He got his shit fireworks from the Happy Shopper. They come in a white box labelled Meteor Family Fun. Launch poles, gloves and an emergency pail of water have already been prepared in the garden. No bonfires. Don't you dare even think about setting the shed alight either. No.
Lighting up won't start until everyone steps back to the required five metre safety zone. There's a line. We stand to watch him set off one lame rocket after another lame rocket. Woo. Can we go back inside? No. Not allowed. We have mud on our boots.
His mate is with us. A lot more laid back and doesn't care much for rules, especially his. So fuck the five metre zone, go fuck your gloves too. He launches a bunch of rockets from his fist. We cheer. He starts a fire. We're warm. He sprays some Lynx to get the flames really burning. We're all slightly a bit nervous. He sprays a half sparked sparkler. The can ignites.
Bucket of water comes in handy. His mate carries on laughing while he stands there crying and bleeding. It's all got a bit too serious now. And boring. Plus, we're cold. The fires going out and there's no more wood left on the shed. Guy Fawkes is over. We're going home.
Rattle my Bones
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