The best childhood memories of Halloween are carving the toothless grins on wonky pumpkins, stuffing Dad’s Sunday Times into tights to make a tail, and, of course, the abundance of sweets. I guess the occasion should have stayed in the archives along with the existence of Father Christmas, but somehow, adults still celebrate the night.
Not only did I celebrate it this year, but I also organised it. It was my job to plan the Halloween party for the student guides of Oxford. The theme was the Oxford graveyard – you can dress up as anyone who has been in Oxford – and is now dead.
I had two ideas for my costume: Elizabeth Taylor’s Cleopatra or the White Rabbit. Conveniently, I had treated myself to a three-piece white suit – and so the White Rabbit it was.
The night began with me standing in a car park with my friend, who was wearing goggles and an Arabian necklace.
“Guess who I am?” he asked. He squatted down and clenched his fists where the handlebars would be.
“…..Toad from Wind in the Willows….?”
“T. E. LAWRENCE!” he snapped before storming away.
So, White Rabbit and T. E. Lawrence went to The King’s Arms, where they met Mr Nice, the notorious drug dealer. Soon, they were joined by the dead cat from Hertford College, the Christ Church motorway that was never built, the missing tortoise from Balliol and… Liz Truss. I say Liz Truss, but the only wig left available was a Keith Lemon one, so really it was an over dressed Keith. We had a pint and then made our way to Sandy’s.
Hermione met us there, not Hermione from Harry Potter, but my friend Hermione. She didn’t have a costume, but she did have a bag of pumpkins as a gift.
“What am I supposed to do with a bag of pumpkins on a night out, Hermione?” I asked.
She shrugged before skipping to the bar, leaving me with the heavy plastic bag.
Sandy’s is a basement piano bar where you request the songs on sticky notes. Most nights, this falls to the same comfort hits; Elton, Queen, Abba… and after a few drinks people tend to migrate near the piano to dance. It was whilst I watched Liz Truss dance with a tortoise to Tainted Love that I realised that perhaps Halloween has lost its true meaning.
I blame us, the Millennials. If we had just settled down early like our parents, then perhaps I wouldn’t have been standing with a bunny ear in MacDonalds at 1am, next to Buzz Lightyear and a sexy policewoman, waiting for T.E Lawrence to get his Big Mac.
The worst part? I left Hermione’s bag of pumpkin.
THE QUACK 