It Was Them, Not Me
Bonfire Night! The very thought of it gives me a warm glow. Sparklers, Roman candles,
Catherine wheels, brandy snaps, thick treacly parkin and deliciously dark bonfire toffee, all
wrapped up in a pitch black but dazzlingly colourful night full of cracks, bangs and fizzes,
laughter and cheers. Or not, if you read what I wrote when I was eight.
We’d been in Fairburn for a couple of months now and my parents were getting into the
community spirit. Communal events, at which the village gathered together for festive
occasions, were quite common. This was the first one we’d been to and I clearly hated it. If I
remember correctly, it was held on a patch of waste ground by the Fairfield estate, the other
side of the A1 over the footbridge. It may well have been the first time I’d ventured that side
of the village - that was where the slightly cooler, rougher kids with the broad accents lived,
or at least that’s the way it seemed to me. I was probably banned from going over there at
first and I wouldn’t have wanted to rock the boat.
This piece is mainly notable for introducing two sets of characters who would become fairly
important in the Fairburn story, their destinies intertwined by a fate no one foresaw. Ralph
and Christine Watson were Mum & Dad’s new best friends. I hadn’t officially met them
before - they lived in Castleford, not too far from my Gran, but Castleford’s a big place when
you’re eight years old. I don’t recall exactly how they all met - maybe Dad got talking to Ralph
one day randomly in a garage or something. Over the years we would become great friends,
meeting up regularly, even going on holiday together. But this was the first time I’d properly
met Ralph, Christine and their two sons, and it seems I wasn’t that keen.
There was a good reason for that. One afternoon some months previously, I’d been in the
car with my Dad in Castleford, possibly on our way back from Gran’s or to collect Mum from
work. On the way, Dad drove down a back street and stopped off at a strange house, leaving
me in the car while he went inside, either to deliver or collect something. I was tired and a
little bored, so I did what I often did in such situations and laid down in the back of the car
while I waited. There were also some kids playing in the street - older kids, just mucking
about, but in a way that seemed a bit threatening - and I probably didn’t want them to see
me, for fear of being picked on. Unfortunately, the strange car parked in their street was too
much of an attraction and they came over to investigate.
Seeing these strange faces looming at me through the car window, I didn’t really know what
to do. They knew I’d seen them now but I continued to pretend I hadn’t, hoping they’d just go
away. Instead, they proceeded to take the piss out of me: “Aww, look, it’s a cute little baby
asleep in the car! What’s up, little boy? Are you tired?” I don’t remember what else they said -
I just remember the feeling of being scared and trapped, wishing they would go away and
leave me alone, and that if I spoke to them, it would only make things worse. I also
remember one of them being particularly vocal and particularly piss-takey. It went on for
what seemed like hours until my Dad came back and they buggered off. Weirdly enough, a
vaguely similar event led to Gary Numan writing Cars, which had only just left the charts. The
difference being that in my car, I didn’t feel particularly safe.
It wasn’t until bonfire night 1979 that I realised the strange house belonged to the Watsons -
the lady was Christine and the piss-takey boy was their eldest son, Steven. Though we never
mentioned it, I imagine he recognised me if I recognised him, so there may have been some
mutual wariness and regret. But I don’t remember him ever being nasty to me again. In fact,
we got on famously and I came to look up to him - he was an arty type, like me, into his
reading, writing, drawing and whatnot, with a killer sense of humour. Richard, as I
remember, was quieter, more down to Earth, had more of an interest in football, though I
got on with him too. Whatever - I’ll talk about this more some other time. The main point
here is that, on this particular bonfire night in 1979, they were very naughty indeed.
The thing is, I would never have picked up fireworks as a boy, dead or otherwise. I had long
been scarred by those public information films about kids being burned by picking up hot
sparklers. I loved sparklers beyond belief but would never pick up seemingly “dead”
fireworks. Not because I was a “good boy” but because I didn’t want to get my hands blown
off. My childhood was full of people with less care for their own safety than me - as, indeed,
is my adult life - and if I ever let them con me into living as dangerously as they do, it never
ends well.
The other major antagonist in this story is Simon Jackson. The Jacksons were neighbours of
ours who lived in the same terrace at No 5 or 6 or something. Simon was much younger
than me - I’m not even sure he’d started school yet, so he might only have been three years
old, maybe four. On occasion, his Mum would babysit me, and in return, sometimes I would
look after him for a couple of hours. I remember being lumbered with him on more than
one occasion - those dreadful days when you think you’ve got time to yourself, then
someone asks you to look after a four-year-old and all day you have to put up with inane
questions like “Is your Dad as strong as the Incrediel Bulk?” and “Have you got a tail? I’ve got
a tail. My Mum hasn’t got a tail. If my Dad’s got a tail, has my Mum got a fairy?” (Fairy tale,
you see.) There’ll be more about Simon when we get to Ward’s 7.
