Always one dickhead at fancy-dress party not in fancy dress

THERE is always one miserable bastard at every fancy-dress party who has not bothered to make an effort, it has been confirmed.

Laziness and cowardice have been cited as the most likely reasons, although not wanting to spend £50 on some shit you throw away the moment you get home is also a factor.

Normal clothes-wearer Tom Booker said: “I think fancy dress is for dickheads. But, by being the only person here not dressed up, I realise that I am actually the dickhead.

“However, I’d rather feel like a bit of a grumpy git at a party than an almighty bellend walking down the street and getting on the bus wearing a Captain Jack Sparrow tricorn hat and fake dreadlocks.

“And costumes either cost a fortune and are the tackiest shite you ever saw, or you have to waste a whole week beforehand making something which is so rubbish nobody knows what you’re meant to be anyway.

“I’d rather wear jeans and a shirt, absorb the bitchy comments and not worry about having to walk home in the morning dressed as Myra Hindley if I happen to pull at an ironically bad taste serial killer-themed party.”

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Jacob Rees-Mogg's guide to watching the cavorting sodomites of Eurovision

AS the Eurovision Song Contest takes place in England’s far North, it falls to a sober, unbiased mentor to guide the nation through it. I am that gentleman.


Officially the entry is for the UK, but there is no such nation. Just England ruling a collection of mongrel fiefdoms. Mae Muller spells her name correctly, which is to say medievally, but the entry is ‘I Wrote A Song’ which smacks of the proud three-year-old on her chamber pot. Which largely sums up all music of the last 150 years, bar Britten.


Provided by an Irishman succeeding an Irishman, showing the regard we rightly hold this competition in: no more than dirty tavern talk to entertain itinerant farm workers with hoofmarked foreheads. The only commentary necessary is not provided by the Leninist BBC but accessed via the mute button.

Sexual inversion

At Eurovision, as in the brothels and theatres of Queen Bess’s golden age, sexual inverts abound. It seems every utopia, like free-market Britain today, must pay this price. You will be able to tell them simply by looking at them. Leaf through a Bible at these moments. They cannot touch you. They are merely malevolent spirits.


A heathen continent forever bereft of the virtues bestowed on our island nation. As shameful as pop music is, theirs is yet worse. Their aping of it is painful even to those who profess to enjoy popular modern artists such as the boy Presley. At least this continental chimps’ scat-flinging contest leaves one in no doubt of their subhumanity.


At a cost of £24 million, another generous British contribution to the war against the Slavs. But would we not have better spent the wealth in buying them 15 Storm Shadow missiles, and leaving the arena in Liverpool to stage its usual dogfights and bare-knuckle brawls?

Remain at your television throughout

Eurovision is hosted by us so it would be rude to leave. Watch a collection of halfwits, sodomites, yelping minstrels and misguided benighted wastrels making the case for a fresh inquisition. It will be as morally instructive as my son Anselm’s birthday trip to Bedlam to see the lunatics gibber.