Starting The New Year With A Bang.
No. This is not a clever or subtle way to talk about beginning the year with relations of an intimate nature. Mind out of the gutter people.
This is about fireworks.
For those who question my credentials to speak on this subject (or any subject for that matter), let me set you straight.
I am supremely qualified.
I was born on Guy Fawkes Day. Well, not the actual day, that would make me 418 years old (and I only look 372).
No, I was born on the 5th of November, 19 something, something, which means I have been around fireworks since my mum put a sparkler on my first birthday cake - chocolate with a light dusting of potassium perchlorate, aluminium and magnesium. Yum.
I’m also a universally recognised expert at blowing shit up and getting blown up myself. ACC can confirm this.
Now, I may not have any actual qualifications which would legally allow me to handle explosives but I used to get blown up for a living. That must count for something.
As Glenn Goober, co-star of the 2005 children’s television show ‘The Goober Brothers’, my main task was to be regularly crapped on, vomited upon, set on fire and blown to pieces. Great gig. Thanks Luke.
I have also owned and regularly used a potato cannon. Right up until it was tragically blasted apart in what became known as ‘The Kumara Incident’.
A note of reassurance for spud lovers, no potatoes were harmed in the making of this story. That’s because they don’t feel pain which is lucky because we blew the bastards to smithereens.
we blew the bastards to smithereens.
I grew up in an age when there were little or no restrictions around the composition or control of fireworks.
Those were the days of Jumping Jacks, Sky Rockets, Double Happys, Mighty Canons (which were indeed mighty) and the accurately named Thunderbanger. Those things could disintegrate a letterbox and often did.
This is still not an admission of guilt Mrs Smithers, you have no proof. Let it go.
Ahh, the good old days when biffing a Tom Thumb at a girl meant you liked her. Oddly enough, this seldom, if ever, resulted in dates.
Who knows what women want?
You’d have thought this Wild-West approach to firework legislation would have resulted in mass injuries/mutilations, uncontrolled fires, terrified animals and considerable property damage and you’d be right.
But what price the freedom to let kids loose with the equivalent of a small stick of dynamite? Yeah, almost exactly that.
While I lament the days when you could pop down the local fruit shop and purchase an arsenal that would give you a good chance of taking over a small country, I also get why this can no longer happen.
Surprisingly, given my history, I fall in the camp that would happily see the sale of fireworks to the general public banned, with only organised events available.
This is not due to an unselfish concern for the welfare of the public, the protection of animals and property, and to take the pressure off an overworked fire department.
No, this is solely because I’m old, grumpy and have had my fun.
These days I like to be in bed by ten thirty and have been woken by fireworks being let off at what I consider to be an unreasonable time (ten thirty one).
But, the far bigger sin as far as I’m concerned, is the fireworks you can buy today are a bit shit. At least in comparison to what we had.
This is like witnessing a formerly great boxer making one too many attempts at a comeback and being promptly sat on his ass.
It’s just sad.
This does not mean I don’t have a stash of highly illegal fireworks tucked away in the garage but you can be assured they will be ignited at a reasonable hour and under the appropriate adult supervision. Probably another Goober Brother who has an even more chequered history with explosives than I.
And yes, my stockpile includes Tom Thumbs.
Well, you never know when you might meet a girl you like.
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