As a primary school teacher, my wife finds this story fascinating - not necessarily for what it
includes but for what it doesn’t include. She says it displays a very strange, possibly autistic,
mind, since most kids would imbue it with emotional language, writing about the fireworks,
the colours, the loud bangs and how amazing it all was. I however see the opposite - I see a
little boy seething with rage and disappointment. This piece only reveals what a terrible time
I had, my enjoyment of all the sounds and colours utterly marred by kids making me move
about all the time, banging into me, ruining my food and trying to get me into trouble. I get
my own back by becoming, once again, Fairburn’s Number One informant, dobbing in both
Simon Jackson for ruining my sausage roll and the Watson brothers for picking up dead
fireworks. This unnecessary inability to omit the truth would get me into deep trouble later
on.
A few other things I can’t be bothered to fit together into proper paragraphs
1. Coffee for an eight year old? No wonder I have high blood pressure. Giving speedy drugs
to little kids ain’t wise, and may lead not only to a lifelong caffeine addiction but also to
harder legal highs like alcohol and nicotine. I should know.
2. I can’t spell “freinds” yet. Or “saussage”. Couldn’t be bothered to use a ruler for the margin
either, or to do one at all on the second page.
3. The bonfire in the picture is full of tyres, and I’m pretty sure the real bonfire was too. Was
this wise? Is this what people normally do on Guy Fawkes night? Burn a load of tyres? Isn’t
that, like, toxic or something?
4. This isn’t the last time I would write a dark story about bonfire night. But it is the last time I
wrote about it in Fairburn.
Bonfire Night
HISTORY 1
Sept 1979 - Oct 1981
SCIENCE 1
Sept 1979 - Mar 1980
FAIRBURN
The place where I wrote
all this rubbish
GEOGRAPHY 1
Sept 1979 - Feb 1981
The Old Stone Age
Ancient humans try to
co-exist with cave lions
and giant deer
Darth Vader
An autograph from a
genuine stand-in
Clarke Hall
The place and time
where it all began…
September 1679?
The Forgotten World
John and Mick fall foul
of some extreme
potholing
Christmas 1979
Can Waen last the night
without opening his
presents?
Sheet Lightning
Waen and his Gran
shelter from the sheet-
shaped storm
String Orchestra
A visit from the North
Yorkshire County
Council Orchestra
Great Space Battles
Three mighty empires
take their first steps
into outer space
TOPIC 2
The one where it all
kicks off
TERM 1
A day-by-day account of
Waen’s first term at
Fairburn School
TERM 2
The birth of the 1980s -
Blake’s 7, Blondie and
battles in space
TOPIC 1
He knows the names of
all the dinosaurs
Waen Shepherd 2
Waen’s heroic antics in
the far-flung future of
2007 AD!
Ward’s 7
John Ward and his band
of rebels fight the evil
Federation
The Fugitive
A man runs - but who is
he? And what is he
running from?
The Flame in the
Desert
An evil fire threatens
the safety of the world
It Was Them, Not Me
Bonfire Night! The very thought of it gives me a
warm glow. Sparklers, Roman candles, Catherine
wheels, brandy snaps, thick treacly parkin and
deliciously dark bonfire toffee, all wrapped up in a
pitch black but dazzlingly colourful night full of
cracks, bangs and fizzes, laughter and cheers. Or
not, if you read what I wrote when I was eight.
We’d been in Fairburn for a couple of months now
and my parents were getting into the community
spirit. Communal events, at which the village
gathered together for festive occasions, were quite
common. This was the first one we’d been to and I
clearly hated it. If I remember correctly, it was held
on a patch of waste ground by the Fairfield estate,
the other side of the A1 over the footbridge. It may
well have been the first time I’d ventured that side
of the village - that was where the slightly cooler,
rougher kids with the broad accents lived, or at
least that’s the way it seemed to me. I was probably
banned from going over there at first and I
wouldn’t have wanted to rock the boat.
This piece is mainly notable for introducing two
sets of characters who would become fairly
important in the Fairburn story, their destinies
intertwined by a fate no one foresaw. Ralph and
Christine Watson were Mum & Dad’s new best
friends. I hadn’t officially met them before - they
lived in Castleford, not too far from my Gran, but
Castleford’s a big place when you’re eight years old.
I don’t recall exactly how they all met - maybe Dad
got talking to Ralph one day randomly in a garage
or something. Over the years we would become
great friends, meeting up regularly, even going on
holiday together. But this was the first time I’d
properly met Ralph, Christine and their two sons,
and it seems I wasn’t that keen.
There was a good reason for that. One afternoon
some months previously, I’d been in the car with
my Dad in Castleford, possibly on our way back
from Gran’s or to collect Mum from work. On the
way, Dad drove down a back street and stopped off
at a strange house, leaving me in the car while he
went inside, either to deliver or collect something. I
was tired and a little bored, so I did what I often did
in such situations and laid down in the back of the
car while I waited. There were also some kids
playing in the street - older kids, just mucking
about, but in a way that seemed a bit threatening -
and I probably didn’t want them to see me, for fear
of being picked on. Unfortunately, the strange car
parked in their street was too much of an attraction
and they came over to investigate.
