I hate fancy dress parties.
I’ve been to a few over the years, but generally refuse to join in fully, turning up in my normal clothes and telling anyone who dared to challenge my pathetic levels of killjoyness that I’d come as a plain clothes policeman.
I’ve only properly joined in twice: the first when a group of good friends I didn’t want to fall out with invited me to join them, in fancy dress, for New Year’s Eve in their local pub in Cardiff. Even then, I made the minimum of effort: I bought a vicar’s dog collar and wore it with my normal clothes but with a tweed jacket (which I’d bought years earlier because I’d seen a picture of Morrissey wearing one…I know, I know…) to complete the look. I spent the night making terrible “More tea, vicar?” type jokes, and on more than one occasion, excusing myself from a conversation as I needed to “pass some Holy water”.
The other time was also in Cardiff: a friend’s birthday (I think) and it was made clear that my plain clothes detective schtick would not be appreciated and I would not be let in if not in fancy dress. There was a theme, I think, which was Heroes. I gave this a bit of thought.
When I was a kid, before I became obsessed with fascinated by pop music, there were two TV shows that I would never miss an episode of, one of which was Dr Who.
There’s always talk amongst Dr Who fans about which Doctor was “their” Doctor. Mine was unquestionably Tom Baker, and so I joined in the “fun” and hired his trademark floppy hat, curly wig, mega-long scarf from a fancy dress shop. I put together the rest of the outfit from my own wardrobe: long coat? Check. Waist coast? Check. Bag of jelly babies: easily sourced. I even made a sonic screwdriver from an old toothbrush, painted it silver and glued a red ping-pong ball to where the head once was.
At the party, someone else had also turned up dressed as Tom Baker-era Dr Who; we shot daggers at each other all night, didn’t share a word. Several people told me my fancy dress was better than theirs, but I imagine they probably said the same to him. Doesn’t matter, I hate the enforced fun that is fancy dress.
In those days, Dr Who would always win the day, not by actually killing his opponent, but either by diplomacy and reasoning, or by “reversing the polarity”, whatever that means. On the way home, I was offered the opportunity to practice the former when me and some mates, also in fancy dress (one as Ali G, I think), passed a small group of my arch enemies: not Daleks, but what I would describe as “Lads” – all lagered-up and full of “bants”. Spotting my little group fused the liquid and verbal together in their posse, and before I knew what was going on, we had been challenged and my hat had been stolen.
There were three of them and four of us. A stand-off ensued.
Now, me and the mates I was with that night were lovers, not fighters, as the saying goes. In a skirmish, I am most likely to howl “Not my face!”. But my comrades were Cardiff boys, and although they’d rather avoid it if they possibly could, if a scrap was absolutely necessary, they’d be behind me. I think. I didn’t really have chance to take a vote.
I fingered the home-made sonic screwdriver in my pocket, but decided against pulling it out and screaming “Don’t make me use this!”
No. Instead: diplomacy. Negotiation.
After a few moments of “Ok mate, very funny, it’s not my hat. I rented it, now give it back”, I decided to up the ante.
“Mate: there’s two ways we can resolve this. Either I can return my outfit to the fancy dress shop without the hat and get charged for losing it. Or, I can give it back with your blood all over it and get charged the much lesser dry-cleaning bill. We’re on City Road (a main road running through Cathays, a busy student-area) so PC Plod will inevitably turn up. I’d rather not spend the night in a prison cell over a hat, but it’s your choice. Makes no odds to me.”
“Or, there is a third way: you could just give it back.”
The lad thought for a moment, removed my hat, tossed it onto the pavement and called me a fucking twat as they beat a semi-hasty retreat,
“Maybe, but a twat with his hat,” I said as I retrieved it.
Why am I mentioning all of this? Because the other show TV show I adored and would never miss an episode of was The Muppet Show, but I have no stories about me dressing up as Miss Piggy or, infinitely more achievable, The Great Gonzo.
In 2011, Walt Disney records released The Muppets: The Green Album, an album of twelve songs originally recorded by the Muppets, covered by alternative rock and pop artists.
This was just before the Muppet Show franchise was reinvigorated by a new movie, The Muppets, which included Flight of the Conchords’ Bret McKenzie’s Academy Award winning “Man or Muppet”
The album is packed with artists I’ve never heard of, but as we all know, that doesn’t mean they’re no good. (There are plenty I have heard of: OK Go, The Fray, My Morning Jacket, Andrew Bird and….)
Appropriately, since they also have a Green album (this follows my previous declaration that only albums they released which have a colour in their title are worth listening to: see The Blue Album, The Red Album, you get the giste), here’s Weezer performing a song, the original of which, if I’m brutally honest and not trying to seem cool, is possibly one of my favourite songs ever (it’s in the Top 50, for sure).
Weezer (feat. Hayley Williams) – Rainbow Connection
And just in case that has stirred something within you, and you have a hankering for the original:
Kermit The Frog – Rainbow Connection
More soon.
