It consisted of the town’s most influential players: The President of the GAA club, the local abattoir owner and seven publicans.  It was their task to decide on the millennial festivities.  The President of the GAA club wanted to make 2000 fluorescent sliothars and have then hurled through the streets at midnight.  The abattoir owner wanted a barbeque and the publicans weren’t really pushed as long as, whatever it was, it was over well before last orders.

In the end they settled on a fire-works display because most people in Clara had never seen one.  Indeed, the majority of the populace thought “fire-works display” was a description in a primitive language of a combustion-powered notice board. Anyway, the committee had £5000 to work with and they spent it on all kinds of Roman candles and decommissioned Russian nukes.  They even “bought-in” expertise to arrange the whole affair.  Some fella from Galway.

A large crowd gathered in the Green Field.  There was a TV crew - a cameraman and some other guy.  The other guy had a goatee and one of those caps that French people wear.  His glasses were yellow.  One of the lads asked him if he’d dropped them in the jacks.  He answered in some sort of posh accent that nobody could understand, except for occasional words like “culchies”, “muckers” and “dark ages”.  We figured he was upset when he started taking tablets to calm down, so we left him to oversee the filming.

And when the spectacle began, each firework was greeted by the lifting of flat-caps and the scratching of balding heads. Gaping mouths unleashed gasps of “Bejaysus” and “Begob”.  Or in the case of Bryan, the only person from Clara to have ever gone to boarding school, “Jeepers” and “Crumbs”.  And a sense of pride swelled in the crowd.  Surely now, they thought, we warrant prominent mention on the National Map, as a dot noticeably larger that those representing all the neighbouring towns, savage encampments, who didn’t have a fire-works display for the Millennium.  Indeed their dots should be reduced to a size more becoming of settlements that celebrate with “Late Opening Bingo”, or some such primitive ritual.

And then, to burst the bubble, it came on the wind – an unearthly smell of shit.  It seemed to be coming from all angles - like Dolby Surround Smell™.  I checked, and it wasn’t me.  I knew it wasn’t any of the people around me either because you can easily identify those who have recently soiled themselves.  It’s the sheepish smile that gives them away.  It wasn’t until later that we realised what had happened.

When the first firework let rip, so did every cow within a two-mile radius.  For every eruption in the sky, an animal lifted it's tail and, by heaving it's stomach, echoed a reply. Those who didn't find this sufficient as a means of expressing their panic proceeded to leap out through fences and ditches and gallop in through well-manicured gardens and out across cars.  One of them charged into the Protestant minister’s living room, went wide-eyed on seeing the London fire-works on the telly, and sprayed scutter all over the walls (services were cancelled).

Propelled by panic and jets of methane, a large herd bore down on Yer Man From Galway and nearly killed him.  People say it was just coincidence, but I’m not so sure.  People don’t give cows enough credit.  Anyway, in his efforts to get away, Yer Man toppled over the “launching pad” and the fire-works started going off in all directions.  A cherry bomb flew into Liam Corcoran’s hayshed and set it on fire.

Meanwhile, as a reddening glow that made the clouds pulse with light, the fire performed for the crowd, who began discussing amongst themselves how the Millenium Committee could have delivered such a fantastic show on as little as £5000.  “Yer Man From Galway must be a genius,” they said.

It wasn’t until Liam came racing over the hill, waving his cap in horror, that the truth slowly became apparent.  “Sean T!” he was shouting.  “Where the hell is Sean T?” 

Sean T O’Brien is the Chief Fire Officer and was, at the exact moment, mindbendingly drunk.  His bloodshot eyes were telling his brain a thing or two about how much those things in the sky resembled what the neighbours saw when he showed his wife, the lucky woman, a bit of that O’Brien lovin’.  And the subordinate Fire Officers were in a similar state.  When asked you see, Yer Man From Galway assured them that there was no danger.  So, for fear he might change his mind, they questioned him no further and decided to make a night of it.
Anyway on hearing Liam’s story, each of them placed a hand over their laughing gobs and, with the other hand, pointed at him like they were schoolboys and he had just farted in Mass.  Like mature pillars of society, they sang: 
“Yer sheds on fire, yer sheds on fire, yer cows’ll starve coz yer sheds on fire.”
They were about to exchange high-fives when Liam reminded them of one small detail that their merry state caused them to forget.  They had parked their cars in the shed.

And then the fire-works resumed.  Flames flew from Sean T’s arse as he raced for a hose.  Vinnie Carey’s face flashed all kinds of colours and Tommy Rickard screamed like the “cherry bomb” that had, a few moments before, scorched the sky.

Three minutes later the Fire Engine was staggering at high speed towards Corcoran’s shed.  It was followed in “hot pursuit” by the squad car, packed to breaking point by four ample guards.  They careered across the Green Field, scattering young and old and disappeared over the hill. And the crowd watched this performance and agreed that it was the best £5000 pounds ever spent by a committee from Clara.

Meanwhile though, the cows were still galloping – away from the fire.  And as Sean T concentrated on keeping his vehicle on a road that tried its best to lose him, he ploughed into the middle of the stampede.  The sudden arrival of a red fire engine infront of the cows brought their panic to an extreme and they left slippery deposits all over the road until it resembled an organic minefield. He swerved to avoid it and this motion, coupled with the fact that he was suddenly overpowered by a belch, toppled the fire engine. It twisted over, fell on its side and slid along in a shower of sparks.  The crowd went wild.

A fire-ladder launched itself forward and flattened the Protestant minister as he came out looking for j-cloths.  As the engine came to a halt beside the shed it was pierced by a hayfork.  A large jet of water sprung through the leak, arched across the sky and, by the hand of God, put out the flames.

By the time the crowd arrived on the scene the show was over.  The shed smouldered damply and the three heroes scrambled from the wreckage.  Mrs Sean T O’Brien smiled to herself.  A meek dribble of water fell from the leak and then dried up – it reminded her of her husband, the poor man, and what he termed “that O’Brien lovin’”.

So now, in this still virgin year, if you stand outside Sean T O’Brien’s house, you’ll see a burnt-out auld Audi that smells of manure.  But that doesn’t really matter.  He was arrested by the Guards for Drink-Driving.  This charge was later joined by Disorderly Behaviour and Assaulting an Officer (times four).  The last anybody heard of him he was heading for Galway by train with a Roman candle that he promised to shove up somebody’s arse.

Happy New Year!