[…] A clear memory of you… would be at a particular fire we had at the Northernmost end of North Beach here in Aberystwyth. The fire was starting to calm down a bit from the inferno it had been before, and you decided to add a little accelerant in the form of petrol. So you picked up the petrol can and poured some on, and therein lay the problem. There is a technique, as I’m sure you’ve since discovered, of flicking petrol from a can onto a fire in order to give it an exciting burst of flames but without providing a lovely flammable path between the inferno and your hand. The flames shot up the petrol vapours and lit the top of the petrol can, burning the vapours as they escaped like an oil lamp. But better yet: you didn’t notice. You carried on wandering around, holding in your hand a flaming petrol can. The danger, I agree, was minimal: an open plastic can wouldn’t be likely to explode, certainly not violently, but it could potentially spray or spit burning fuel onto clothes or hair if left un-noticed. Claire and I had noticed, and we pointed and shouted to get your attention. Eventually, you looked down, and noticed the combustion occuring near your knuckles, and at this point, you did the most effeminate thing I’ve ever seen you do. You made a noise that can only be described as a squeak, jumped, and flung the petrol can over your shoulder and accross the beach, which spun and flailed in the air throwing burning petrol in all directions and forming many small puddles of fire accross the stones and on the surface of the sea. Paul wasn’t so original – but was even more effeminate – when he later did the same thing. […]