In honour of Heckler, R.I.P.
Halloween Not Happenin' Here...
Well, it’s official.
It’s something I’ve long suspected but now I know for sure. Turns out… I’m a Grinch. A Scrooge. A party pooper. I’m what my kids would call “a no-funster”.
Because… are you ready?... I hate Halloween.
I mean, when did Halloween become such ‘a thing’? How did this ancient Celtic post-harvest festival take over our city seemingly overnight?
There’s always been a few pumpkins floating around, but suddenly it’s everywhere.
I went to my local hardware. The staff members were wearing ripped and blood spattered t-shirts. I thought there’d been an accident in the chainsaw department. The cashier was wearing horns and a red cape, and judging by the scowl on her face, she wasn’t enjoying the experience either.
I walked out into the shopping centre. Cute little kids in school uniforms were running around with black eye and scar make-up. When did it become okay to dress your kids like they’ve been bashed up?
I retreated to my favourite coffee shop… only to discover, once inside, the walls festooned in spidery web with hundreds of little eight-legged-freaks dangling everywhere. Like being trapped in an Orwellian Room 101, this was not a pleasant experience for your average arachnophobe like me. But that was nothing compared to when I went to exit, and saw the hairy four-foot tarantula above the door, poised like Shelob about to pounce on Frodo. It took me five minutes to summon the courage to run out, not screaming.
I made it to the car park, dodging the trolley boys wearing death-capes and holding… wait for it… scythes. On any other day, you’d call the police.
I finally got to the sanctity of my street, only to discover I’d missed the memo; you know, the one that said, “Hey neighbours! Let’s all cover our trees and fences with cotton wool, place grave-stones on the verge and skulls on our gates.” My neighbor even has a rotting corpse hanging by a noose from his second storey window.
That. Is. Not. Okay.
As I type this, I can hear them outside… warlock dads grasping their beers and tipsy mums in mini-skirted witch outfits with fishnets, screeching at little Jayden (resplendent in his Walking Dead flesh-eating zombie ensemble) to knock louder in the hope the door will open and he’ll get ‘a treat’.
Hate to tell you, Jayden… it’s not going to happen.