And what's all the fuss about anyway? An ageing, pseudo- intellectual oddball finally gets to wed an old slapper who's been round the block more often than your paper boy after a 30-year affair involving deception, betrayal and adultery? Is this really the kind of union we should celebrate as a nation?

On the other hand, at least the ceremony on April 8 will finally formalise a relationship that has been an open secret as it was played out in the full gaze of the British public. Perhaps we should show some compassion ... and wish Ken and Deirdre Barlow every happiness in their future life together.

Ha ha, got you there, didn't I? You thought I meant Chas and Camilla, didn't you?

Do you think I'm quite daft? Mrs B has spoken. There'll be no sneering at our next-door neighbours in this column, oh no. The confetti has been ordered, the limousine lined up, and we're off into town on Saturday to buy the traditional gift. Although I have to say that I can't imagine Ken and Deirdre lodging their wedding present list at the Cirencester branch of Argos.

After the unfortunate incident involving Mrs B's reaction to the gift-wrapped rotary clothes dryer at Christmas, I made a special effort on Valentine's Day. Card, flowers, special present - a Charles and Diana commemorative wedding plate from a local antiques shop - the works.

It wasn't a total success. The unexpected conjunction of an important football match, a ridiculously cheap offer on Lindeman's Bin 65 Chardonnay at Tesco, and the publication of a report showing that women live longer if they regularly shout at their menfolk led to the kind of evening that Cupid probably didn't anticipate.

What I did notice while ferreting around assorted High Street shops in search of a card that cost less than a fiver was a new development in gullible idiot exploitation - Valentines cards for grandads, your children and pet dogs. No, really.

Now correct me if I'm wrong, but I thought the whole idea behind Valentine's Day was to send a missive to your loved one. Ideally, it should be anonymous, but the fear of being accused of forgetfulness has led most of us to make sure that our name is clearly inscribed within, if only in self-defence. And therefore in capitals.

That custom, along with the compulsory flowers and chocolates, already costs the great British public around £2.4bn a year (enough to pay for all Prince Andrew's helicopter flights with his green fees thrown in).

Now the greetings card industry, which has already invented such bogus "holidays" as Grandparents' Day, Nanny's Day and Local Playground Paedophiles' Day (I may have made one of those up), is trying to con us into sending a Valentine's Day card to our bloody dogs.

Why? They already gaze up at you with unconditional love (even though you ended their hopes of a lifetime of doggy sexual adventure with a quick visit to the vets). Are they really going to think the better of you because you've forked out £3.99 on a piece of coloured cardboard that they can't even read? (Unless they're a lurcher. Lurchers can actually read. It's a scientific fact.)

I'll tell you what makes a dog happy - food. And then more food. And then some food. It's as simple as that. Cats can fend for themselves, even if it does mean decimating next door's fishpond and most of the local sparrow population. Cats can even open tins. And fridges. And fill in your tax return at a push.

Dogs can't. Dogs are stupid, soft, and totally reliant on the their lord and master. Even pit bull terriers called Tyson. Sending them a card is just daft. They'll only eat it and then be sick on your bed. Not that you let them on there, of course ...

I have often wanted to start a riot in IKEA. It is a truly horrendous retail experience.You may recall that a couple of years back, I was instructed to purchase a bed and mattress from the furniture superstore. To complete this simple transaction took over six weeks. Either the bed frame was in stock and the mattress wasn't, or vice versa.

Could I order both items and wait for them to be delivered at IKEA's convenience? No chance. Could they possibly ring me when both items were in stock so I could abandon work for the day and rush down there? You must be joking. Perhaps there's a website where I could purchase the objects of my desire? Take a hike, buddy.

You can't buy what you want, you can't walk where you want, the poor staff are dribbling moronic minimum wage fodder and the boss is an alcoholic Nazi. (Unwelcome parallels with the Evening Post can be discarded at this point.) You queue at the checkouts for hours, you have to haul your Billy bookcases to the car by hand and they think they're doing you a favour. It's an awful lot of pain to go through for a £1 breakfast or a bloody hot dog.

Which probably goes some way to explaining why it all kicked off in Edmonton, North London, last week when the latest branch of the Swedish shitemonger opened its doors with some midnight special offers and 6,000 people rampaged through the store.

Five people were taken to hospital, 20 suffered from heat exhaustion, one bloke was stabbed and abandoned cars littered the North Circular Road as desperate shoppers abandoned their children in the gutters and stormed the doors in pursuit of that indispensable £1.99 cheese grater.

The doors shut 30 minutes later as police battled to clear the crowds and a fleet of delivery vans rolled up presumably containing flat-pack coffins called Nigel. Meanwhile people were probably queuing up at the "Eight Stitches Or Less" till. Why? Have we all gone mad?

Now I'll freely admit that I've fought for my friends, I've fought over women, I've fought over football. But I've never fought over a dozen tea lights. It gets worse.

When IKEA recently opened a branch in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia, three people were killed after 8,000 people camped out for weeks in anticipation of a free voucher.

If you ever needed any more evidence that shopping is the new religion, this is it. Where do you go on a Sunday now? God or Mammon? Communion or Comet? Matins or Marks? Forget the cathedrals; we now have our new marbled halls of worship just off the motorway. And there's a perfumed candle shop in every one. Incensed? I'm effing furious.

The parents of 15-year-old Karl Geer were more than a little concerned to receive a letter from Cambridgeshire Police regarding their son.

The cops were concerned, apparently, about the vulnerability of young people to criminal influence. They were very worried that young Karl was falling in with a bad lot and was only days away from becoming a master criminal or a serial burglar.

Their evidence for this allegation, this slur on a lad who had never previously been in trouble of any kind? Brace yourselves: "On 04/01/2005," spake the Dibble, "Karl was seen smoking a cigarette by PCSO Gilbey."

(You may ask yourselves "What is a PCSO?" Apparently, it is a Police Community Support Officer. That is, an underpaid, undertrained, neighbourhood busybody. Remember the kid at school who was always bullied and had to do gym in his underpants because he'd forgotten his kit? That's him.)

Well, pull up the stocks and wind up the rack. This boy is trouble. Never mind the fact that while detecting this crime against society, PCSO Gilbey might well have missed the theft of Mrs Coggins' jewellery from her bungalow around the corner or failed to spot the drunken, uninsured ram-raider tearing down the High Street at 90 mph. A 15-year-old boy has smoked a cigarette and is now, presumably, genetically programmed to become a Great Train Robber. You really could not make it up.