If you are the Halloween equivalent of Scrooge, and if when that fateful evening rolls around you cringe and jerk at the sound of a knock (or a ring if you’re lucky), while presumably watching Downton Abbey and knitting, my hope is to reassure you that it could be worse. A lot worse. The Leeds kids pumped on E numbers, heckling the sweet-less bystander and the (usually Draconian) students, laced in anything from parrot to Pikachu costumes, do not compare in throttle nor threat to the ghouls that come out on Halloween in my home town – Lewisham.
Lewisham is known for many things. It was the home of Spike Milligan and Ian Wright. Lewisham rioted against National Front marchers in 1977 and for Nike Air Maxes in 2011. The Olympic torch came through Lewisham. But on the 31st of October, every year, Lewisham is synonymous with danger.
Eggs. Eggs are rancid when pelted raw at a human body; they also hurt. In Lewisham, from about 5pm on Halloween, Boris’ buses get internally mayonaissed by many more eggs than those used in Man vs. Food’s ‘Mac Daddy Pancakes’. The routine is simple, and requires a minimum of three, and usually no more than seven people. The first guy gets on, and starts a seemingly laborious conversation with the driver about Oyster card problems (‘I think I press it too hard when I scan’). Meanwhile, the rest of the musketeers sneak on via the back doors. By the time the driver has reacted, (‘Yeah I’ve got to say I’ve had the same prob… Oh Lord!’) it’s too late. With no concern for chicken’s foetal rights, the group pelts everyone from Granny Dorris to ickle Raymond Prince Jr. Then they run. The sound of cracking eggs ricochets in the ears of the commuters for a second, alongside the babies’ crying and numerous expletives moaned from around the deck. The people feel their clothes for the inevitable gooey film. Then the bus departs for its next stop…
Fireworks. Leading up to Guy Fawkes Night, fireworks are available in abundance. On Halloween, around half of South-East London’s stock is let loose on Lewisham High Street. In scenes comparable only to a southern-European football derby or a mediocre warzone, citizens run from bin to bin and duck for cover amongst bushes as rockets and Catherine wheels rebound from building to bus stop. McDonalds, at the centre of the High Street, is the epicentre of pandemonium. Kids with happy meals are stuffed into cupboards and staff members take refuge behind the ketchup counter, as incoming vessels whir and whiz around them. Then the whirring stops, and they go back to eating and serving…
So don’t moan! Stock yourself up on the worst tasting sweets you can find, put on that forced-yet-amicable smile, and console yourself with the knowledge that you have it pretty easy.