Sunday, 30 October 2016

Trick or treat?

No, I'm not talking about my vagina. I'm talking about Halloween costumes. 

It's probably pretty obvious, but I'm quite the basic bitch when autumn comes knocking. I love it when the leaves start to fall. I love pumpkin spiced lattes. And I fucking love Halloween. 

On the flip side, I hate dressing up. No matter what I do (and I've done it all), I always get it wrong. Painfully wrong. 

I know none of you have asked, and I really doubt you care, but here's a list of all the times I've screwed up my favourite time of year. From repulsive flashing to accidental racism, I've made all of the poor costume choices. 

The Traditional One

These are the outfits you've seen a thousand times. It's the witches, the cats, the zombies, and the werewolves. They're the safe haven for all the Tame Tammies and Predictable Pams. But we're all guilty of it.

When I dressed as a cat, I spent a great chunk of my evening crawling around the floor of Grimsby's smoking areas. Fortunately, and surprisingly, I managed not to catch hand herpes, but I did look like I was ready to please any male who walked past me. Not the strongest of looks, but not the worst. 

Somehow, my look declined even further when I decided it'd be a great idea to make out with some guy dressed as The Hulk. Halloween lesson #1: when you're dressed as a cat, and half your face is covered in green paint, every single person knows who you've been violating. Not subtle. Not subtle at all. 

The Slutty One

If you've got a vagina and minimal self-respect, you'll definitely have maximised the 'Halloween is the one day a year when a girl can dress up like a total slut and no other girls can say anything else about it' rule. Personally, I think a girl can dress how she wants, whatever time of year it is. I mean, as long as she's dressing in minimal clothing for herself, and not for some vile stranger who's only after another notch on their disease-riddled bedpost.

Anyway, when I was a fresher, I decided it'd be a bloody brilliant idea (see what I did there) to dress up a zombie nurse. I'd just undertaken the 'my boyfriend and I have just broken up' diet, so I thought I should maximise the fact that I was at least a bagger. (For those of you that don't know (hey Grandad), a bagger is someone who has a good body, but their face is below par: the highest of compliments.) 

This was not a bloody brilliant idea. It was fucking terrible. My dress had a zip that went from cleave to clit, which is extremely dangerous for me. For those of you that haven't seen me in the comfort of my own friends, and several vodkas in, I will just take off all of my clothes. Worryingly, my friends have seen more of my body than any of my unfortunate sexual victims. I'm the stripper no one ever wants, or needs. 

As you can guess, I spent most of this Halloween naked. Thankfully, I was in my own house, so I wasn't forcibly removed from anywhere, but I think people did try and confine me to one room. After a lot of visual violation, I got bored, and put on my Newcastle United shirt (I went through a weird football phase), and started thrusting that at everyone. Eventually, after some physical violation, I passed out. Thank God. 

Before passing out, I'd smeared fake blood all over my hands and jumped on my bed like a child off of any Christmas film. This was also a terrible idea: my ceiling looked like it could've doubled up as Carrie's shower basin. Memories of my questionable behaviour may fade, but fake blood doesn't. RIP First Year Deposit.

The Offensive One

In my defence, this was completely unintentional. Originally, I had gone out as a skeleton. To achieve this look, I decorated my face in all of the black eye shadow. 

For anyone who knows me well, knows that I hate wearing a lot of make up because I rub my face ALL THE TIME. Also, when I'm genuinely in the fun zone, I dance extremely aggressively, which means I get disco sweaty very quickly. This does not bode well for make-up. 

You might already know where this is going. 

A few hours into the night, I'd managed to smear my make-up all over my face. Unfortunately, I was also wearing completely normal clothes. So yes, it did look like I'd gone out as a massive racist. Something I didn't realise, because I dislike spending 93.2% of my night in the bathroom, until a stranger confronted me about my choice of costume. Unsurprisingly, my night didn't last much longer. In hindsight, I definitely could've just washed all my make up off. That would've been a much more logical, and significantly less offensive option. 

By the way, like many of my stories, I'm not proud of this. Especially as, in my very first week of living in Manchester, I shared this story with an American woman I'd just met (it was kind of relevant to something, I think / hope), and it turned out to be a painfully awkward icebreaker, obviously. The woman's immediate, and rather candid response was 'I think I'd find this funny if I knew you, but I don't, and I don't think it's something you should be telling me.' 

