20th February 2018
Established 1872. Online since 1996.

Tochts fae Tushie Truncherfaece

Firework Faa Oot

Me an my Meenie differ in opinion ower Guy Fawkes Nicht. I canna wait for da 5th o November, an Meenie canna wait for hit tae be ower wi. Hit’s da fireworks: I love dem an Meenie is fairt.

Noo, I canna gie awa whaar we bide, but wir near whaar a splendid community firework display is set aff. We bide in whit is kent as da official “faa oot area” whaar da fireworks land. Whit I laek aboot hit best is humans ir banned. We can enjoy da fireworks in paece. Weel, aabody idder as Meenie. She lies undergroond fairt. Her an da rabbits. Feth, even da polecats lie low.

An dis year wis laek ivery idder. Me an Meenie fell oot ower da faa oot.
“Dunna tak da bairns furt, Tushie,” she pleaded. “Human fokk bide aff da hill for guid reason. Hit’s dangerous. Een o yon muckle rockets is enoch tae kill a trow!”

“Du does spaek bruck, Meenie,” I telt her. “A trow is far mair able tae spoot oot o da wye dan a human.”

Meenie shook her head.

“An ir trows no supposed tae be risk takers?” I axed her. “Do we no hae a parental duty tae bring wir bairns up tae be risk takin citizens?”

“Du mebbe has a point,” soched Meenie.

So me an da bairns riggit on wis an Meenie sat by da fire in a snöd. Hit wis a splendid nicht for hit; cowld, clear an crisp. Gutteryaggle, Snurtysleeves, Uggledlugs an Muttontief huddled aboot me tae keep waarm.

Suddenly da sky lit up wi fiery reds an waarm amber. Da bairns een wir glansin. Da colours fell laek a fountain an faded awa. We jamp as a pink explosion filt da sky wi an almighty bang. Nixt scriechin green swirls took ower an Gutteryaggle held her lugs. Den rockets soared trowe da darkness laevin a trail o silver stars ahint dem afore giein an explosion dat I kent wid hae Meenie hoidin.

Whit happened nixt will bide wi me for ivermare. We hed nae warnin, hit came fae naewye. A muckle rocket wi flames lickin oot o da tail wis headin richt for wis.

“HELP!” roared Snurtysleeves an Gutteryaggle gied a fairt scriech. We aa dived different directions intae da hedder tryin tae save wirsels.

I felt a terrible dunt on da croon o my head an wis awaar o flames lickin aboot me. Richt abune me lay da rocket. “Run! Hit’s still lowein!” I roared.
Da bairns jamp laek flechs an ran. I tried tae keep up ahint dem.

I hirpled intae wir howe lippenin Meenie tae geng aff laek a firework.

Gutteryaggle wis on Meenie’s lap greetin. Da tree boys wir solemn an white faeced. Muttontief wis midstream o telling his midder whit wis ton plaece.
“Dad got a richt dunt on his head, I hoop he’s aaricht,” he said.

Meenie caught sight o me.

“Tushie! Whit’s been going on? Is du aaricht?” she demanded.

“Da dunt o yon rocket mirackled me an den I wis nearly brunt alive! But tankfully A’m here tae tell da tale,” I said, liftin my claa fae my head.

Aa five o dem gied me da wance ower. Slowly dir worried broos unfurled an gied wye tae smeegs an sneesters. Gutteryaggle’s greetin aesed an she grippit her belly an gaffed.

“Whit’s sae funny? A’m lucky tae be alive!” I said indignantly.

“Da, yon rocket’s scoodered dy hair,” sneestered Uggledlugs.

I rexed tae see in da lookin gless abune da fire. My tick hair stood oot fae da sides o my pointy lugs as usual but da tap wis brunt awa laek some een wis geen ower hit wi a sye.

“Less a less!” said Meenie smugly. “If du mirackled dysel du might hiv got a grain o sympathy. But a bad hair day gits dee nane!” she gaffed.

I’d hed enoch fireworks for een day so I joost held my tongue.

Caa canny on Guy Fawkes,

Tushie Truncherfaece x

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