Soooo Halloween weekend is over. Me and my two friends went as creepy dolls, but about half way through the night the creepy makeup had slid off our faces from doing too many energetic Beyonce dance-offs, and we just looked like that was what we’d decided to wear for a normal night out. At one point I lost them and I was wondering around this club on my own, looking like a giant toddler. I embraced it, though. A stranger and I had the following conversation at the bar:
Them: What are you supposed to be?
Me: What do you mean?
Them: Aren’t you in fancy dress?
Me: No? How dare you!
Them: Then why are those two girls over there dressed exactly the same as you?
He points at my friends who are jumping up and down on the spot in the middle of the dance floor.
Me: Dayyuuuum, those are two snappy dressers.
And I ran off to join in with the hotdog dance. Here is a picture of the three of us with Jimmy Savile. Contrary to popular belief looking like Bjork in one of her weird get-ups was not my intention:
The best dressed award had to go to my sister’s boyfriend Chris. No one is quite sure what he was dressed as. I don’t think he even knows. It started off as Manbearpig but then he just started adding bits on as he went, treating it as some weird Art Attack. It was like when chefs taste their food and say “Hmmm, this needs more salt,” Chris would look himself in the mirror and say ‘Hmmm, I need an eyeball on my forehead.” This was the end product:
I know what you’re thinking. Yes, that is a Chanel lipstick. Oh yes, and those are pig’s ears attached to a hairband. He looks like Blix’s simple brother (if you don’t know who I’m talking about you obviously haven’t watched enough Tom Cruise movies). The next day Chris told us that he left most of his outfit in the club that night. I would have loved to see the reaction of the cleaner picking up a pair of old pig ears, fairy wings and red lipstick from a cubicle in the men’s toilets.
I haven’t been out drinking in a while, mainly because I have to wait a few weeks until the bouncers have forgotten my face and will let me into bars again (only joking mum….). But I overdid it a bit this weekend. You know it’s time to go home when you start saying stuff like “That barman looks like a hot Louis Theroux.” But unfortunately I didn’t, and now I’ve got post-traumatic drink disorder. This is where I get random flashbacks of things that happened the night before, and as a result start having mild panic attacks. The stress of this, plus all the alcohol and the extremely cheap makeup I was wearing has given me an outbreak of spots – I look like I’m going through an extremely delayed puberty. So this evening I treated my two-day-hangover to a meal at Pizza Express. When the waitress came to take the order of the old guy on the table next to us, he pointed and said ‘Oooh, hers looks nice! I’ll have one of those, thankyou” and smiled at me. I had to tell him politely, swatting his hand away, that what he was pointing at was not a pizza, but was in fact my face. He just shrugged and said “Sorry dear, I’m not wearing my glasses.” Never has a Sloppy Guiseppe looked so unappealing.