The shit blog of Paul Chris Jones

Dear Diary. Today I'm dressed as a Ghostbuster and 3-year-old's dressed as Spider-Man.

Girlfriend looks me up and down with contempt. "People don't go to the Comic-Con in costumes," she says.

People don't go to the Comic-Con in costumes? Of course they go to Comic-Con in costumes! It's one of the few places people do go in costumes!

"At least wear a jumper," she says. "You'll be cold."

"I won't be cold," I say.

"Hmph," she says.

So 3-year-old and I set out for Comic-Con. I'm excited. I've never been to Girona's Comin-Con before. I've never been to a Comic-Con in a costume before either. Plus my proton pack and gun light up. I bought some LEDs from Amazon and they flash different colours and everything.

3-year-old's Spider-Man costume is pretty good because it's from a fancy dress shop, but my Ghostbuster costume is freaking amazing if I say so myself. I made it all myself. Did I mention that the gun and backpack light up?

It's a mile walk to the Comic-Con and I have to carry 3-year-old half the way because he's too lazy to walk. It's not easy carrying 3-year-old, a proton pack and a massive gun.

Pieces of my costume start falling off. A woman bends down and picks a piece up.

"So what are you supposed to be?" she asks as she hands a circuit board back to me.

"A Ghostbuster," I say. What, can't she tell?

"Oh. I thought you were a fireman."

We get to the Comic-Con. This is where people are going to crowd around me and ask for photos.

"Hey!"

Someone's already seen my costume. I spin around, ready to sign autographs.

There's a mom and her two kids. "It's Spider-Man!" says one of the kids, pointing at 3-year-old's costume.

We go inside (6 euro). We look around for a bit and then 3-year-old says, "This is boring." To be fair, he's right. Comic-Con is boring. It's just loads of stalls hawking Funko-pops and other crap.

Plus my costume is uncomfortable. The straps of my proton pack are digging into my back. And the overalls I'm wearing don't fit properly. It's harder work being a Ghostbuster than I thought.

Plus my back's plastered in sweat. I'm getting really hot. And Girlfriend wanted me to wear a jumper??

"I'm bored," says 3-year-old. I buy him a box of Marvel figures (15 euros) to keep him happy.

Then we start heading home. There's a playground on the way home and 3-year-old goes on a zipline over and over.

I take the proton pack off and drop it by accident. Some wires and pieces of circuitry fall off. Fuck sake. I stuff the debris into my pockets.

How are we going to get home? I can't 3-year-old, a giant gun and a Ghostbuster proton pack for a mile. I could do it this morning but now I'm knackered.

I phone Girlfriend for help. Over the phone, I can hear her sigh.

Girlfriend comes to help, thank Christ. I get her to take a photo with me so I can at least see what I look like with my costume. I look at the photo and I'm stunned. And not in a good way. The entire time I imagined I looked cool with my Ghostbusters costume. But instead, I look tired, bald and skinny. I need a hair transplant ASAP. And the overalls don't fit me properly.

Later that day, I decide to go back to the Comic-Con alone and without a costume. Not naked I mean, but wearing normal clothes.

Some people are doing lightsaber training. A guy dressed as Darth Vader is walking around. And there's a guy dressed as the character from Minecraft, it's a really good costume. I think he's just made it from cardboard boxes, it looks really good.

I feel a sense of peace like I've finally found somewhere I belong. Comic-Con is a place of joy. It's a place of freedom and expression. It's a place where a fat bearded man in his thirties is dancing to pop songs with teenage girls. It's a place where there's no shame. It's Comic-Con.

Regrettably, I don't have the courage to go and dance. Maybe next year.

I walk home. It's dusk. The moon is a DreamWorks moon. On the way home I find a two-metre-long piece of polystyrene next to a bin. I pick it up, I could make a bigger gun with this for next year's Comic-Con.