Trick or treat? No point asking the question these days, it’s all indulgent smiles and bowls of goodies, cold cash if your luck’s in, householders pretending to be out if it isn’t. Pretty much the worst that can happen is some well-meaning citizen misguidedly offering something healthy. “Oh no, we don’t approve of sweets here, would you like a tangerine?” “Er, no thank you.” And off next door.

As for the trick option, that just doesn’t happen any more. Whatever happened to the grumpy old git grunting “Bloody kids, I’m giving yer nowt, now sod off ”? Which then obliges you to at the very least jump up and down all over his flowerbeds? Eeee, I dunno, the kids of today, no wonder they’re getting so fat: too much sugar, not enough criminal damage to burn it off.

I suppose people may be fearful of what contemporary youth might get up to as regards a trick. Shut your front door, 30 seconds later a half brick comes through your sitting-room window. But the truth is, when I quizzed my children on Saturday night, they admitted that in the event of a trick being requested, they would have no idea what to do beyond making a few woo woo noises to augment their corpse bride/scary monster costumes.

What, I said, have you never heard of the well-directed water bomb? Sending bouquets of flowers from one unpopular teacher to another unpopular teacher, cash on delivery? Unwanted taxis? Large sacks of coal? The staggered arrival of half a dozen takeaway pizzas? Apparently not.

It’s a lost skill, I fear, the childish misdemeanour. I felt like hurling a few eggs around, mostly for the nostalgia spike, but also to give the young uns a bit of guidance. Instead I went to the pub with my daughter’s friend’s dad. The bar staff were all painted up to look like ghouls.

Trip or treat

Hallowe’en has now supplanted Bonfire Night, of course, but in my day it was no big deal. Instead, for the teenage boy, in Hull 30 years ago at any rate, the main event was on November 4, the day before fireworks, the evening known as Mischief Night. Mischief was a euphemism. Basically it was semi-licensed vandalism. Happy times.

Another local tradition, incidentally, rejoicing in the title of Legging Up Afternoon, ran from noon till dusk on April 1. In the morning, you’d try to wind people up in the normal way, then at midday you’d chuck out the namby-pamby southern deception stuff and get on with the business of common assault.

The classic Legging Up Afternoon manoeuvre was to sneak up behind someone, plant one leg in front of them and one hand in the small of their back, then shove them over your outstretched leg to the ground. The unwritten rule was that, providing you said “Legging Up Afternoon” as you did it, the victim, even as they lay bleeding and winded on the unforgiving asphalt of the playground, had no means of recompense.

Unpopular poppy

With the Hallowe’en lift-off, and the resurgence of Remembrance Day, this period, from October 31 through Bonfire Night to November 11, has become a regular little season, has it not? Three occasions inside a fortnight, each one essentially centring on death. Still no extra Bank Holiday, though.

I say resurgence of Remembrance Day, and that’s true in terms of media attention and the way institutions now mark the two minutes’ silence in a way they never did a decade ago. And yet on an individual level, you see precious few poppies about. I estimate fewer than one in 20 people wore them at my local market on Sunday, although no doubt away from the revolutionary hotbed that is East London that proportion would rise considerably.

The big problem is obviously that we wear much less formal clothing than we used to: no jacket equals no buttonhole equals poppy very difficult to fix on. I pinned mine, with no little difficulty, on my jumper. It lasted half an hour. I suppose the current paper-and-pin design is good for multiple sales, but perhaps the British Legion should produce an enamel poppy badge as well? Charge a premium price? A fiver? A tenner? I’d buy one.

Dead wicket

If you want to prolong that whole fake blood Hallowe’en ghostie undead vibe, you might like to check out Zombie Cricket online. You are the batsman, and your job is to click your mouse at the relevant moment to dispatch a ball into the body of a succession of inexorably oncoming Australian batsmen. Australian batsmen who are, in fact, zombies.

Ray Illingworth provides the commentary. “Oh, that’s a lovely cover drive,” says Illy, as another unquiet Aussie bonce flies off its body. Good fun.

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