"Ah, Halloween. Finally, an opportunity to bare my balls and sprinkle glitter liberally over my penis," said no man, ever.
That's because Halloween isn't an annual celebration of genitalia, it's a pagan harvest festival rooted in the belief that on October 31st, the dead return to life and wreak havoc on the living and their crops. Consequently, people wore scary costumes which mimicked the spirits, to avoid being recognised and to appease them.
I am quietly confident that none of these spirits looked like Miley Cyrus or gothic strippers, because they are about as scary as a Curly Wurly.
Imagine you're watching a horror film. Our plucky heroine is sweating like Ant McPartlin's hat-maker, trying to start her car in the middle of the moonlit forest as thunder strikes. She screams in terror and looks behind as a woman - with a black nose, eyeliner whiskers and cat-ear hairband from Clare's Accessories, strategically placed over a delicately coiffured barnet - totters towards the car in the sort of gravity-defying Wonderbra that no self-respecting monster would subject its fun bags to.
The girl lets out a relieved sigh, calmly starts the car and reverses over the sexy cat lady twelve times. You turn off the film, burn the DVD player and wash your eyes out with soap and water, immediately.
Why? Because half-arsed, sexy cats AREN'T scary and they piss on the chips of Halloween.
Unless your cleavage is haunted or your bum is possessed by the devil, you're not getting any trick or treat sweets at my front door. Not on my watch.
Many girls will eyeball you as if you've set fire to their Gran, if you enter a Halloween party covered in blood with an axe protruding from your head. That's because instead of having fun with the rich sea of gory and imaginative Halloween possibilities, Carrie, Samara Morgan, witches and zombies have been given the heave-ho and humourless, uninspired lingerie has become the dreary norm.
You'd have more luck finding a sausage in Morrissey's pocket than a decent woman's outfit from most fancy dress shops, which now stock up on "sexy" versions of everything. No witch could straddle her broomstick in one of those outfits, without making her cat blush.
Even more irksome, is the recent trend of inexplicably dressing as celebrities who haven't even died. These are generally the sluttiest celebs in their most material-free outfits. I have yet to see a girl choosing a star like Meatloaf or Susan Boyle for Halloween. Is Heat magazine the new Tales from the Crypt?
Most men, on the other hand, embrace Halloween as a chance to show their creativity and wit - my personal favourites being the Human Centipede, made by strapping inflatable dolls to the mouth and waist, and Alan Patridge's Zombie, complete with biscuits taped to the face, a shower curtain cape and Tungsten-Tip Screws on the nails - quite good for pointing with. They aren't worrying that the bolt through their neck makes their bum look big, they're having fun looking revolting.
I'm not a costume Nazi, I just think it's a crushing bore to see the increasing number of identikit girls in matching stockings, lingerie and perhaps the odd fang or cat ears as an afterthought.
By all means, wear what the chuff you like and let your nethers loose in the moonlight. If getting your baps out is an integral part of your Halloween, that's fine, but at least show a bit of creativity and the ability not to take yourself so bastard seriously - go as the naked, rotting woman in the bath tub from The Shining or The Woman with Three Breasts.
I raise my green and gnarly thumbs aloft to women like Heidi Klum. She has to look hot for a living, so when Halloween comes, she embraces it as the one day of the year she can dress like a wizened old hag or a horrific, fleshless corpse.
At the rate we're going, vampires and witches will soon be no-more and our children will be sent to knock doors for trick or treat sweets wearing suspenders and thongs.
And THAT is scary.
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