It is a tradition amongst many of my friends to travel to Bournemouth for Halloween. Usually there is a party of magnificent scale at a house in St Luke’s. But the previous year the party had got out of hand and the neighbours had started dying, so it wasn’t to happen this time.
Instead we raged it down from London town to Lucy’s house, where we immediately started drinking. This was a long time ago now so I can’t really remember much. I know it started with the old civilised re- meeting everyone, but that lasted 5 minutes until it got messy both literally and figuratively.
Jake and I decided to tag along with Lucy and Matt’s dead wedding idea, so we’d picked up some cheap suits and made Lucy paint our faces. Thus we had a bride and groom and two groomsmen.
Freddie decided to be a dead page boy. But he didn’t have a suit so I drew him one.
He was very impressed.
I’d brought with me two things. Some film-grade blood and some film-grade mud.
Most people got blood on them. The blood was good. The blood was safe.
But only one man was brave enough to delve into the mud.
It was mixed and it was smeared.
And what resulted was the most terrifying looking man I have ever seen. A grotesque monster from a 1940s horror film. The kind of thing I imagine once existed in a dodgy scientist’s wardrobe, as he spent his life in the lab, splicing bodies and drifting slowly into madness.
What resulted was Jake Eaton, reincarnate.
But then we left. It had been a sign that we should leave, the moment Amy lifted the wardrobe off its hinges. We’d tried to hide the fact through conversation, but Lucy knew.
Lucy always knows.
We left Laver behind. He was a lost cause. Doomed already. He’d been doomed from the start.
We walked to somewhere, stopped at St Luke’s for a something. I met John Goodman, a very special rabbit. He gave me a high five. But then I took it too far. I went for a kiss. And he ran. Ran for his life.
Jake had more luck and found the famous LAMP RIP. He gesticulated wildly at it:
Then off we went again. We tried a pub of sorts, but they wouldn’t let us in. Apparently it was too late but I suspect it was the grotesque rabble the bouncer saw before him that held us out. His eyes got especially bulbous and terrified when he saw a creature before him, sipping at a fosters can with a straw. Like it was human:
But fortunately Amy discovered a party somewhere, and we went.
The taxi man was an incredible find. He is the only man I have thus far met, who can spout a continuous stream of boring tripe for half an hour straight. He gave us a history of Bournemouth, told us of the double-named street and about all the roundabouts. He had the most boring voice in the world.
So we kept him talking as long as possible with mundane questions. As you do.
And then we arrived!
We bundled out and looked confused. There was no party here. Or was there!?
Jake and I snuck round the back of the houses and jumped a few fences. And lo and behold there was only a fucking party!
We walked through the back door and met the others at the front. Then began the hunt for alcohol.
Obviously we found a shit load, which somewhat exacerbated the memory loss.
The garden was a huge and frightening wilderness.
On his way back from a piss Jake shone his magic wand in the direction of a pisser. For some reason the guy thought this was a good excuse to start a conversation. Unfortunately this involved him talking about a new activity called ‘fleshing’ which he had literally just made up on the spot and we hadn’t a fucking clue what he was talking about. It was fucking fantastic.
The inside was just as weird. The bathroom was absolutely huge. So we spent some time in there. We wandered up into a spooky attic where a girl was vomitting into a bowl. We confused a lot of people by generally looking the same and pretending we were each other or noone.
Jade managed to bully the appalling music controllers into smashing on Sun, possibly the greatest track ever made. We danced like actual crazy people. Then we fucked off.
On the way back we stopped at The Golden Supermarket:
The Golden Supermarket is my kind of place. It wasn’t golden. It wasn’t even a supermarket. But it sold alcohol at 4am, and it attracted every kind of vagabond that Bournemouth had to offer. My kind of place.
And finally we made it home. About twelve people fell asleep on a single inflatable mattress, while I stayed up conversing with the monster.
As time passed we discussed country music. The mud gradually faded, and his soul shone through. A delicate glow lightened his pallor, and a beautiful smile spread across his face.
He wasn’t a monster.
He was a man.
And not just any man.
He was Jake Eaton.