Why I hate Halloween

This hateful apparition comes every year

We have lots of things in our culture that are direct import from the states. Starbucks. Bumper stickers. Drive-thrus. (God-awful spellings of such concepts.)

On a long drive, jet-lagged or hungover, I am grateful to the yanks and their Egg McMuffin. I love Five Guys more than your average American Joe (it’s the unlimited toppings). On pancake day, I am happy to drop our flimsy British crêpes for a thick, fluffy blueberry pancake. On October thirty-first, however, the Americans can suck a fat one.

Halloween is the worst of all the Americanisms. It’s not the near-diabetes inducing sugar levels, or the scary masks, nor the ghouls. (Well actually, it is those things too.)

I’ve been racking my brains as to where this hatred comes from. It would appear my phantomy-phobia began in childhood. Historically, I was a fancy-dress tragedy. My parents weren’t particularly crafty (or organised). They would often return home from a day at work, exhausted and panicked. My question about where the face paint was kept met with: “Shit! It’s trick or treating tonight isn’t it!?”

Suddenly, a wretched frenzy would begin. Old sweets we were never allowed were brought down from an out-of-reach cupboard and thrown into a basin for doorbell ringers. (We were a ‘have an apple if you’re hungry’ household). The witch’s hat descended the attic for its annual outing. The same spooky-sombrero recycled every year with black velvet trousers. Sustainable, at least. The trousers were an iconic fashion item, actually. If I had magical powers, I’d cast them back now in a larger size.

I had a loving childhood but there were some fundamentals my parents clearly couldn’t have been less interested in. Swimming and home-crafting were two of them. I couldn’t swim without arm bands until I was about eight. That’s not even hyperbole. So, aged seven, I hadn’t mastered how to breathe out under water without choking. (Still now, I always hold my nose while jumping into the sea.) Halloween often involved sticking your head into a paddling pool to bob the only sweet treats I was proffered as a kid. Luckily, I was able to use my painted face as disguise to not partake in the apple bobbing at Rob Statham’s Halloween party. And, hocus pocus, the hex paid off. I got away scot-free.

Terrifying Halloween phenomenons did not just come in the form of low-effort outfits and submersion-aversion. No, no. When children came trick-or-treating at my house, my mother made them perform in order to get their dose of glucose. Yes, you heard that right. They’d have to sing a ditty, recite a rhyme or rattle off a poem before being given sweets. Absolute witchcraft.

I recently had great delight finding out a man I was dating had performed one (or more?) of my Substacks to his housemates in some kind of living-kitchen-recital. Unlike my mother, I didn’t request this. That’s a bit mental isn’t it? I’ll take the flattery as a treat, but safe to say, we are no longer dating. (Nothing eerier than well-concealed commitment phobia, amirite?) I’m not a Swifie but Taylor’s lyrics: ‘a poet trapped in the body of a finance guy’ spring to mind.

Anyway, I digress. Back to my emotional childhood graveyard. Hearing a nine year-old zombie’s rendition of Spike Milligan at my front door for the third time, I stood by my mother’s side, insides churning. What made me jump out of my skin as the toilet paper-wrapped child from my school shouted ‘BOO!’ ending the third line of ‘The Ning Nang Nong’ was something far scarier than ghosts or supernatural creatures. Social judgement.

That’s the crux of why I despise Halloween, I think. The pressure. The judgement. The comparison. It’s the sodding costumes.

Fancy dress is for children (and, at a push, university students.) Anyone doing fancy dress and enjoying after twenty-one has a Mary Shelley screw loose. We are all playing dress-up every day when we walk around our lives pretending we know what the hell is going on. Why would we invite in this activity further? On doing my research, I found the tradition of fancy-dress rooted somewhere in Venetian history. Think masquerade ball. Alluring? Yes. Full of seductive grandeur? Absolutely. Modern day Halloween? Not at all. Please know your Venetian ancestors turn in their graves at the thought of that highly flammable, environmentally-unfriendly polyester piece you just panic purchased on Amazon.

I’m all for people using a cultural moment to be flamboyant and express themselves. However, costumes have become ‘for the gram’ rather than anything else. I hate the hallowed eaves of social media. I despise the online echo chamber of slut-paganism. The weekends either side of October thirty-first are a low budget revamp of some nineties girl band. You get to choose one of four costume types: slutty, witty, crafty or scary. Doesn’t matter which you choose, you’ll be spooked into thinking you picked the wrong one.

I don’t want to wear a scantily clad costume; it’s cold. I don’t want try and fit my nice long coat over some scratchy homemade costume sleeve. This is the season to stay in.

I don’t want to eat ‘spooky’ food. Nobody needs a bread roll and bread sticks covered in Parma ham posing as a human-hand. Prosciutto already smells far too fleshy for my liking.

I do not wish to support the surplus Harry Potter souvenir shops on Tottenham Court Road selling face paint as financial cover up for money laundering activities.

I don’t want to drink a purple cocktail. My hangovers can’t handle the extra e-numbers. While you’re at it, you can omit that sad lychee posing as an eyeball in my martini.

We do not need the alpha-male misogyny army dressing as Patrick Bateman from American Psycho. Gentlemen, the man is killer, not a male role model. Ladies, see through the rain mac and the six pack. The whole point is: this character gets away with murder because he’s good looking. It’s that obvious. You’ve been warned.

Please do not dress up your dog as a bat. Do not make your cat wear a witches hat. They hate it. I hate it more.

It is not the time to decide you’d like to cave into your demonic desires and go to a sex party. Any other time of the year, go for it. It might seem on brand but you do not need to take yourself to a dungeon now. And, you definitely don’t need anyone covered in fake blood to smudge themselves all over you face (or your genitals).

Your baby is adorable in that orange outfit but they do not identify as a pumpkin. Stop taking their photo.

This October, my Instagram cauldron overfloweth with spooky, spicy costumes and a vomit-worthy amount of sweet, strange foods. And, you’ll find me staying in with friends discussing all the men who have ever ghosted us. Call me a party pooper if you like, but there’s a reason Cinderella’s carriage gets turned back into a pumpkin. Halloween is nothing more than a good visual. It has no soul.

Oh, and if the ghost of my romantic past does happen to be reading this one aloud to his housemates. Spoken-word recital or not…you ain’t ever gonna get this candy.