As regular readers will know, as a child I was fairly obsessed with making loud bangs with homemade explosives, napalm and the like. Back then it was the sort of thing any ordinary child whose grandfather was a scientist and of Irish extraction did and unless we blew up the old folks home or burnt down the school nobody really took that much notice unlike now when just striking a match gets you a quick ticket on an unmarked aircraft heading for the Caribbean and a nice orange jumpsuit.
When I was 12 a woman and her daughter moved in next door. I soon discovered that she was the type to complain about anything and everything, especially anything that disturbed her wet blanket of a daughter who was something of a sensitive soul despite being about 18 at the time. For three years I suffered being complained about if a football sailed within ten feet of her house or if I was spotted with a cricket ball, tennis ball or even a bag of marbles anywhere in the neighbourhood. Such items could be lethal if they came in contact with her daughter. That is if her daughter ever left the safety of the house, which was something of a rarity. It was possible she could not actually get out as her mother had taped the windows shut in case any insects got in and caused her daughter to be frightened. In fact, my mere existence and the existence of any child in the neighbourhood was a cause for immediate complaint. Little did I know as I was hauled before my parents over some minor incident on a roughly twenty times a week basis that in my fifteenth year revenge would be spectacular…
It was bonfire night 1981 and I had a couple of my mates around for a bonfire party and to fill our faces with my mothers top quality cheese and bacon scone. Between us we had acquired an industrial quantity of top quality Chinese fireworks from the local joke shop instead of the more usual and somewhat tamer ‘Standard’, ‘Astra’ and ‘Brocks’ varieties. For so called ‘Garden Fireworks’ they made some pretty fearsome bangs, roars, pretty lights and the occasional crater in dads flowerbeds. Nowadays they would probably be banned or if not banned, they would only be sold to responsible adults who had letters from the police, the vicar and at least three magistrates to prove their utter responsibility to be let anywhere near high explosives. They certainly would not have been in the hands of three fifteen year old pyromaniacs with a box of matches. In the case of some of the rockets even we were not sure whether to send them skywards or keep them in case the cold war Communist threat saw Warsaw pact tanks rolling down our leafy suburban streets. These things would take out an armoured column, no problems.
After several hours worth of screeches, thuds, a near miss that almost removed our other neighbours television aerial and only two complaints from the local airport about anti-aircraft fire downing the 8.15 mail plane, we had just finished making the neighbourhood sound much like downtown Baghdad does nowadays when who should appear but the neighbour to complain that the noise of our fireworks had "made my daughter wet her knickers in terror!"
Now what total spoon says to a bunch of fifteen year olds with particularly hyperactive imaginations and three years of complaining to gain revenge for that they had made a 21 year old woman wee herself and not expect something to be triggered in said fifteen year olds minds? Especially as over the years her complaints about us playing football, cricket and even just lounging around the back lawn of my house had curtailed our leisure activities most severely. In the annals of stupid things to say that one sentence has to rate pretty highly. In fact it probably rates up there with “That Mr Hitler is a very nice man, he’ll never invade Poland”
Naturally this little fact fermented in our minds until a month or so later when the chance for spectacular revenge presented itself not so much on a plate as on a silver salver carried by a retinue of liveried footmen. Despite her utter wet blanket-ness the daughter owned a moped. Presumably she was unaware that mopeds might be even slightly dangerous. This was kept at the back of the house and to get there she had to wheel it down an alleyway between my house and hers. At one end of the alleyway was a flight of steps with a surrounding wall leading up to her garden that she had to pass. Every day at 5.30 on the dot she would arrive home and her mother would come out to help her push the moped down the alley to the back of the house as it was way too dangerous for her to do it by herself.
As it happened, on the day in question I had discovered a large banger left over from bonfire night that I had sort of increased the power of a bit, possibly to take out a tank or two that the rockets had missed. My two mates and I just happened to be outside at 5.30pm wondering what we could blow up. It was after all far better than doing maths homework. We saw mother and daughter arrive at the end of the alley with the moped and under the cover of darkness the banger was lit and lobbed behind the wall that surrounded the steps as we ducked behind my fathers shed.
The detonation could not have been better timed if we had tried. Just as they were about six feet from the wall it went off behind the brickwork...
BLLLLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAMMMM!!!!
It was closely followed by dual screams of "AAAAAIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEE!!!!" and "YAAAAAAAAAAARRRGGGGHHHH!!!" and seconds later a whimper of "Muuuummm! I've pooed and wet myself!"
Meanwhile the three of us were hiding behind the garden shed trying not to wet ourselves either. Not through terror but because we were in absolute hysterics as the moped was forgotten and the daughter waddled inside like a cowboy who had forgotten his horse.
Unfortunately a few hours later the neighbour turned up on our doorstep to regale my parents of how their son had made her daughter...well, you already know that. I was hauled out and given a right royal bollocking for it and the fact that my IED might have blown up the moped with apocalyptic consequences. I was made to apologise profusely but when the door was shut and she had gone my dad nearly bust a gut laughing. From what I could gather he and mum were fed up with this woman and her daughters constant moaning about everything as well and considered it justice well done. Oddly I got a pocket money rise soon after. Nowadays it would have got me an ASBO.
The next day a solitary pair of Bridget Jones pants appeared on the washing line next door as if to signal our victory to the entire neighbourhood and for several years to come every kid in the neighbourhood referred to the daughter as ‘John Wayne’.
