As a child, my fancy-dress costume of choice was “punk.”

By choice, I mean peer pressure. The thought of wearing a fancy dress costume was preferable, just, to the reality of being the only one not wearing a fancy dress costume.

As a ten year old I still wanted to fit it, but on my own terms.

So, punk it was.

If the theme of the party was “pirates” I was a “punk pirate.” If the theme was dinosaurs, I was a “Punk-o-saurus Rex.”

You get the idea.

Interestingly, as a forty-one year old, if I’m invited to a fancy dress party* the reality of being the only one not wearing a fancy dress costume is far preferable to the thought of wearing fancy dress.

I like a party, I just don’t enjoy dressing up. Not in public, anyway. I don’t know how to carry it off.

What if I’m in a bad mood? I can go dressed as myself and be in a bad mood. How can I be in a bad mood dressed as a Smurf or a Womble?

“Bad” isn’t my party mood of choice, but what can I say? I can be moody. I never deny my natural mood. I’m authentic like that.

Clearly there is only one solution: from now on I will attend every fancy dress party dressed as Morrissey – the melancholy Mancunian and former Smiths frontman. The beauty of Morrissey is that grumpy and moody are part of the costume.

If I’m in a bad mood I’ll be in character.

If I’m in a good mood?

Well…I’ll just say I’m Morrissey and I’ve been cheered up by the kind of low-level misfortune that, back in the 1980’s, would have formed the basis for an entire albums worth of new songs.

“My cat has died…la la laaaa la la, I’ve gone and burnt the toast again, la la di da…etc. etc.”

Obviously, whether grumpy or happy, it would have to be “punk Morrissey.”

*I’m not. People don’t invite me anymore. Understandably.



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