The Michael is taking the evening off tonight to go watch some fireworks and squeal like a scalded dog like most of the other spectators. It's been a while since I specifically went to a fireworks display - the last time being Independence Day 2005 in Philadelphia.It's been excitment all the way in the run-up to tonight. Yesterday evening, for instance, we were able to spot a few damp squibs let off across the city that none-the-less extracted the requisite scalded animal impression. As ever, with Fireworks-UK-style, it's often the diminutive effect of the fireworks which hold the appeal. Brits have this morbid fascination of typically turning out on a cold, damp evening to gasp in pronounced, slightly despondent glee at the wet farts being let off in the sky. With frozen hands and even colder feet we push unforgivingly through the crowds, earnestly wishing we were close enough to the burning heap to warm our icebound tootsies and enjoy the flaring, searing and blistering delight as the poor ol' sod plonked on top of it is burnt to death.
Then, just when you feel your heart can be warmed no further from this joyous national celebration, the comforting harmony of a fleet of fire engines and ambulances can be heard, racing to pick up pieces and the charred remains of those who have taken celebrations a bit too far.
Can't wait. And if I feel the occasion demands it, I'll push the boat out big-time and go buy a hot-dog.
God I love Guy Fawkes. Sigh.
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