When I was 12 a woman and her daughter moved in next door. I soon discovered that she was the type to complain about anything and everything, especially anything that disturbed her wet blanket of a daughter who was something of a sensitive soul despite being about 18 at the time. For three years I suffered being complained about if a football sailed within ten feet of her house or if I was spotted with a cricket ball, tennis ball or even a bag of marbles anywhere in the neighbourhood. Such items could be lethal if they came in contact with her daughter. That is if her daughter ever left the safety of the house, which was something of a rarity. It was possible she could not actually get out as her mother had taped the windows shut in case any insects got in and caused her daughter to be frightened. In fact, my mere existence and the existence of any child in the neighbourhood was a cause for immediate complaint. Little did I know as I was hauled before my parents over some minor incident on a roughly twenty times a week basis that in my fifteenth year revenge would be spectacular…
It was bonfire night 1981 and I had a couple of my mates around for a bonfire party and to fill our faces with my mothers top quality cheese and bacon scone. Between us we had acquired an industrial quantity of top quality Chinese fireworks from the local joke shop instead of the more usual and somewhat tamer ‘Standard’, ‘Astra’ and ‘Brocks’ varieties. For so called ‘Garden Fireworks’ they made some pretty fearsome bangs, roars, pretty lights and the occasional crater in dads flowerbeds. Nowadays they would probably be banned or if not banned, they would only be sold to responsible adults who had letters from the police, the vicar and at least three magistrates to prove their utter responsibility to be let anywhere near high explosives. They certainly would not have been in the hands of three fifteen year old pyromaniacs with a box of matches. In the case of some of the rockets even we were not sure whether to send them skywards or keep them in case the cold war Communist threat saw Warsaw pact tanks rolling down our leafy suburban streets. These things would take out an armoured column, no problems.
After several hours worth of screeches, thuds, a near miss that almost removed our other neighbours television aerial and only two complaints from the local airport about anti-aircraft fire downing the 8.15 mail plane, we had just finished making the neighbourhood sound much like downtown Baghdad does nowadays when who should appear but the neighbour to complain that the noise of our fireworks had "made my daughter wet her knickers in terror!"
Now what total spoon says to a bunch of fifteen year olds with particularly hyperactive imaginations and three years of complaining to gain revenge for that they had made a 21 year old woman wee herself and not expect something to be triggered in said fifteen year olds minds? Especially as over the years her complaints about us playing football, cricket and even just lounging around the back lawn of my house had curtailed our leisure activities most severely. In the annals of stupid things to say that one sentence has to rate pretty highly. In fact it probably rates up there with “That Mr Hitler is a very nice man, he’ll never invade Poland”
Naturally this little fact fermented in our minds until a month or so later when the chance for spectacular revenge presented itself not so much on a plate as on a silver salver carried by a retinue of liveried footmen. Despite her utter wet blanket-ness the daughter owned a moped. Presumably she was unaware that mopeds might be even slightly dangerous. This was kept at the back of the house and to get there she had to wheel it down an alleyway between my house and hers. At one end of the alleyway was a flight of steps with a surrounding wall leading up to her garden that she had to pass. Every day at 5.30 on the dot she would arrive home and her mother would come out to help her push the moped down the alley to the back of the house as it was way too dangerous for her to do it by herself.
As it happened, on the day in question I had discovered a large banger left over from bonfire night that I had sort of increased the power of a bit, possibly to take out a tank or two that the rockets had missed. My two mates and I just happened to be outside at 5.30pm wondering what we could blow up. It was after all far better than doing maths homework. We saw mother and daughter arrive at the end of the alley with the moped and under the cover of darkness the banger was lit and lobbed behind the wall that surrounded the steps as we ducked behind my fathers shed.
The detonation could not have been better timed if we had tried. Just as they were about six feet from the wall it went off behind the brickwork...
BLLLLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAMMMM!!!!
It was closely followed by dual screams of "AAAAAIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEE!!!!" and "YAAAAAAAAAAARRRGGGGHHHH!!!" and seconds later a whimper of "Muuuummm! I've pooed and wet myself!"
Meanwhile the three of us were hiding behind the garden shed trying not to wet ourselves either. Not through terror but because we were in absolute hysterics as the moped was forgotten and the daughter waddled inside like a cowboy who had forgotten his horse.
Unfortunately a few hours later the neighbour turned up on our doorstep to regale my parents of how their son had made her daughter...well, you already know that. I was hauled out and given a right royal bollocking for it and the fact that my IED might have blown up the moped with apocalyptic consequences. I was made to apologise profusely but when the door was shut and she had gone my dad nearly bust a gut laughing. From what I could gather he and mum were fed up with this woman and her daughters constant moaning about everything as well and considered it justice well done. Oddly I got a pocket money rise soon after. Nowadays it would have got me an ASBO.
The next day a solitary pair of Bridget Jones pants appeared on the washing line next door as if to signal our victory to the entire neighbourhood and for several years to come every kid in the neighbourhood referred to the daughter as ‘John Wayne’.
2 comments:
So lucky Kaptain to have those opportunities. The pseudettes will never know the sheer joy of burning one's fingers, the constant ringing of the ears through the first half of November, and the thrill of the run after you 'accidently' aim a rocket at your most detested neighbour's house. I live in a nanny state, and the pseudettes are the poorer for it. I shall let them live bonfire night vicariously through your writing!
Always glad to provide a public service by educating the youth of today on how to annoy the nanny state :)
No doubt there will be more tales of explosive disaster and woe for them to learn from in the future.
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