Sunday November the 8th, The day we all lower our heads in respect for those brave souls who made the ultimate sacrifice so we can have the right to sit square eyed at our screens and so I can have my opinionated ramblings posted for the world to see from the comfort of my own home. The right to freedom, that is unless you enjoy puffing away on the evil weed (the legal variety I might add) in which case you are less deserving of rights than a machete holding psycho maniac... but I digress.
Rewind back to the 5th November, Gun Powder, Treason and Plot. Sat in my office trying to make the final amendments to my Open University Assignment I find my self in what sounds like an Afghanistan war Zone. Bangs, squeals, crackles and even bigger bangs. The atmosphere all hazy with the airborn particulates emitted from the cremating of stolen crates and numerous old Ikea flat packs. It was of course Bonfire night. A highly pointless symbol of Britishness, unless you have not yet reached puberty.
Old Guy Fawkes has a lot to answer for. I do not know what is worse, the fact his plan to bomb the International Hub of Expenses fraud was foiled or the fact that some 400 years later the Great British Public are still trying to reinact it in their back gardens. I certainly hope all those revlling in the festivities not once criticised those creepy, thieving buggars that supposedly look out for the tax payer.
Fast forward again to November 8th. I am still sat here square eyed and I am now being subjected to all the cheapscapes that have made the most of the local firework dealers that spring up in the last quarter of the year to make a quick quid, trying to be rid of stock so they can move on and set up some other seasonal, temporary enterprise.
In a world that has gone absolutely crackers with laughable health and safety laws (you can not have barbed wires around your house, as you have a duty of care to potential burglars) where persons are now exempt from applying common sense, I find it more than alarming that any Tom, Dick or Harry can buy a shed load of GunPowder and explosives and be given free reign to ignite it where ever they see fit.
Three days later they are continuing with this childish noise pollution. Grown men eyes wide open, heads tilted and mouths catching flies. Grown men mesmorised by the pretty colours and loud noises, without any consideration for those around them.
Please hurry up and banish these things from Suburbia, confine them to once a year, put them in the hands of trained Pyrotechnics. Right now there is one place I would love to stick The Numpty at No.22's Roman Candle.. and it is right up his f****ing arse!