Cracker Night? F**k yeah, what a great night...
Alrighty then... 1st July again... the day we come together with pride and joy and a truckload of fireworks to celebrate Territory Day. Territory Day. You know, Territory Day? What do you mean you’ve never...?!? Territory F**kn’ Day! Jeezus... That’s right, the day we come together to celebrate and remember that glorious day, when after so many lives lost and so many years of bitter struggle against the hated southern oppressor we threw off the shackles and forced them at the point of a gun to financially underwrite our welcoming, laid back, unique(1) breezy tropical lifestyle. That momentous day we became the proud, independent (OK, semi-autonomous but not yet achieved full statehood which we really, really want though we’re not quite sure why... sumthin’ to do with Kevin Andrews, boating alcohol restrictions, and banana freckle disease) Territory that we are today. Not the day, as some would have you believe (Southerners no doubt), that self-government was enacted by an act of parliament and mutual consensus in 1978(2).
Anyway. Whatever. Territory Day, or its more affectionate (and ironically appropriate) title ‘Cracker Night’, is the day all proud Territorians (and Southern in-laws up for the school holidays(3)) come together as the tight-knit, unique community that we are to get maggoted and celebrate. And celebrate we most certainly do...
In the months leading up to Cracker Night, convoys of ships are escorted by the Chinese navy through dedicated shipping lanes in the Chinese (always has been, always will be) South China Sea and unload in Darwin Port, cleverly sold to the Chinese by the former Giles government to streamline the more efficient importation of fireworks. Thumbing the nose to the economic doomsayers and leveraging the minor fortunes amassed riding the Inpex housing price bubble/ponzi scheme(4), Territorians dutifully hand over large wads of cash in dodgy abandoned warehouses, Chinese furniture emporiums, and adult toy superstores to secure roughly 2-3 tonnes per head of the most ball-tearing, eardrum-rupturing, arse-kicking fireworks money can buy.
So finally, the big day itself arrives. Dogs are dosed with doggy Valium, dry leaves and combustible materials are cleared, garden beds are hosed down, and gutters filled. Bottle shops are stormed, camp chairs and picnic rugs are packed, and off we go, trooping down to the foreshore in our thousands, brimming with giddy excitement in anticipation of a really great night. Or alternatively, brimming with a grim sense of foreboding, depending on the Territorian’s:
a) natural propensity towards a life of adventure; b) inherent survival instinct; and/or c) previous attendance at a Cracker Night.
From the middle of the day through late afternoon there begin a series of desultory thuds and booms, as gunners send off a few early crackers to test their range and unsettle the enemy defenses. Then, finally, the clock hits six, and the capital of the deep north erupts! Actually, no it doesn’t, there’s still too much daylight (“steady trooper.. steady.. save your powder til you see the whites of their eyes...”), and at this early stage it’s only the overzealous and prematurely drunk letting a few off to keep the kids happy.
But as the clock ticks on towards seven, daylight retreats, darkness encroaches, and the intensity of thuds, crashes and sparkling technicolor madness builds, like a menacing evening thunderstorm brewing up in late November. Only this time it’s a rolling, pounding, thumping thunderstorm, comin’ atcha from the mighty north! And it’s brilliant! No seriously... I mean it... for the first hour or so it really is stupendously, stupidly, totally f**ing awesome! It’s as if somehow there’s a silent sergeant major’s dog whistle to the collective subconscious and we hop the bags, jump over the top and charge the Nek. Suddenly it all kicks off and the entire 15-20km Western Front foreshore launches into a glorious, crazed, crashing kaleidoscopic crescendo that blasts, heaves and roars! Chaos rules, rockets scream, flash and crash. Kids squeal and hop from one foot to another in utter joy. Parents roar as Uncle Darren nearly loses a hand and lands heavily on his arse as he inexpertly fires off yet another Kamikaze 5000 Thunderclap(5). And it is fun, joyous, hilarious, unregulated (“Don’t need no f**kn’ government telling me what I can and can’t do ‘cos we’re Territorians and we are so awesomely f**kn’ UNIQUE!’) drunken fun. Before you know it even the cynics, smartarses and naysayers (yeah, yeah, I know, I know it’s not healthy and I’m really, really trying to be a better man) are joining in and having a great old time. What a great night!
