Zombie walking for Beach of the Dead Brighton 2011
For some reason, around this time of year I get an undeniable urge to scare my friends/family/small children by roaming the streets in a horrific costume. Maybe it's payback for all the times I was scared out of my wits as a kid (I just don't like masks, okay?!) or maybe I've just got a charred black evil heart. More likely, it's because I just frickin' love Halloween. Any sort of festival that involves dressing up, eating lots of sour sweets and buying a whole load of pointless plastic crap (glittery spiders, fake cobwebs, cauldrons; you name it, I've bought it from Poundland) and I'm all over that like a Contagion style rash. I'm not sure whether rashes are involved in that new Maaatt Daaamon movie, but all I do know that it looks like the most extensive advert for antibacterial hand gel EVER. Hello, subversive marketing o'clock. I digress.
My obsession with everything orange, black and pumpkin-shaped shows no sign of abating any time soon. It plays second fiddle only to my penchant for Christmas. Xmas. The single greatest event of the entire year. Tinsel countdown has begun - 55 days to go, fellow elves.
Before we descend into snow-covered mania, back to Fright Night. Unfortunately, IMHO good old Great Britain doesn't give All Hallow's Eve the full commitment it deserves. The streets are patrolled by only a handful of teenagers, smashed on White Lightening and wearing either a Scream mask and a hoodie or girls in what is an even sluttier version of their normal underwear. Yeah, thanks Ann Summers for making it normal for girls to go out looking like the queens of trampville in basques, suspenders and stockings on Halloween. Just so we are clear: THOSE ARE NOT CLOTHES. They are also not particularly scary, which, again IMHO, is kinda the point of Halloween costumes, no? I say make like La Lohan in Mean Girls (any excuse to shoehorn in a reference to the best teen movie ever) and rock up in a truly frightening outfit, featuring fake blood, false teeth and something you found in the back of a charity shop. The idea is for your friends to not want to be in the same room as you. So, great for earning some zombie-points, bad for your social life.
While we are on the subject of movie-films, it has to be said that the Americans certainly do it better when it comes to Halloween. One day, I hope to celebrate it over there, in all it's mental, tacky glory, but until then I will just have to play the party scene from Donnie Darko on a loop, in my head. Ah, Donnie. Never have I known a skeleton onesie to be so alluring.
Not all Halloween films are suitably magical, however. I made the foolish error of purchasing this cinematic masterpiece from Poundland:
Yeah, we lasted 10 minutes before we had to turn it off. Sadly, it was the absolutely frightening lack of acting ability rather than the comedy serial killer that was scaring us. Seriously, who kills people wearing yellow Marigolds?! It's got George Clooney in too. He gets bumped off in the first five minutes, in case you are wondering. Sorry to spoil it, but I'm practically doing a public service: do NOT, under any circumstances, watch this movie.
The theme for my personal shindig this year was dead rockstars - yeah, I'm a walking cliche, what of it? - so I'll leave you with a snapshot of Halloween, Brighton-style. That was Saturday - the devil only knows what I'll get up to tonight. I'll either be painting the town black, or sitting at home in raptures listening to Flo's new album, eating leftover pumpkin pie. Either way, I'm just an ordinary ghoul.