Being eleven years old I suppose we should have known better but like most lads of that age my mates and I had a healthy disregard for life and limb and this being the middle years of the 1970s we still had plenty of places to go to endanger both our lives and our limbs. WWII was thirty odd years past but through a mixture of local council apathy and local resident protestation there were a number of areas that had been bombed back then but not yet redeveloped. The back of the print works was one such place, an area of run to seed allotments, gardens and ruined buildings that held a magnetic attraction for myself and my mates as it was quiet, secluded and we could go there and be away from prying adult eyes with our air guns. That the print works used a corner of it for dumping the kind of hazardous waste that turned wildlife into the sort of hideous mutant beasties that were popular in the 50s films shown on a Wednesday evening just after Nationwide made it all the more attractive.
If we got bored with plinking away at cans with our air guns or trying to find giant mosquitoes we would build bonfires, nothing destructive, we just lit the kind of fire that would make Baden-Powell proud. Thus it was not at all surprising that on this particular day we were doing just that. Bored with setting fire to bits of wood and the middle of paper rolls we scouted around for something a bit more exciting and it was John, rummaging through the toxic waste from the printers who found the ‘Camping Gaz’ cylinder with its dire warnings about exposing to heat. Now, being eleven the only bit we heeded was the bit about explosions. Cool! Bet it would make a big bang if we chucked it on the bonfire then. So, Mark, never one to do things by halves did just that.
Realising the enormity of what he had done and unable to find anything to hook it out of the flames as we had already burnt most of the long sticks, we ran for the nearest cover which happened to be a concrete lined ‘trench’ under the print works fire escape containing a foetid pool of water and a dead cat. Crouched in the mire we waited…and waited…but none of us wanted to risk life and limb so we waited a bit more and Mark, the underage smoker amongst us dug out a packet of Embassy No. 1s.
“Anyone want a ciggy ?” he asked.
“No thanks, mum would kill…”
WWWWWWWWWWHHHHHHHHRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAMMM!!!!!!!!!
The world went silent, time slowed, clods of earth and stunned worms showered down on us and something clanged against the fire escape. I realised John was saying something. I think it was “Fucking hell!” but it sounded more like someone saying “Fuuunell” at the bottom of a water tank. Mark had fallen over and now had most of the dead cat smeared all over his jeans. Nervously we peered over the edge of the concrete and saw that where our bonfire had been there was now a three foot wide crater and no sign of the bonfire apart from an ominous cloud of smoke rising into the sky and a burning plank stuck in the branches of the apple tree that grew on one side of the area. There was only one thing to do. Pausing only to knock the plank from the branches of the tree as we valued the apples we could ‘scrump’ in the summer we legged it, hurdling the wall and fleeing down the street past the old lady who had emerged from her house yelling something about “The Jerries ‘ave come over to bomb us again!”
The following day at school one of our classmates who happened to live in the next street was full of the story. Apparently his dad reckoned it was the IRA or Black September and they were starting a new bombing campaign. Quite what a terrorist organisation would be doing trying to blow up some derelict houses and a patch of weed covered allotment escaped us. It was hardly striking a blow against the oppressors of the people. It was also pretty doubtful that such terrorist organisations consisted of three young lads, two of whom had reached home and locked themselves in their bedrooms and a third who had been yelled at by his mum for having bits of decomposed feline stuck to his arse. After that we treated the stuff we found at the back of the print works with a bit more respect. At least we did until we found the paint cans…
If we got bored with plinking away at cans with our air guns or trying to find giant mosquitoes we would build bonfires, nothing destructive, we just lit the kind of fire that would make Baden-Powell proud. Thus it was not at all surprising that on this particular day we were doing just that. Bored with setting fire to bits of wood and the middle of paper rolls we scouted around for something a bit more exciting and it was John, rummaging through the toxic waste from the printers who found the ‘Camping Gaz’ cylinder with its dire warnings about exposing to heat. Now, being eleven the only bit we heeded was the bit about explosions. Cool! Bet it would make a big bang if we chucked it on the bonfire then. So, Mark, never one to do things by halves did just that.
Realising the enormity of what he had done and unable to find anything to hook it out of the flames as we had already burnt most of the long sticks, we ran for the nearest cover which happened to be a concrete lined ‘trench’ under the print works fire escape containing a foetid pool of water and a dead cat. Crouched in the mire we waited…and waited…but none of us wanted to risk life and limb so we waited a bit more and Mark, the underage smoker amongst us dug out a packet of Embassy No. 1s.
“Anyone want a ciggy ?” he asked.
“No thanks, mum would kill…”
WWWWWWWWWWHHHHHHHHRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAMMM!!!!!!!!!
The world went silent, time slowed, clods of earth and stunned worms showered down on us and something clanged against the fire escape. I realised John was saying something. I think it was “Fucking hell!” but it sounded more like someone saying “Fuuunell” at the bottom of a water tank. Mark had fallen over and now had most of the dead cat smeared all over his jeans. Nervously we peered over the edge of the concrete and saw that where our bonfire had been there was now a three foot wide crater and no sign of the bonfire apart from an ominous cloud of smoke rising into the sky and a burning plank stuck in the branches of the apple tree that grew on one side of the area. There was only one thing to do. Pausing only to knock the plank from the branches of the tree as we valued the apples we could ‘scrump’ in the summer we legged it, hurdling the wall and fleeing down the street past the old lady who had emerged from her house yelling something about “The Jerries ‘ave come over to bomb us again!”
The following day at school one of our classmates who happened to live in the next street was full of the story. Apparently his dad reckoned it was the IRA or Black September and they were starting a new bombing campaign. Quite what a terrorist organisation would be doing trying to blow up some derelict houses and a patch of weed covered allotment escaped us. It was hardly striking a blow against the oppressors of the people. It was also pretty doubtful that such terrorist organisations consisted of three young lads, two of whom had reached home and locked themselves in their bedrooms and a third who had been yelled at by his mum for having bits of decomposed feline stuck to his arse. After that we treated the stuff we found at the back of the print works with a bit more respect. At least we did until we found the paint cans…
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