Ah remember, remember Thursday, the 5th ay November, 1981. Bonfire
Night. Guy Fawkes celebration, only honest man in Parliament. Google Earth
memory zooms oot fae right noo n zooms back in fir a retro drone’s-eye view ay
Tammiehill, a grungy Fawkirk suburb. Realm ay bentspine gluesniffers lurking ahind
the papershoap it the boattum ay the hill it Cumbrae Drive. Bit no the night.
Ragtag gathering ay the local working class faimly tribes, roond doon jist
along fae the railway bridge nixt tae the Hurlet pub. Dinnae look fir it noo,
long gone like iviryhing else fae that time, demolished, jist a fading memory
cameo in random local recalls. Fireworks display, drunk-regulars-approved bonfire
built in the pub car park. Seemingly the hale neighbourhood there, dark shapes
ay aw ages n sizes flitting in front ay the crackling roasting flames.
Beer n juice n marshmallows n excitit bairncries n random parent conversation, teen boredom sighs,
tight-held toddler hands, cranky wee yins needing restorative naps. Occasional
sticks horsed oantae the pyre. Me there wi ma mither n faither n brither,
gleefully n excitedly watching it aw happen, twelve year auld, recognising some pals n parents, no ithers. Folk litting aff thir fuselight stepback fireworks, oohs n aahs, skybursts, flash-frozen faces lit up fir a
single illuminating second it the magical explosive gunpowder apex. N us there
warmly wrapped up n wi a white polystyrene cooler wi oor ain wee contribution
tae the non-municipal unofficial munitions display. Conspiratorial fuseburner lighters
cracking in the demanding-lit dark. Aw sorts ay cornea-rattling skyfloors tae
add tae the tall Tammie tally – Roman candles, peonies, girandolas, Catherine wheels,
rockets, shells, bursts, fountains, comets, dugscarers, wee wean frighteners-n-delighteners,
grund spinners, arcsparks, sparklers, whizzbangers, electric spiderleg
webscratchers, darkscreamers, ohyabastirtyes. A smart as fuck sensational
aw-colours exploding arsenal as far as the flame-reflecting eye could see. Ye
ken the score, wiv aw been there a million times afore. Bit thir wis a deviation
fae the usual script that night. An unseen mischievous ember or firework scrap
or suhhin leapt intae oor cooler, which wis sat a respectable distance awa fae the
bonfire fir safety’s sake. We hudnae even startit letting aff oor flameshows.
Didnae get tae, either, is instantly the chain reaction-igniting heatseeker missile set aff
oor peacetime cache stash!
Ohyabastirtye, it wis mental n amazing n funny n
scary is fuck!
Suddenly immediately afore we even kent whit the Hell wis gaun
oan oor fireworks started leaping ootay thir polystyrene
container, hissing n fizzing n spitting n cutting
through the regulation evening’s activities, folk howling n screaming n
laughing n cursing n sprinting n stauning frozen in fear n confusion, rockets
ricocheting aff thick winter-coming parkas, yacuntche whitthefuck uhyamajayket
whit’sgaunoan watchyersels!, the polystyrene instantly meltit by a rogue anarchic Catherine wheel spinning in quickburn cooler
assault, ma faither n mither mortified n endlessly apologising n me n ma brar
jist watching in ear-tae-ear-grinning colour-spattered joybursts. Zip, bang, zee, zowww, wheeee! Us wee
laddies wir loving it! It wis like in Commando magazine, like in the Second World War we wid see in films oan
the telly n pause the explosions oan the video jist is they startit tae happen
tae see whit wis gaun oan. Except we couldnae pause this mad flaming mess here, wi screaming wee weans scooped up intae protective
parent airms, quickly huckled awa fae far-flung grenades in a burning
parent-nightmare rodeo ay wartorn Tommies n Jerries n Japs n commandos n
tommyguns n pineapples n banzai n achtung Fritz sneering, British Bulldug
callycodes, playgrund enemy victories, mither-frowned ripped skillklaze, toy
fights n toy sodjers, Eagle Eyes Action Man bullet rains, perishable rubber
gripping haunds n blue moldit scants n face-bubbling scars, even they manufactured
military men couldnae pit the cooler back thegither again. We wir the enemy within n
we beat oorsels wi unfriendly fire, couldnae get naewhaur near the lava-erupting fireclump
until iviry last polystyrene-murdering explosive hud done its joab. Then it wis pack up yer troubles in your auld ruined kit
bag n smile smile smile. It wis like nuhhin ah ivir saw afore or since.
Brilliant! Folk wurnae pleased, mind ye, n ah cannae say ah blame thum, plenty
ay frights n wastit klaze tae go roond. It least naebidy wis seriously hurt, mair jist black ember marks pattit aff jaykets thin onyhing else. Still, it wis an accident, whit kin ye
dae? Except go tae the official bonfire celebrations up the Cally the nixt
year. We learned oor lesson. War in peacetime jist wisnae worth the hassle or
lingering annoyed sideways neighbour dirty looks. Bit it wis a pity Guy Fawkes’s
abortit suspect device display wisnae is guid or effective is oors. Nae luck, Big Man, nae luck.
THE END
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