Christmas, of course, the season of eating too much and spending too much. And heatwaves and bushfires.

New Year's Eve, when you got to stay up late (unless you fell asleep on your half-glass of champagne).

Easter. Chocolate! Easter Hat Parade! More chocolate!

Anzac Day, our national remembrance day. (We also observe Armistice Day, but it's not a holiday.)

And Fireworks Day. More formally, the Queen's Birthday (though it actually doesn't occur on her birthday). But to us kids, it meant fireworks. Not big fireworks off in the distance, but fireworks Dad brought home and set off himself. Right there in the garden, while you gathered around in your pyjamas and dressing gowns. Whoosh! Pop! And then off for some hot cocoa, because it's getting chilly by this time of year.

No more. Eighteen years ago the New South Wales state government decided that the people were too stupid to be allowed fireworks, and banned their sale. Miserable pissant nanny-state crapweasels.

I have a dream, a dream of smoke and sparks, a dream that one day we shall rise up and kick the bastards out and take back the right to accidentally burn our eyebrows off every so often.

Who's with me?

Posted by: Pixy Misa at 04:38 AM | Comments (10) | Add Comment | Trackbacks (Suck)
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