I Love Bonfires
According to my consciencious-but-too-drunk-to-be-specific neighbour where I live is some kind of Urban Smoke-free Zone for certain days and times of the year, but all I can say is nothing can stop a man burning his own stuff in his own garden. It's in the Bill of Rights, I'm sure. If I have to be subjected to the stench of BBQd flesh they can cope with a few bonfires. Let them hunt me down with helicopters and satellites. Look at me, I'm on top of the world. They'll never take me alive.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not an arsonist, but I've always loved a big fire. When I was a boy the hightlight of the year was November the 5th - Guy Fawkes Night (a true hero we should celebrate). Our village was divided into two groups of scavenging boys. Both gangs had a bonfire every year, at opposite ends of the village, so, for at least the late summer and early autumn, we spent our time patrolling as the evenings drew in, running around collecting ANYTHING that would burn. If it wasn't nailed down we'd have it. Who could build the biggest pyre was a matter of bragging rights for the following week at school. Come the day there would be a heady mix of crackling wood, smoking tyres and, from the inside, the screaming of hedgehogs and rats.
