the bitch is black. sorry, back

So, I’m just back from a little jaunt to Cologne. Without my laptop. And as I sure as hell wasn’t going to pay roaming data charges, that meant no worthwhile internet connection to speak of.

a.k.a. Sorry I’ve not written lately. I know how much you guys need me.

However, this is not the point of my post. What and who I do on my holiday, and how I do them, are none of your business. (Hint: it may have involved crotchless tights, a strap-on and a ball gag.)

I want to tell you about my Hallowe’en.

Yes, that’s right ladles and jellyspoons: I insist on including the apostrophe. Do you write couldnt? Wouldnt? Oclock? No? Well then why the fuck do you write Halloween?

As you all presumably know by now, I have few friends. So I wasn’t going to any party. And I sure as hell wasn’t going to indulge in the filthy American monstrosity that is “Trick or Treating”. What the fuck is that about? I have an idea: how about “Trick or get the fuck off my doorstep before I fetch the Globals?”

I jest, I jest. I did once put a razor blade into a toffee apple, but that was only to prove that it wasn’t an urban legend and that there were fucks sick enough to actually do it (hi!). On the whole I am totally down with TvTing.

So down with it, in fact, that I sort of indulge in it myself. If from the comfort of my own home. Here’s how it goes down.

I light a bunch of candles around our front hall. Big, church-style candles. I leave the lights on, though. I put a pumpkin lantern outside the front door to let people know that I’m with the whole spirit of the event. I string up a bunch of fake cobwebs, and all that. And crucially, opposite the front door in the hall, I put a table with a bunch of sweets on it and a sign saying “Help yourself! If you dare…”

I leave the door slightly ajar. Kids come up to it and ring the bell. When they do, I – hiding in the living room – pull the door open with a string. We haven’t oiled the hinges for a while, so it creaks.

Inevitably, the dumb little shits come in. They’re cautious, but in they come calling, “Trick or treat!” Nervously.

When they’re a decent way in, I flick all the lights off, play a blood-curdling scream on the hi-fi, and jump out with our 17” chef’s knife in hand, dressed as Jason Voorhees.

The kids shit themselves.

I would tell you about November the 5th, too, but all there is to say really is that it rained. Oh, shit, I’ve just told you. Okay, let me rephrase:

Now let me tell you about November the 5th. It rained.

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