Remember, remember….

So here it is another bonfire night, all the woohs and aaaahhs you can stand. The day when people quiet happily spunk their money into the sky like a little version of NASA, you may as well just throw your wallet of the nearest high building, although it won’t look as nice. I’ve always thought that the 5th of November would be the perfect night to shoot someone as everyone will assume the sound of the gun going off is actually a wheelie bin sized banger aptly titled ‘the big bastard’ going off in your back garden. Of course you have to spare a thought for all the animals tonight as they cower under the nearest table fearful that a quick succession of loud noises is coming to get them (they would probably just drop dead if a real bomb were to go off). Also where is your imagination kids? Tying a firework to a cats tail was so last season there are bigger and better things to attach rockets too like yourself in a pair of roller-skates, look at him scoot, I suggest you do it on the motorway as I reckon you will get up to some brake neck speeds. Of course the real bonfire experience is captured when the fireworks are over, when you thaw out your body from standing a field for four hours eating nothing but mushy peas from a polystyrene cup and realise that no amount of washing will stop you smelling of smoke for about a week and in the cold light of day you see just what damage setting fire to cardboard tubes full of gunpowder will do to your precious garden. At least its only one day a year, unless, like this year, it falls on Sunday which gives people the licence to have a garden full of drunks on Friday or Saturday as well.  I’ll stop there before I start to sound like a killjoy and go outside and stare into the night sky with all the other morons ready to gasp like I’ve never seen anything bright before or I might just stay in where its warm, with a box of matches and my imagination.

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