Seeing these strange faces looming at me through
the car window, I didn’t really know what to do.
They knew I’d seen them now but I continued to
pretend I hadn’t, hoping they’d just go away.
Instead, they proceeded to take the piss out of me:
“Aww, look, it’s a cute little baby asleep in the car!
What’s up, little boy? Are you tired?” I don’t
remember what else they said - I just remember
the feeling of being scared and trapped, wishing
they would go away and leave me alone, and that if
I spoke to them, it would only make things worse. I
also remember one of them being particularly
vocal and particularly piss-takey. It went on for
what seemed like hours until my Dad came back
and they buggered off. Weirdly enough, a vaguely
similar event led to Gary Numan writing Cars,
which had only just left the charts. The difference
being that in my car, I didn’t feel particularly safe.
It wasn’t until bonfire night 1979 that I realised the
strange house belonged to the Watsons - the lady
was Christine and the piss-takey boy was their
eldest son, Steven. Though we never mentioned it, I
imagine he recognised me if I recognised him, so
there may have been some mutual wariness and
regret. But I don’t remember him ever being nasty
to me again. In fact, we got on famously and I came
to look up to him - he was an arty type, like me, into
his reading, writing, drawing and whatnot, with a
killer sense of humour. Richard, as I remember,
was quieter, more down to Earth, had more of an
interest in football, though I got on with him too.
Whatever - I’ll talk about this more some other
time. The main point here is that, on this particular
bonfire night in 1979, they were very naughty
indeed.
The thing is, I would never have picked up fireworks
as a boy, dead or otherwise. I had long been
scarred by those public information films about
kids being burned by picking up hot sparklers. I
loved sparklers beyond belief but would never pick
up seemingly “dead” fireworks. Not because I was a
“good boy” but because I didn’t want to get my
hands blown off. My childhood was full of people
with less care for their own safety than me - as,
indeed, is my adult life - and if I ever let them con
me into living as dangerously as they do, it never
ends well.
The other major antagonist in this story is Simon
Jackson. The Jacksons were neighbours of ours who
lived in the same terrace at No 5 or 6 or something.
Simon was much younger than me - I’m not even
sure he’d started school yet, so he might only have
been three years old, maybe four. On occasion, his
Mum would babysit me, and in return, sometimes I
would look after him for a couple of hours. I
remember being lumbered with him on more than
one occasion - those dreadful days when you think
you’ve got time to yourself, then someone asks you
to look after a four-year-old and all day you have to
put up with inane questions like “Is your Dad as
strong as the Incrediel Bulk?” and “Have you got a
tail? I’ve got a tail. My Mum hasn’t got a tail. If my
Dad’s got a tail, has my Mum got a fairy?” (Fairy
tale, you see.) There’ll be more about Simon when
we get to Ward’s 7.
As a primary school teacher, my wife finds this
story fascinating - not necessarily for what it
includes but for what it doesn’t include. She says it
displays a very strange, possibly autistic, mind,
since most kids would imbue it with emotional
language, writing about the fireworks, the colours,
the loud bangs and how amazing it all was. I
however see the opposite - I see a little boy
seething with rage and disappointment. This piece
only reveals what a terrible time I had, my
enjoyment of all the sounds and colours utterly
marred by kids making me move about all the time,
banging into me, ruining my food and trying to get
me into trouble. I get my own back by becoming,
once again, Fairburn’s Number One informant,
dobbing in both Simon Jackson for ruining my
sausage roll and the Watson brothers for picking
up dead fireworks. This unnecessary inability to
omit the truth would get me into deep trouble later
on.
A few other things I can’t be bothered to fit
together into proper paragraphs
1. Coffee for an eight year old? No wonder I have
high blood pressure. Giving speedy drugs to little
kids ain’t wise, and may lead not only to a lifelong
caffeine addiction but also to harder legal highs like
alcohol and nicotine. I should know.
2. I can’t spell “freinds” yet. Or “saussage”. Couldn’t
be bothered to use a ruler for the margin either, or
to do one at all on the second page.
3. The bonfire in the picture is full of tyres, and I’m
pretty sure the real bonfire was too. Was this wise?
Is this what people normally do on Guy Fawkes
night? Burn a load of tyres? Isn’t that, like, toxic or
something?
4. This isn’t the last time I would write a dark story
about bonfire night. But it is the last time I wrote
about it in Fairburn.
Bonfire Night
HISTORY 1
Sept 1979 - Oct 1981
FAIRBURN
The place where I wrote
all this rubbish
GEOGRAPHY 1
Sept 1979 - Feb 1981
TERM 1
A day-by-day account of
Waen’s first term at
Fairburn School
Ward’s 7
John Ward and his band
of rebels fight the evil
Federation