As it’s the Summer holidays, I thought I’d share a captured moment from the annual fancy dress competition which runs during my village regatta week. For anyone not familiar with this event, it’s where the locals dress their children up in the most elaborate costume they can think of, for a prize fund of a couple of quid and a much coveted trophy.
Be under no illusion that this is by any means a fun event, far from it. It’s fierce, competitive and usually ends in tears. This is not about taking part, it’s about winning and once judging has taken place.
It’s an unwritten rule that you must never disclose your theme for fear of your idea being stolen and under no uncertain terms, must the children enjoy themselves. Losers must endure a walk of shame, as the fancy dress parade continues through the streets and down the beach while locals and holiday makers watch on.
It’s only fitting that my children and any other younger family members take part in this event as I, along with my sister and cousins had to endure the same humiliation many moons ago. It’s a village rite of passage by which you can only pass over to the teenage years, once you have competed in at least 3 regatta week fancy dress parades.
We’re actually giving it a miss this year as we feel our children have served their time, so I’m sharing a photo of the year we came 1st in our category. Think of Lewis Hamilton on the winners podium and you’ve pretty much got the idea of how we felt as our prize winnings jingled in our pockets and the children breathed a sigh of relief.
Many happy tears were shed that night as Maid Marian slept peacefully in her pram, our merry men frolicked on the beach, eyeliner beards still intact, and social services had been reassured that Friar Tuck had only water in his flagon.