The punkoid stirs from his reverie...

Wow - those were some pyrotechnics! It had all seemed like a dream to him, the dream of a lifetime.

How long had he been staring, glassy eyed, at the remnants of the cake?

The memories of that glorious burst started drifting back - the hasty scramble to relight the fuse (why hadn't they let him burn Mr Gibson's guitars?), the explosions, the fires...

Oh joy, oh rapture, oh... Poop Poop!