It Was A Graveyard Smash

O.R in costume, without hat

On Saturday Old Rope attended a Halloween party.  As I get older I have, ironically, become less curmudgeonly about the notion of dressing up like an idiot.  Who cares? Carpe diem and all that jazz.  And so it was that I found myself dressed head to foot in some seriously silly attire, clambering out of a taxi and entering a total stranger’s house.

Though my stance on fancy dress may have softened, I have not completely lost my marbles. Unwilling to buy or hire an expensive costume, my rather fetching get-up was almost entirely purchased from charity shops.

Dressed in a pair of woollen trousers, a jacket last seen on an octogenarian in an care home and a tie that made all who saw it nauseous , I would have looked like an crazy old man were it not for the wiry black wig and rather rakish fur top hat.  This was capped with a pair of gigantic ‘monster-feet’ slippers and – my one concession to the traditional Halloween oeuvre – a rubber monster mask. The whole thing was ridiculously hot and wildly inappropriate for any social gathering, least of all a party at which one might want to impress one’s contemporaries. Besides, I think someone might have died in this jacket.

I am not entirely sure what this outfit sought to represent, since I didn’t resemble a witch, zombie or any of the usual Halloween roster.  Whenever I had to field a question on the subject my answer varied, becoming less coherent with every glass of wine.  “I am quite clearly a teenager”, or “I’m a L’Oreal advert…”; “…a tapeworm”; “I am all of your tomorrows”; “A simulacrum of my mother, and I’ll thank you not to laugh”; “Costumes are an affront to God” or “I am about my father’s business.” In truth, I looked the spitting image of Slash from Guns & Roses.

“You look like Russell Brand, mate” observed an Australian, incorrectly. Still, it was a handy excuse for my camp behaviour. Besides, girls love his verbose sex-pest debauchery and I’m sure my matted dirty wig will be irresistible to all the hot tang at this bash. Let me at the women, as long as I do not offend their grandfathers I’m on to a winner!

Perhaps not. Before long the toilet was blocked and I was pissing in a bush trying not to get any wee on my furry footwear.

As the party wound down, the wine ran out and bits of my outfit appeared to be strewn about the place as if someone with senility had tried to undress himself.  Which isn’t far off the mark.

Hat but no mask

It was time to go home. But suddenly, everybody was kung-fu fighting.  Man, those kicks were fast as lightning. Although it was a little bit frightening, my mind was suitably lubricated with booze and, thinking I was Kofi Annan or some shit, I waded in to mediate. Fear not, you scrapping macho men, I am here to arbitrate and bring peace to this war-torn party. Who the fuck was I kidding?

I managed to bundle one of our extended party, who was possibly culpable for the fight, out of the house and into a waiting car. Get rid of him, he’s a liability, I advised. Girls were crying or in shock. A friend stood in the street looking bewildered whilst a raging bull ploughed out of the house seeking revenge. “Come on, we’re going” I ordered, taking my pal by the arm and frog-marching him off down the street, in completely the wrong direction.  Suddenly there was a shout. “Oi!!!!!” The raging bull was fired up, with wounded pride and out to thump someone, anyone. Despite not having been involved in the fight, we had been clocked sloping off.  He was steaming down the street towards us.

“Fuck, run!” I hissed, and we tore off up the road, still headed in the wrong direction. We took a right and a right again, legging it as fast as we could up a back alley and back onto the main road, flapping all the way in our Halloween costumes.  I had hoped that our would-be assailant might have tired and given up the chase, after all, it wasn’t us he really wanted.  No such luck. This mother was still onto us. We were now running the opposite way up the street dressed head to foot in fancy dress, chased by a man out for our (real) blood, rather than the fake stuff splattered across my mate’s outfit.  The whole thing resembled some demented Benny Hill sketch gone bad.

“Oi!!!” The bull kept hollering, with murderous rage. “What do you want?” I yelped back over my shoulder, arms flailing, wig and hat flying everywhere, “It’s not us, we didn’t do anything!!!” My whimpers seemed to echo about the street. “Then why are you running away??!!” our pursuant bellowed back. “Because you’re gonna hit us!!!!” I reasoned, still running as fast as my costume would allow. This discourse rather annoyed me. Firstly, I actually appeared to be having a discussion with a man who wanted to beat seven shades of shit out of me, a conversation being conducted over my own shoulder as I ran for my life. Whilst dressed like Slash. Secondly, I find this man’s logic to be specious at best.  To my mind, it was quite apparent why I was pegging it up the street: you, worthy foe, are built like a brick shit-house and I am rather fond of my beautiful, beautiful face. 

In our foolish haste we scatter, my mate flinging himself over a wall into someone’s garden leaving me to dive headlong into the park. I hit the deck.

And so here I am. It’s four in the fucking morning and I am lying in the muddy grass dressed like a geriatric eighties rocker, with my mouth full of wig and some maniac on my tail. It’s a full moon and I stick out like a sore thumb. How better to engender a sense of horror befitting this night. The whole situation is ridiculous and despite myself, I begin to laugh.

 

Main photo by Colin Ross
(As for the hat, it must still be in the park somewhere!)