gestures, the time to make promises that can't be kept and mistakes that take a lifetime to unpick. Oh Gawd. I hate Valentine's almost as much as I hate Rice Krispies that have been left in the milk for too long so that they turn soft. And what's the point with that? Just throw them away and fill another bowl. Snap, crackle, pop.

Don't imagine for a moment that my antipathy for The Day Of Lurve stems from unromanticism. I'm not. If anything, I've overdosed on le grand amour like an alcoholic in a whisky vat. I've met The One so many times that I am now up to 185.

I've done the buy-a-diamond-ring-when-you-meant-to-buy-a-cheese-sandwich thing; I've done the give-a-bunch-of-flowers-to-a-stranger thing – and very pleased they were to receive them. There's been the yes-let's-move-in-it'll-be-great mistake, the ooops-I've-proposed-in-a-café-when-we-were-only-meant-to-be-having-tea proposal, the compulsive no-one-will-ever-know thang and the if-we-live-in-our-own-parallel-universe-everything's-gonna-be-alright fandango. It wasn't. It never will be. It never is.

A book's worth of romantic disasters included too many proposals, more dinner dates than Jay Rayner and enough gifted chocolate to empty every cocoa bean plantation in Columbia. And in bending over backwards – yeah, I'm still the limbo champion – to please women whose names I've happily now forgotten, I've come to this unerring conclusion. Romance is great. But normal life is much, much better.

Flowers oughtn't to be a once a year thing on February 14 when the price of 14 roses is doubled by smart-thinking florists. They should be an every fortnight thing, or an everytime-you-feel-it thing. Chocolates oughtn't to be a Christmas, birthday and Valentine purchase, they ought to be a spontaneous and frequent symbol of affection.

A best friend whom I've known for 30 years developed a new rule for me long ago. We meet every three or four months to eat, chat, make each other laugh and look to the future. And like all time spent with friends, it's among the most enriching, rewarding, life-affirming and funny time I ever spend.

The Doc, as I call him, has a simple rule. If my new partner lasts long enough to still be around for two consecutive dinners, he'll let me talk about her. But until then, it's just a heartache waiting to happen, a mistake ready to unfold, a soon-to-be-ex who hasn't yet passed into the past. He has no time for the hedonistic, headstrong, headlong rush of testos-pheromone.

I saw The Doc two days ago and after exchanging the usual pleasantries he asked: "How's X?" And before he'd reached the end of a sentence, he started to laugh, realising that X had already become Y and love is like algebra in the hands of a man as well-meaning but useless as me.

Another friend who's been around for just as long bemoans her lot. There's the parent taxi, the cost of new ballet shoes for her brilliant daughter, the dreary job in an insurance office and the fella who's brilliant, perfect, utterly devoted and loves her more than Steve Bull loves The Wolves. And, despite it all, sometimes she hankers for excitement and a frisson of danger.

We swap stories. She puts her hand over her mouth and mumbles 'Oh My God' at me, while I imagine how great it must be to not work 14-hours a day and be able to relax on the sofa in front of Corrie or The 'Enders, just like her.

I'm living her dream: a crazily, chaotic life of excitement, uncertainty and no come downs. And she's living mine: a humble and comforting daily round filled with stability, companionship and love.

But though our lives diverge, we have one thing in common. And that's that we don't go in for smoke and mirrors. Drama and excitement are soon gone. Truth and sincerity aren't. You don't need to paint a message to Shazza on the road if you really mean it.

Valentine's is a 365-day thing. Be kind. Be real.