Pumpkin to the Groin

We're at that time of year again, when people start buying pumpkins, contemplating dressing up as monsters and serial killers and planning to try and scare complete strangers.  The allure of Halloween tends to escape me, possibly because when I was young we didn't have this US-inspired version of the season, we just bobbed for apples and such like and, if we were lucky, the BBC might show an old Hammer film we'd be allowed to stay up and watch.  'Trick or Treat' simply didn't exist in our world - it was just something we sometimes glimpsed, in bemused fashion, on US TV shows.  I have to say, though, that in recent times the idea of knocking on vulnerable pensioners' doors at night, attempting to extort sweets from them under threat of scaring the bejasus out of them, has begun to appeal to me more.  Particularly if we cut out the extortion bit and just cut straight to the scaring bit - putting on a mask and hurling eggs at some of my neighbours' houses has definite appeal.  Especially if we substitute 'excrement' for 'eggs'.  Even more especially if we were to substitute 'neighbours' houses' for, say, Nigel Farage's house, (which was paid for by his partner, who is currently the subject of an EU fraud investigation - obviously the two couldn't be connected, just saying), or Stephen Yaxley-Lennon's gaff (although that patriotic 'man of the people' would probably be out, driving to Spain, Portugal or Cyprus or one of his other hideouts, in a borrowed Bentley full of cash).  

Of course, if we were in the US, we'd be looking forward to our annual opportunity to 'trick or treat' at the White House and try to scare Old Man Trump to death.  I mean, it surely wouldn't take much to shock that grossly overweight, demented and wheezing wreck into turning up his toes.  The best thing is that it would be very difficult for them to prove it was an assassination - even if they could catch the pesky kids involved, (let's face it, on the evidence of their attempts to find the assassin of Charlie Kirk, it's clear that under Kash Patel the FBI couldn't find their own fart in a bathtub), which would be difficult as they'd all be dressed as The Mummy, Frankenstein's Monster, The Wolfman or Elon Musk - as the cause of death would be 'natural causes'.  Maybe, from now until Halloween, intrepid operatives of favourite fantasy terror group 'Antifa' could spend their time creeping up behind Trump, bursting inflated paper bags, blowing horns or shouting 'Boo!' in the hope of causing a fatal stroke.  Or maybe they could throw pumpkins - preferably carved in Trump's own image - at him, in hope of a fatal hit.  (I recall that, back in the day, the UK saw a spate of vegetable-related assaults, involving cabbages, cauliflowers and courgettes being thrown at people from speeding cars, resulting in at least one casualty).  Even if they couldn't manage a fatal strike, it would still be bloody hilarious to see the 'Orange Shitgibbon' take a huge pumpkin to the face.  Or even better, to the groin.  Damn it, the thought of him getting a pumpkin in the cobblers as he addresses a crowd or press conference, with him doubling up in agony, shouting 'Son of a bitch!' as he clutches his groin, is already making me laugh in expectation.  God, Halloween's great, isn't it?