The grubby confessions of an urban pyromaniac Richard McComb I have done a very bad thing. After doing it I felt dirty and grubby and had to take a shower.
Not all the soapy bubbles of Molton Brown’s body wash could cleanse me. The odour of shame lingered.
Most worryingly of all, doing "it" left me feeling elated. It’s shocking but the truth is that I had actually enjoyed what I had done, revelled in its very filth and putrescence, and I am not sure I will be able to stop myself doing it again.
It is a compulsion. I do not seek to divest myself of responsibility but the simple fact is I cannot help myself. It started as a bit of fun and I guess it got out of hand. I am now, officially, a social pariah.
But hear my confession, then judge me.
Here goes. Ready?
I lit a bonfire.
I understand all the arguments against domestic bonfires and the risks that they entail. Birmingham City Council’s public health department is more than helpful in this respect.
It is an inescapable fact, according to the local authority, that household recycling schemes are so successful there is no need to burn waste in the 21st century.
Smoke may be harmful to asthmatics, bronchitis sufferers and people with heart and lung conditions. Fire causes air pollution and no doubt contributes towards global warming. If Birmingham’s climate starts to resemble the Costa Brava’s you will have lunatics like me to blame.
Piles of garden waste can be used as homes by animals: "Wildlife and pets could be trapped inside and be injured or killed by bonfires," says the council. Think of the wood lice.
Above all, bonfires get up the noses of neighbours and are anti-social. Right? Wrong.
We are fortunate to live in a row of houses where there is a good community spirit. One odd bod never acknowledges me, even if we walk past each other in the street, but his behaviour pre-dates any bonfire activity. I suspect it might be because we are the poorest people in the street but have no real evidence to support this.
On the whole, then, an atmosphere of domestic toleration imbues our modest Edwardian block. And not wishing to upset the equilibrium, it was with trepidation that I lit the garden bonfire. I made sure it was dusk, so as not to intrude on anyone’s "garden amenity," and checked everyone had gathered in their freshly laundered washing.
I struck a match, lit the fire and stepped back. The dry conditions meant some recently lopped tree branches and twigs were soon crackling away, billowing smoke into the air over south Birmingham.
The first neighbour appeared. Uh-oh. I got in my apologies quickly.
"Don’t worry at all," purred Maxine. "I love the smell of bonfires. Ummm."
She was dressed up to go out to dinner. "But you’ll smell of smoke. Your hair," I said.
"I don’t care," she replied.
Then Viv, two doors away, looked over the fence. "Sorry!" I shouted half-heartedly.
"Is that a bonfire?" she asked. She’s going to hate me.
"Umm-hum," I whimpered.
"Faaabulous," she drawled. The ladies, it seems, love a man who bonfires.
But what of Ollie, the super-fit anaesthetist next door? He popped out next. I’ll get the health lecture now.
"Terrific," he said. "All you need are some marshmallows. Bonfires are great."
I can categorically state I have never spoken to so many of my neighbours in such a short space of time. Sometimes it pays to tiptoe on the threshold of suburban anarchy.