Whizzbang, whoosh!
REMEMBER, remember the fifth of November … Well yes, but Guy Fawkes is nothing like what it used to be. The campaign by the SPCA and others to reduce the indiscriminate use of fireworks has been pretty successful over the years. No longer do gangs of youths roam the streets lobbing firecrackers onto rooftops or setting off strings of ladycrackers in post boxes.
Yet the night still puts extreme stress on dogs, cats and other pets, so owners are urged to keep them safe and indoors.
I must say though, not all dogs are affected the same. I once had a fox terrier who so loved fireworks he would chase after them and pick them up. He had to be locked away for his own safety. And more recently I had an Irish terrier who positively revelled in Guy Fawkes night, by the end of the evening absolutely delirious with excitement at all the bangs and whooshes.
It might have been in the breeding. He hailed from County Antrim, in Northern Ireland, and his parents' owner had been tailgunner in a baker's van.
These were exceptions. People should make a special effort tonight to make sure their pets are safe and indoors.
Deplorable tale
YES, THOSE disreputable far-off days when we had no television, no videos, no PCs, no playstations, no cellphones and Guy Fawkes was a rare opportunity to let off steam. Some deplorable things used to happen.
I am ashamed to recall an occasion from schooldays in Maritzburg when a group of us were returning home on foot about midnight after an evening of lifting gates and putting crackers in post boxes, that kind of thing.
A house lay to one side, below road level. Its chimney was a tempting target for a lobbed cracker. Pretty soon crackers were exploding all over the roof as we competed. Then one did go down the chimney and – BOOM! – the entire living room seemed to light up in a most gratifying fashion.
We set off down the hill. What we didn't realise was that the driveway of that house curled around to join the road we were on, a little way ahead. When we reached that junction, the householder was running up the driveway toward us wearing nothing but his underpants, yelling all kinds of imprecations. (He had a rich vocabulary and a range of expression I was not hear again until I joined the navy).
He was a fellow in about his thirties, with the rangy athletic build of a flank forward. He meant business. We picked up speed and so did he. The downhill chase lasted for several hundred yards until suddenly a car came along and picked him up in its headlights.
He then seemed to appreciate his state of undress; he stopped and turned back. Guy Fawkes was over for another year.
I relate all this to illustrate the banality of small-town life in the pre-digital age; to show how easily youngsters could be lured into hooliganistic behaviour. This is in the nature of a confession, offered in a spirit of real contrition. As I say, I am deeply ashamed and … Oh boy, that guy in his underpants! Ha, ha, ha! Hee, hee! Hoo, hoo, hoo!
Oh dear!
Lucky legs
READER Aubrey Smith, of Durban, points out that when the "Miss Lucky Legs" competition in Ladysmith was won by the grand piano in the town hall – as mentioned last week – the result was challenged.
The title eventually went to a billiard table in a local club.
Thank you, Aubrey. I value historical accuracy.
Tailpiece
| A VERY shy guy spots a beautiful woman sitting alone at the bar. He plucks up courage and walks over to her and asks: "Um, would you mind if I brought you a drink?" | |
Last word
Nothing is easier than self-deceit. For what each man wishes, that he also believes to be true. - Demosthenes
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