Oh for Fawkes’ sake not again

James Trimble.
James Trimble.
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The skies above Falkirk will be filled with blinding bright light and big bangs of earwax obliterating bliss tonight (Thursday) as we once again celebrate a failed 17th century terrorist plot.

Not having been able – and truthfully not really willing – to serve in the Gulf Wars and other conflicts, I have to wait for November 5 – and sometimes the nights leading up to it, nights after it, Christmas and New Year – to satisfy my craving for high explosive action.

I can’t wait for these weapons of mass distraction to rattle my window panes at all hours of the night.

Having paper cuts applied to the skin between my toes or listening to the pop-pop-pop of pyrotechnics far and near – it’s too close a call to say which I enjoy more.

Winter brings big bangs and also bone-shaking collisions as the American Football season hits our screens, and visits Wembley a few times too.

My son’s team the Cincinnati Bengals – he picked them because they have the same colours as his tiger cubs uniform – are going great guns and, as I write this, have still to sample the bitter soft drink of defeat.

My team on the other hand, the bloody awful Chicago Bears, seem to like the taste of that particular beverage because they have glugged it down so many times this year.

This month also marks the return to Scotland of one of my guitar heroes Walter Trout, who is back to his fretboard abusing best after a life-saving liver transplant.

I first saw him down in Crewe at the turn of the century and I’ve always tried to make it along to his shows ever since.

You can stick Bonfire Night – I’ll be down the front in Glasgow for some musical fireworks.