Bonfire Night

Don't you just hate all those bastards who let off fireworks prematurely? You know the ones I mean; those bastards who make the two weeks running up to Bonfire Night sound like a nightly re-enactment of World War Two, terrorising pets and old people and driving the rest of us up the wall. Well, this year I decided to fight back. The best way to combat these anti-social types, I decided, was to deprive them of their arsenals, by launching pre-emptive strikes on their fireworks. Which is how I came to find myself hiding behind some raspberry canes in a grotty back garden last Saturday evening, using a length of drain pipe to aim a rocket at a garden shed, as my sometime associate Big Sleazy lit the fuse. Now, I have to emphasise here that this wasn't a random attack on some bloke who lives across the back from me and pisses me off every Saturday by revving up his power tools before eight in the morning. Oh no, we had good intelligence (from Two Ton Toby at the Chippie's aunt, who lives across the road from our target), that the shed in question was stacked full of illegal Chinese fireworks. The spectacular way in which the shed exploded after our rocket crashed through its window, seemed to vindicate our suspicions. Unfortunately, it also set the garden's fence ablaze, forcing us to sprint across the lawn, in full view of the house, and jump over the wall into the next garden. Luckily, the occupants were somewhat distracted, as a stray firework from the shed had flown through one of the upstairs windows and set the whole place ablaze.

Thankfully, neither of us was seriously injured in the incident, (although, when we got back to the car, Big Sleazy pointed out that, much to his amusement, the back draft of the rocket we'd fired had singed my hair, depriving me of my left eyebrow and sideburn). Anyway, scorched scalp notwithstanding, we decided to move on to our next target, a bungalow a few streets away. Having heard - from a mate of Toby's brother-in-law Greek Ted - that the illicit firework stash was hidden inside the house, we decided to launch a direct assault, climbing on the roof and dropping a couple of Roman Candles down the chimney. Unfortunately, the resulting blast was so powerful that Big Sleazy was knocked off of the roof, twisting his ankle. Taking time out from laughing at his plight, I ensured the explosive stockpile's destruction by phoning the fire brigade and sending them to the wrong address. Sadly, Big Sleazy's injury rather curtailed our activities, forcing us to abandon our remaining targets. Instead, we opted to drive around for a couple of hours, launching drive-by rocket attacks on any gangs of youths we saw letting off fireworks. This proved surprisingly effective, destroying a couple of firework-laden Vauxhall Novas into the bargain. I like to think our campaign was a success. There certainly seem to have been fewer fireworks let off over the past few days. Let's hope they remember this lesson next year, otherwise we'll be forced out onto the streets again...