I'm pretty sure her name was Frostella Twatface or Rudella Knobjocky: something pretty warm and welcoming.

The Cult One

I'm not cool enough for this one: my hair is its natural colour, and for a good while I thought Pulp Fiction was the edgiest film. We all make mistakes, right?

The Team One

Last year, the Rugby World Cup was around the same time as Halloween, and my friend thought it'd be a great idea if we all went as dead, English rugby players. It was a good idea. Kind of.  

Although it wasn't so good when we decided to role-play rugby stuff for strong(ish) photos. There was this one thing we did where these guys lifted me up 'cas men who play rugby like to be lifted (I can only assume they all train to S Club's 'Reach'). Anyway, our uber-artsy photoshoot ended rather uncomfortably for me because one of the females didn't like the way her boyfriend was touching my thigh. 

I don't mean to sound like a bitch, again, but she really needed to chill the fuck out. If I wanted to shag her boyfriend, neither of them would've had a say in the matter. (Yeah, this is a rape joke, and a terrible one at that. And yeah, I know it's not alright for guys to make rape jokes. No, I'm not sorry: I'm only bothered about equality when it comes to pay, and being able to tell dick jokes.)

It also wasn't such a strong costume when I ended up on my own in some terrible club, where no one else was in fancy dress. Instead of looking like a dead rugby player, I looked like I was wearing a school PE kit that I'd simply smeared in blood. Basically, it looked like I was proudly celebrating the murder of a school child. Even for me, that's going way too far.

Turns out there really is safety in numbers. 

The Effortless One

This is either for the people who despise dressing up, or think it's lame and predictable, or for the people that, even though shops make Halloween as subtle as a nuclear explosion, forget it's happening. 

I've only been that person once (again, 'cas I'm a basic bitch who loves all this autumnal shit). 

Back when we were in college, my friend and I forgot it was Halloween, so we panic-picked and went as Bin Bag Monsters. It might not have been the most creative thing, but it was cost effective. 

As well as being cheaper than a withered whore, our effortless outfits also proved to be quite useful when we were both vomming all over ourselves, and each other. 

At that time of my life, I thought I was undateable because I was quite chubby, and there was a reason my MySpace name has been Mullet Man. On reflection, it was probably because I spent most Friday nights being sick in a field in Highworth (a depressing town where almost everyone has some sort of substance abuse to try and make their lives a little more interesting). 

The fact that I spent a huge chunk of my time with my face in wet, cold mud is the reason why I know all those preachers are lying when they tell me God loves me. No one could love that kind of horror show. 

The Culturally Relevant One

Given I'm one of the eldest in my family, it seems rather unfair that I was gifted with the dregs of the gene pool. Despite being a 3am kind of girl, my features have at least blessed me with a lot of conversation starters and self-deprecating jokes.  

I'm not fishing for compliments here; I'm just being a realist. Liars tell me I at least look like a female. Honest people are quite happy to tell me how I look Michael McIntyre, Ozzy Osbourne, and the late, but great, Pete Burns. Seriously, I'm being honest: Burnsy is even my lookalike at work.  

So, even though his extremely recent death might have been terrible news, it did make this year's costume choice obvious. Yes, you've guess it: I dressed up as Pete Burns. I know his body isn't even cold yet, but it did get me all of the social media likes (by all, I mean more than one). 

Writing 'dead or alive' on a badge, and crossing out 'alive', probably wasn't the most sensitive way of handling the costume. I probably should be concerned that I thought it was okay to use such a raw, recent death to my advantage. If I'm honest, what I'm really concerned about it the fact I genuinely looked more attractive as a dead transvestite.*

So there you have it: somehow, every single year, I manage to make a social faux pas. I've kind of already run out of ways of making a dick out of myself, and I'm only 25. I have no idea what I'll do next year. Looks like the only option left is for me to dress up as Hitler. If it's good enough for Prince Harry, it's good enough for me; I am a Princess of Grimsby after all. 

Guess it's a good job I've got an entire year to perfect my goose-step. If I'm going to be an offensive, inappropriate douche, I might as well do it properly. 

*Saying 'oh, but he spent loads of money trying to look like' does not make it any better.