Educating the English about Halloween

The English don’t get Halloween. While it’s the second spendiest holiday in America after Christmas — in 2014 Americans spent six billion dollars on pumpkin spiced latte and plastic spiders — in England it is still regarded with suspicion.

Obviously retailers have figured out that it’s highly lucrative, with everywhere from opticians to fashion outlets rebranding themselves in black and orange, putting a spooky spin on the mundane. Mr Kipling has not missed a trick.

Supermarkets have dedicated witchery aisles. But still, the English remain unconvinced.

“The idea of a bunch of kids banging on my door demanding sweets,” says a friend, her voice trailing off in horror. She has no idea how curmudgeonly she sounds, because she hasn’t grown up with Halloween.

As an Irish person in Britain, I consider it my duty to educate the English about Halloween. Not the American version, all sanitised and cupcakey. Why go for the Disney version when you can have the Hammer Horror?

There is no greater thrill than knowing you’ve contributed to future adults tearfully telling their therapists about that awful Irish woman at number 137 who took such delight in terrifying them when all they wanted was some Haribo.

“Come to mine for Halloween dinner,” I say to a bunch of English Halloween sceptics. “Come looking vile. I’ll do slime pie.”

“We’re not dressing up,” they say in unison. “You can’t make us.”

Just don’t wear any make up then, maybe leave your bra off, don’t wash your hair, I suggest.

They look aghast. One of them wants to be a sexy witch. It’s my turn to be aghast.

Can’t there be just one occasion where sexy is not applicable? Where horrid, grim, and hideous is what’s required? Halloween, I patiently explain, is about warts and wounds, tangled hair and mad eyes, crazed witchery and brain-eating zombies from hell.

Not sexy witches in mimsy nylon costumes with glitter and fishnets. How about a sexy witch that’s been in a terrible car crash? A sexy witch with 16th century boils and postules, maybe a missing limb?

Halloween divides England like a Brexit of the undead, each side thinking the other is ridiculous.

Those with small children are pro-Halloween, getting into the spirit of it in a supermarket kind of way, their pint-sized vampires nervously whispering ‘trick or treat’ through the letterbox.

Older people tend to be anti, turning the lights off and releasing the hounds at the sight of a posse of ghouls edging up the garden path. Stupid teenagers don’t get it either, hurling eggs at the windows of those same old people who don’t want to participate, thus reinforcing their opinion that Halloween is sugar-based hooliganism.

A code has been devised, marking households as pro or anti. If there’s a punpkin in the window, you’ll get sweets. It there’s not, be afaid, for inside this place dwells a Halloween hater who probably voted Brexit. Run for your life.