"She will, she will, she will, she will,
Let it take her breath away."
The garden’s
on fire. From an exploding rocket far too big for a milk bottle. It immediately
toppled over and shot the firework along the ground. And there goes the rhubarb
patch. That was the first and last firework night my dad hosted at home. The
very reason they recommend organised displays.
Our annual local
display up at the park by the shops had recently been cancelled though from a complete
lack of organisation in previous years. I’m not sure who even was supposed to
be in charge of it. Or how it lasted so long. I clearly remember rockets
raining in to the audience one year – though fortunately no-one was hurt. And
the highlight was always the perilously huge bonfire. This was basically an
excuse for the local estates to clear out their houses and save money on a
skip.
For weeks,
the bonfire would build and build. Anything and everything was thrown on to it.
From mattresses to gas canisters. And it towered over the park. You could
imagine Richard Dreyfuss making mashed potato sculptures of it at the dinner
table. By the time November 5th rolled round, this beast of a bonfire was so volatile
that there was no need for an elaborate lighting ceremony. Basically anyone within
a mile of it with a sparkler was likely to set it off. And the heat and roar of
the flames was intense. It was no wonder the park had so few trees and so
little grass left.
The unbridled
fun and total disregard for safety didn’t end there. For days after, the
bonfire would be left unattended and smoldering away in the park. And then the
games began. ‘Jump The Bonfire’. ‘Walk Through The Bonfire Without Melting Your
School Shoes’. ‘Throw Your Friend’s New Gym Bag In The Bonfire’. Happy days.
About a month
later you’d see a couple of men in suits slowly circumnavigating the enormous
burnt patch in the middle of the park and looking mighty miffed. As if they could
clearly remember their council department disallowing any bonfire event to take
place here, and they weren’t ready to believe that these were the markings left
by an alien spacecraft. Meanwhile, the locals would already have begun hoarding
petrol cans and asbestos ceiling tiles to fuel next year’s bonfire.
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