My brother in-law, Stephen, must have had the worst St. Valentine's night in Britain. When at a ceilidh (pronounced kay-lee, a Scottish dance) with his girlfriend held at my church building on Saturday evening, he thought he'd put his newly acquired break-dancing skills into practice. He'd been attending a body-popping class for a while now, and it was time to show his friends what he could do.
Sure, for a while he was bustin' some sweet moves; the church couples were impressed. That is until he decided to do a single-handed handstand. While executing the maneuver, he flicked his legs upwards and clobbered his girlfriend in the face with his Timberland clad feet. She rushed from the hall, in full view of everyone, clutching her face. Stephen, concerned, pursued her into the ladies toilets to find blood pouring from her nose. He was then hysterically reminded by the females present that this was a ladies toilet and that he had to leave. If he didn't have such a good head of hair, chiseled features and a natural talent for everything, I might have felt sorry for him. Ah, schadenfreude.