How can THAT win it?
My mum could handle a sewing machine with a lightness of touch which would have pleased the Gods. I was used to winning, it was in the blood.
First year it was a dog, simple but so very beautiful. The competition was beaten before I took to the stage, they knew it, I knew it. Eat my dog.

Next year it was Daffy Duck, yes you heard, Daffy effing Duck in your face losers, I win, easy, EASY, EASY.

Can you imagine the pride I felt when I took to the stage in my exact replica E.T costume. It was the sort of pride that Nelson must have felt when taking his fleet to battle, unbeatable that’s what I was. One of England’s greatest heroes. Three years on the trot, I’d retire after this, go on the interview circuit, write my memoirs. The school’s greatest ever fancy dresser, they’d name buildings after me. I stepped onto stage and drew gasps from the crowd, I even heard gentle sobbing from the front row, probably. That’s it, I’d done it the room nearly rippled with anticipation. Now, surely all that were left were formalities … until she showed up. Struggling up the steps she came like some drunken mongoloid, one box, no arm holes and the crappiest paint job since Rolf embarrassed the queen. A rubik’s fucking cube which could only have been painted by Joey Deacon, my twin brother could have done better and I don’t even have a twin brother. I suppose it goes without saying that the greatest travesty of justice then occurred, she took the book token and with it spilt my milk of human kindness. My only saving grace was that my full face mask, with the uncanny ET likeness, captured my tears (in my mother’s used tights)

Next year my sister won as Princess Leia, it was a hollow return to form. Too late to rescue me from a lifetime of hatred.

And to this day I still hate you, I hate you all, just go, leave me alone you bastards.
(I'M JACK MEADOWS, Fri 13 Jan 2006, 16:44, Reply)