Yo ho ho, me hearties

New Year’s Eve. The one night of the year when people actually seem to enjoy overpaying to enter sweaty dungeons filled with other goons taking out a bank loan for each drink.

But there are no more 24-hour benders in city centre nightclubs for me. I’m burnt out in my mid-twenties. Sad.

Instead, the previous few years have seen me invading a usually quiet village pub for a bizarre, annual, alcohol-fuelled, fancy dress event instead.

Yep, fancy dress. Cool, eh?

Previous year’s themes (doctors and nurses, cowboys and Indians) haven’t given me much scope as a disabled person to put my mark on things. After all, Chief Sitting-Down-Cos-My-Legs-Hurt wouldn’t really have cut it.

This year’s theme, though (pirates…aargh!), gave me a rare brainwave.

I realised that I could do something I’d never done before: instead of valiantly failing to adapt a costume that looked totally unrealistic on me, why not try wearing kids’ dressing-up gear? After all, I’m small and soon become tiresome; I’m practically an infant!

Genius! Or so I thought.

Now, I won’t name names regarding the shop where I decided to buy said clothing (Capt Jack Sparrow’s dress-up gear, £9.99: bargain) but it’s one of those ridiculous places where instead of choosing an item, paying for it and then leaving, like any normal store, you have to queue-up to leaf through a manky-old catalogue that looks like a six-year-old’s art project, queue again to give a piece of paper to a shop assistant, and queue a third time in front of a monitor that looks like a bingo machine.

All this before you can even collect your item, which is soon sent hurtling down a conveyor belt at terrifying speed, by a never-seen employee.

You know the place. As accessible as Alcatraz.

I actually reckon there are no staff out there at all, just a line of blokes with some pasting tables set up at the back of their Ford Cortinas.

Anyway, after finding what I wanted, I sidled up to the assistant as inconspicuously as someone with no hands buying children’s dressing-up stuff the week after Christmas possibly could.

“IS THAT THE PIRATE GEAR?” the woman suddenly bellowed; she was clearly being seconded from her day job as Brian Blessed’s stunt-voice double.

It was like one of those moments when you’re buying haemorrhoid cream and the 16-year-old checkout kid decides they need to do a price check, just to humiliate you.

Not that I’ve ever bought haemorrhoid cream, you understand. Just thought I should clear that up. The misunderstanding, that is, not the haemorrhoids.

Anyhow, with the rest of the shop now staring at me even more than usual, I somehow managed to collect my pirate booty and leave (although my dignity is still waiting to be collected: ticket no 107, I believe).

As it happens, the party was great and I made a pretty dandy pirate; Johnny Depp best watch out.

I think I’ll suggest famous amputees as next year’s theme and force everyone else to go to bizarre lengths for a costume. At least then the shoe really will be on the other foot.