Spring is often a time filled with a wondrous sense of optimism. The dark and gloomy days of winter are trailing behind and as the days get longer we look forward to all the possibilities that lie ahead.
But if you’re four young gentlemen who usually get up to quite a bit all year round on the tail end of winter, you’re getting restless. And as any one who knows any man will tell you, when men get restless, they get childish.
And get childish we have recently done.
The other day Rhys called me from work to inform me he could see some discarded water cooler bottles. Such a find is so important the adult male must immediately call his friends to confirm that he should take them home to find use for them. Even though this was going to happen regardless. I confirmed he should indeed clear up this litter and we began thinking about giant bottle rockets.
Many days and grown up responsibilities passed until the usual gang got together. By this time I had seen a demonstration of a whoosh bottle. This is a little experiment where you mix the right amount of air and fuel in water cooler bottle to make a neat little fireball and a heartwarming ‘whoosh’. All it took was a liquid all four of us used as camping stove fuel therefor had in abundance, and large water cooler bottles.
Yes. It’s going right there.
We started the fun in my garden with disappointing results. Somehow with bottles of flammable liquid and a box of matches none of us had set ourselves on fire, let alone achieved a satisfying level of whoosh.
We were disappointed. But being men it would take more than failure to stop us trying. We continued to fill containers with flammable liquids and light matches, but nothing. It made no sense. We had done the maths. Flammable liquids plus fire equals more fire.
It seemed hopeless until Rhys suggested pressurizing the bottles. It made sense, almost exactly the same as fitting a turbo to a car.
And just like fitting a turbo to a broken car, it suddenly worked! Explosive whoosh after explosive whoosh it appeared we had nailed it. But then came the issue everyone in their mid twenties fears the most. Getting told off by the parents. Yes it appears that aside from being tragic there are other downsides to still living with your parents. Like them taking unreasonable objections to you making small explosions in the garden in case the neighbors think you’re terrorists.
And just like that we were back on our way to Southsea beach. Just four guys with a foot pump, some bottles, flammable liquid, matches and a dream.
Did I mention Easter eggs and Pringles? ‘Cause we had those too.
Once at Southsea we got our cameras out to see if any of this looked cool on video. Which it did. Once we figured out how the hell to focus when the only light you get is a split second explosion. We tried getting Steve and Sam to make fire so I could film, but Steve’s still a tad broken so cant make a quick escape and Sams to smart to loose his eyebrows. So I was promoted to chief eye brow blower offer, and the clips from this night were taken by everyone. Collectively. While I collected my eyebrows.
We got some cool clips then the night naturally turned to pissing around. We had made a tiny fire out of some cardboard and a Pringles tube to save on matches. I mention this as it gets funny here for a second.
We had already tried holding the bottle to see if our little whoosh gave any thrust. We discovered it gives a bit of a kick, but nothing great. So I had no second thoughts about pouring a tiny bit of liquid in the bottle then holding it on its side in front of the fire pointing at Steve to light it. While the whoosh may not seem all that powerful in your hand it turns out in packs enough of a punch to launch a flaming Pringles tube right at Steve’s arse.
This is the part when I fall to the floor and do some sort of uncontrolled laugh-squeak. It may seem harsh, but I dare you to accidentally yet explosively propel a burning Pringles tube at you friends arse who can’t move rapidly because he’s got a broken ankle and do anything but lose your shit.
And with that we thought it best to pack up and head home. It was a school night after all.
Usually I try to find a moral to every story, but all I can think is ‘if you’re bored propel a flaming Pringles tube at your friends arse’.
Probably don’t do that.