There are a number of reasons why I identify with Sabrina the teenage witch. She never seems to learn the lesson that when presented with a beaker of strangely coloured liquid, you really shouldn’t swallow it unquestioningly.
She associates with a group of people who regularly lose significant blocks of time and memory. She has a dark secret, the revelation of which to the public at large would render her powerless and ruined…Anyway. She has been known to come to emotional blows with loved ones over Hallowe’en, because, like me, she’s a bit bolshy underneath it all, but also because your mere mortal doesn’t seem to get why Sabrina and myself love Hallowe’en so much.
For her, it’s primarily a witch thing, I suppose, you know it’s kind of their Christmas.
For me, it’s partly the fact that for one night a year, my friends are prepared to suspend their carefully cultivated disbelief and act like they believe in things I believe in (or at least wish I did) like vampires and ghosts and stuff, but it’s also the fact that it is undoubtedly going to be one of the best Freakscenes of the year.
Now, I know great nights just happen. I know you can’t plan those special classic nights that occasionally come out of nowhere, some damp Wednesday in March when you shouldn’t even be out because you have to be up at 6 in the morning and you only have 3 euros to your name. But if any planned Event Nights can be classics, Freakscene hallowe’ens can be and have been.

First of all, almost by definition, at least half the Freakscene crowd is made up of exhibitionists who really
want to be, and look, different.
This means you get some really good costumes.
I say ‘good’ costumes; ‘good’ may not always be the word. Maybe ‘attention grabbing’, or ‘ludicrous’ or even ‘tragic’.
There’s always a group of youths who decide to go as the ultra violent gang from A Clockwork Orange, and there’s always at least one of them who just has white(ish)
jocks on over his white dunnes tracksuit pants.
There are always plenty of vampires, which can’t be bad, because vampires are COOL.
There are usually some dead rock stars and ’Nam vets warming up for Beatles night, at least one Star Wars character (I think we have yet to see a wookie, but I live in hope, maybe this year…) and there’ll always be some people covered in luridly-coloured body paint for no discernible reason whatsoever.
(Warning: If you’re wearing anything white or hand-wash/dry-clean only, the body paint community will dance all around you for the entire night and sweat profusely and colourfully on you, it’s a law of nature, so don’t wear your mam’s wedding dress or the like.)
Then there are always a few girls who can’t be arsed thinking of what to wear and just go as dodgy 70’s looking prostitutes – how bad like? Then there’s the fact that some Freakscene regulars, well, dress a bit ‘unusually’ all the time, so a fun game to play with your friends is guessing whether those border-line looking gothic types are dressed up in costume or just dressed up for a night out.

If, however, you’re generally neither a border-line gothic type or a skanky ho, you simply MUST dress up.
Believe me, I’ve been there, desperately applying too much black eye-liner (‘too much black eye liner’ may be an oxymoron, it’s true) to some repentant friend who realised too late that it’s not half as much fun if you’re not dressed up. So really, dress up. Don’t stress about it, just try to look a bit weird at least.
I, for one, am down with the theory that at Freakscene’s Hallowe’en party a crap costume is better than not being dressed up at all.
That said, when some years ago, due to lack of time, money and imagination, I was insisting I was going to wear a black binliner, a la your average 8 year old back in the day (c. mid to late 80’s), a friend of mine reacted with genuine horror: “But you’ll get set on fire!” she cried. I dismissed her fears with a wave of my pound shop fake witch fingered hand, telling her she was only being a snobby fascist. “Damn right, I am,” she rejoined. “This is not a warning, it’s a threat: if you wear a binliner in my company, I will personally set you alight.” Despite the murderous glint in her eye (can’t you picture it), the point is you can’t listen to these people. Begrudgers is all they are, with their dignity and their sense of style, and their “But you can’t even walk in those shoes!”. This is one of the few nights of the year when you have at least two water-tight, unassailable excuses for looking like a tit. (That’s just an example now, I’m going as a tit this year, get your own idea.)