Valentine’s Day has always been a date that mocks me with the precision of a well timed counterattack. While the rest of the nation drapes itself in roses, chocolates, and the sort of performative affection that would make even Casanova roll his eyes, I find myself preparing for a very different kind of emotional ordeal: Notts County away at Bromley. It’s a fitting metaphor, really. Some men spend the 14th of February whispering sweet nothings; I’ll be sighing “for the love of God, clear it Notts!” into the Kentish ether.
History, of course, is full of great romances. Antony and Cleopatra. Abelard and Héloïse. Even Henry VIII, who approached marriage like a man working through a tasting menu, managed more success in matters of the heart than I’ve ever mustered. My own romantic record resembles Notts’ defensive set piece statistics: patchy, chaotic, and best not examined too closely by anyone with a weak constitution. If love is a battlefield, mine has been a long retreat through the mud, punctuated by the occasional own goal.
And yet, there’s something almost poetic about spending Valentine’s Day at Hayes Lane. While couples clink glasses in warm restaurants, I’ll be shoulder to shoulder with the County faithful, united in that peculiar blend of hope, dread, and gallows humour that only EFL2 football can conjure. It’s not roses and candlelight, but it is a kind of devotion — the sort that requires emotional resilience, and the ability to laugh at your own misfortune.
Because if romance is about vulnerability, then supporting Notts County is the purest love affair imaginable. Every match is a leap of faith. Every away day is a test of loyalty. Every defensive lapse is a reminder that heartbreak is never more than one mistimed tackle away. And yet we return, again and again, like medieval pilgrims seeking absolution — or at least a decent first half.
So, while Cupid busies himself elsewhere, I’ll be celebrating Valentine’s Day in the only way I know how: with a lukewarm pie, a plastic pint, and the faint, flickering hope that Notts might deliver something resembling a clean sheet. It may not be romantic in the traditional sense, but it’s honest, it’s heartfelt, and it’s very, very me.
After all, love comes in many forms. Mine just happens to wear black and white, ruins my weekends, and leaves me content to spend Valentine’s Day in Bromley without disappointing anyone but myself.
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
My love life’s a cautionary tale
Historians actively refuse to review.
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
I love Jatta so much
It’s frankly skewed my romantic IQ.
© Ian Kirke 2026
@ iankirke.bsky.social
Photograph by Priscilla Du Preez on Unsplash