“I’m a slutty cat, duh”

I’m not sure at which point Halloween turned into ‘Night of the Slut’ but I think I missed the memo. This topic is a tough one; there aren’t many ways that I can approach it without sounding like the bitter fat girl, who cries in the corner into a pumpkin shaped bucket of sweets as sexy cats and naughty nurses frolic around her in various states of undress.

I first started to notice that Halloween had become an excuse to go out in pretty much nothing when I went out dressed as a pirate one year. When I say pirate, I mean I had scars, an eye patch, an extravagantly frilly blouse and that I limped about calling everyone a “scurvy sea-dog” all night. I remember being puzzled as to why the barman wasn’t serving me, even though I’d been stood at the bar for an unusually long time, waving my hook about to catch his attention. After five minutes, I concluded that he just couldn’t see me, so scooted to the other end of the bar, but still no joy. The penny didn’t drop until one girl playfully meowed and pawed at the barman as he walked past and was, of course, served immediately.

I took in the girl’s black lingerie and fishnet tights. Naturally, I was curious as to what she’d come dressed as. When I asked her, she pointed at the two small black triangles atop her head and announced with glee, “I’m a slutty cat!” I noted that slutty cat girl didn’t actually have any whiskers. She replied that she hadn’t wanted to ruin her makeup by adding three black lines to each cheek. I asked what she’d be if she removed the ears, to which she shrugged and said good-humouredly, “Just a slut, I suppose.” I was disappointed, not even for a stuck-up, feminist reason, but because she hadn’t even made an effort. She didn’t even have a tail.

As the night wore on, I started to gain a new respect for slutty cat girl and her friends, sexy sailor and sexy bumblebee. As they drunkenly wiggled around the dance floor, I looked down at my costume and felt a slight twitch of envy. I wasn’t having that much fun, my eye patch was itchy, and I kept snagging people’s clothes with my hook whenever I tried to dance. At one point, I caught the eye of a girl dressed as a mummy, wrapped in bandages from head to toe, and we shared a nod of solidarity. She looked as miserable as I felt, whereas slutty cat girl and co. were shimmying around without a care in the world. Frankly, I was really bloody jealous.

I came to the conclusion that, while these girls were dressed like they should be chilling in a window in Amsterdam’s red light district, they were probably just letting their hair down on the one night of the year that they felt like they could. I simply was too self conscious to join in.

So this year, I will still probably hide under the folds of a ridiculous and comical costume, but maybe I’ll sneak into the changing room of LuvYaBabes and be a sexy nurse for a little bit. At the end of the day, Halloween is about having fun and, if gallivanting around in just your knickers is what makes you happy (and you’ve got the thighs to pull it off), I salute you. Just remember, Manchester is cold and pneumonia isn’t attractive, so take a coat.