Shane Hegarty's encyclopaedia of modern Ireland
It's a good thing fireworks aren't legal in the Republic. Otherwise, we might have a problem with them. As it is, there is only a brief time of the year when they become something of a nuisance, a three-month spell running roughly from September to November, when the sky is filled with flashing light, the nights echo to the sound of explosions, and soldiers with post-traumatic stress disorder move to Baghdad to get away from the noise.
It didn't used to be like this. In the mid-1990s the people of the North agreed to stop the horrific explosions and rockets and, instead, to legalise fun explosions and rockets - since when, Border villages have been dotted with trailers selling fireworks. You know this because they advertise on signs bigger than most Border villages.
There has since been a crackdown on selling them to the people of the Republic, but, somehow, black marketers continue to smuggle fireworks into the country. So, at fairs and markets across the land, you can find fireworks on open sale. Between the stall selling Cavan country-and-western music and the stand where a man roasts a pig on a spit, a wide-eyed 12-year-old will be staring at all the delights an unregulated Chinese warehouse can offer. Should he pick the Hand Shredders or Eye Blinders? The Deafener or the Pet Worrier? Obviously, it's important that he reads the instructions first. My Chinese is a little rusty, but I think it says: "Light it and run."
So, since early last month, every estate in the land has become used to the eerie scream of a rocket followed by a flash and an explosion shaking the soot down the chimney. The din has grown louder as the months have gone on, like the sound of an approaching battle. You kind of get used to it after a while. What's that, love? Did a firework go off? I didn't notice, we say, as blood trickles from our left ear.
It all climaxes on Halloween. They've banned the night's traditional bonfires, so it's only to be expected that, if the ground is off limits, then today's enterprising kids will try to set fire to the sky instead. On the night, when trick-or-treaters call to the door, you hand them some monkey nuts and an orange. They look up at you, their big, painted eyes demanding a decent sum of money - or, at the very least, an indecent sum of money. And when you give in and hand them 20 cent, you close the door, hug the monkey nuts tight and hope it was enough of a bribe to stop the little sods from coming back to shove a banger through your letter box.