It’s the 10th of February, which means only one thing. And I’m not talking about the fact that there’s only four more sleeps until the loved-up amongst you are guzzling Godiva and feeling all Jack and Rose. What I’m talking about is something infinitely superior. (She says with a singleton scowl whilst listening to Joni Mitchell and stroking three cats with all the zeal of the bitterest thirty-something.)

Tomorrow the BFI South Bank begins its David Lynch season; nineteen days of stateside surrealism to plunge your eyes and ears into, could you ever ask for more?

You shouldn’t need any persuading here, because quite frankly not parting with your cash to watch Willem Dafoe seduce a spandex-sporting Laura Dern in a vomit smeared motel room is a concept I cannot quite conceive of. Perhaps his films are merely fodder for a subculture that values nonsensical nightmares and disturbing sex scenes, or perhaps his dream-like imagery offends and fascinates the masses in a way that aims to teach us something about ourselves. Either way, his films are of the type that provide endless hours of contemplation over costly coffees in late night cafes, and you’ve got to hand it to the man, his style is just so gosh darn distinctive its earnt Lynch his very own adjective.

‘Lynchian’ describes the sort of ominous americana present in films such as Wild at Heart and Blue Velvet, and of course the infamous Twin Peaks TV series. His influence can be seen spanning the pop culture globe; fashion, film and most recently perhaps in the tunes of Lana Del Rey, whose ‘Video Games’ with its stumbling starlets showed a darker side of the american dream that has a decidedly lynchian feel.

David Lynch flirts with the mainstream whilst taking you on a seemingly acid-fueled journey full of sex, violence and more than a sprinkling of love along the way. And I tell you what, the man is damn good at it.

David Lynch season runs from February 10th-29th at the BFI southbank