Burning News

A sudden burst of flame took hold of the dry tinder and burns- grateful now for breath, once more grateful for life. The ritual was now almost complete, and it had only taken the combined efforts of twenty damp safety matches, eight sodden fire-lighter blocks and two Bic lighters. Not to mention three quarters of the latest “Sunday Sport”, brought along ultimately, but not solely, to meet this end.
Nothing burns brighter, or with more soul cleansing satisfaction than red-bannered tabloid shit. Up in flames goes Gazza’s bloated belly and Jordan’s latest boob-job. The Moon is ablaze, leaving countless sex-starved aliens, thirteen Elvis Presley monoliths and Adolf Hitler temporarily homeless.
Sport and tits and beer and sex and lust and fear and hate and sextoymailorderasianbabewifeswappingbumboymuslemsnextdoor.

It all burns beautifully.

Then the real shite from inside the Newspaper falls out, almost instantly killing the virgin flames. The chemical coatings and process inks on the junk mail, their high gloss, UV varnished, Infra-red dried paper stocks and their silky polyprop laminated surfaces concoct, on combustion, an almost lethal cloud of black smog. To be downwind of thirteen junk mailed life/home insurance, or personal loan advertisements when they finally ignite is to breath deep the acrid brimstone fumes of Hades itself.