Joshua Perrett Reports Live from Hillingdon, London
As Bonfire Night makes itself heard a bit too loudly in the ears of millions, the home nations rejoice to the sound of life in the Middle East.
Much like Syria this year, terror is raining down from the skies, leaving animals cowering under beds and many humans praying that the misery is nearing an end.
For starters, the old saying: remember, remember the Fifth of November. Oh, how the elderly do so fondly.
Live from my Hillingdon hideout – the Fenderberry household beside the Post Office – 92-year-old local resident and full-time retiree George Fenderberry delivered the news to wife Joanne, aged 90. “Sounds like the Blitz is back on, love,” he said as she dived beneath the Argos dining table, hoping that its inch-thick wood will save her from any projectiles that slam into their home. George grabbed his army rifle from the glory days and cut the lights, “I’ll take out those pesky Germans if they dare come near the fearless George Fenderberry.”
Moments later, a Heathrow bound Lufthansa aircraft burst into flames and hurtled uncontrollably towards the earth having suffered several hits from the ground. George blew a sigh of relief and took a long drag from his pipe, chuckling as he blew smoke into my face. “That’ll show them.”
But what about the rest of the UK?
Animals everywhere have begun their annual mass hysteria, no grandparents to calm nerves with tales of the day the local factory was obliterated by Nazi bombs, workers crushed like ants under a soldier’s boot.
And I’ve just been informed that a cull of all men named Guy has commenced. It’s currently unknown whether this is a very specific terrorist attack on the British and Northern Irish, or if these gentlemen are carrying a vicious strain of tuberculosis. Experts have ruled out the possibility of it being a pointless ritual foisted upon us in which scarecrow-like effigies are burned on stacks of sticks.
One question remains, though. What’s causing the chaos?
Fireworks. Or to the aforementioned creatures and OAPs, fiery works of the devil.
These missiles of fun are comprised of chemical compounds you may expect to find in a homemade bomb: metal salts such as strontium carbonate, barium chloride and sodium nitrate. Yet they strike childish excitement into even the most mature adults.
A fizz, pop, whizz and a bang. A flash of blue and a sparkle of gold. This is enough to make people whoop and cheer like they’re witnessing President Putin’s severed head rolling through the streets of London. An extreme simile, perhaps. However, not so ludicrous is the following proposition.
Amongst the mimicry of gunfire and bomb blasting that tonight fills our skies, do not be surprised if the Russians launch a sly attack. I may be safe here under the table with Mr and Mrs Fenderberry, but if Putin aims a nuclear weapon at the UK, festival celebrations may soon turn to horrifying screams and terrifying scenes as all of us burn like the straw Guys we torch yearly with feverish elation.
I’m not yet sure if this could be a sick revenge pact between Fawkes and Putin or simply the animals seeking payback, but one thing’s for certain – centuries of thoughtless fireworks and bonfires may well lead to our own demise. This is our doing, and rightly so. Goodnight, and may God be with you.
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