Arseholes up and down the country are unaware that it is not the fifth of November, it has been confirmed.
From London to Liverpool, the nation’s arseholes are setting off fireworks with no regard for the exact date of Bonfire Night.
We caught up with one offender, Will Lightham. “Meh, it’s just a laugh,” he said, applying a match to a Roman Candle as we spoke. “A firework goes bang, right out of nowhere, everyone’s wondering if we’ve gone to war!”
Asked what he was trying to achieve by frightening the local pets in the middle of the day, he simply replied, “well, keep ‘em indoors then! We’re having a laugh here!”
He said that like it was a good thing. When I asked him if he knew who Guy Fawkes was, he scratched his head, before saying, “isn’t he that bloke who was in Neighbours?”
I got pretty much the same response from half a dozen such pyromaniacs in the area. No, he was not that bloke from Neighbours, I explained patiently each time.
All this was enough to make me ask whether Mr Fawkes had died in vain. Then I remembered that from his point of view, he definitely had. Considering that he became famous for failing in his objective, I doubt whether his posthumous immortality would bring his shade any respite. He’s probably turning in his grave. Hell, I’m turning in mine, and I’m not even dead.