But then… maybe around 9.30pm or thereabouts, something changes, and there’s a subtle, almost imperceptible shift in the atmosphere. A shift to something maybe a little bit darker... Explosions of light searing the optic nerves initiates a flickering of synapses in the ancient reptilian parts of alcohol pickled brains, and a more sinister, feral mood takes hold, seeping along the foreshore reserves and beaches like an invisible fog of gunpowder infused malevolence…
Those still semi-sober mums and dads with younger children sense it, and beat a hasty retreat to the slightly less intense skirmishing of the middle suburbs. “Righto you lot, time to go. I’m sorry buddy, but we’ve had fun now and it’s waaay past your bedtime.... ‘cos I said it is. Nup, sorry sweetheart, but we need to get back and look after the dog... oh shit.. the dog... I think I left the gate.... Quick you lot, let’s go!”
Older kids and teenagers sense it and seize their chance, taking advantage of the noise, confusion and drunken parental inattention, slurring and lolling drunkenly in their camp chairs, drifting away and coalescing into young wolf packs of the night - prowling in marauding mobs of two can screamers, coalescing around a nucleus of alcohol smugglers and the carrier of the sneaky spliff. Teenage anxieties camouflaged beneath an excited, hormone fuelled pantomime of loud, rapid fire swearing, affected swagger and bluster, eyeballing passers-by to show that they’re not to be f***d with.
Sometimes the larger packs break off into smaller groups – a few lesser planets in orbit around the twin binary star system of alpha teens, Brodie and Shaniya, who got together at school camp at Batchelor last week and reckon they’ve now “done it”; the two beta boys Jaidyn and Lachy desperately hanging shit on each other and trying to work out how to impress Savannah and avoid the humiliation of being the fifth wheel, destined to spend the rest of the night hovering awkwardly on the fringes as the lucky couples peel off towards the shadows of the beach below Dripstone Cliffs.
Weird, odd-looking, vaguely suspect middle-aged single men(6) sense it, emerging from battered old utes and the cover of darkness to hang around in the cordite infused hazy acting weird, odd- looking and vaguely suspect.
Dogs sense it, eyes rolling, panting, silently screaming under the cover of the couch having barked themselves into a state of hysteria earlier in the night. Fruit bats wheel and reel madly in a desperate but fruitless (sorry) attempt to escape the battering their hyper-sensitive bat-radar systems are being belted with. Cats, psychopathic evil feline nut jobs that they are, slink away to dark corners to put the finishing touches to well advanced plans to devour their owners.
The NT Fire Service senses it – as the firing of thousands of potential ignition sources per minute has the inevitable and entirely predictable incendiary effect. Luckily, the prudent early dry season mosaic fire burning program employed by Territorians (pyro-crazed torching of anything and everything that can’t run away) has dramatically reduced fuel loads across the NT and thus prevents a conflagration that would otherwise eclipse Bomber Harris’s half-hearted efforts at Dresden.
The North Koreans sense it – hearing the muffled crumps and cracks from beyond the horizon eager lackeys in big funny hats rush to warn Kim Jong-un that the hated capitalist running dog aggressors are at the doorstep. Dearest Leader leaps to his feet shoots another hairdresser and fires off an intercontinental ballistic missile only for it to drop into the ocean and be hailed a spectacularly successful show of strength, sparking wild celebrations, a spontaneous march past by 500 fighter jets, 3,000 tanks and 2 million soldiers all wildly applauded by 6 million of the Democratic Republics’ least starving workers held specially on standby in underground storage pens for just such an eventuality.
The Australian Geological Survey Earthquake Warning Centre in Canberra senses it. And so on, and so on, and so on...
Yes, the night has turned, the mood soured. The joy and light has faded, and is replaced by a grim determination among the remaining hard core unique Territorians, ”We bought a shitload of these, it’s f**kn’ Territory Day and we’re havin’ unique tropical f***ing lifestyle fun! Orright?! So grab another box and fire the f**krs off, f**k ya”.
But the “celebration” is not quite over, and just like getting caught in a six-man shout where no one wants to be the lightweight who calls it the party grinds on, pushing on well and truly past the 11.00pm official closing hour. Because for many unique Territorians there’s no such thing as too much of a good thing, and Cracker Night should really be Cracker Season - a little bit of spontaneous, good-natured, completely unselfish fun at the expense of friends and neighbors by setting a few off at 3.00am after stumbling home from the pub each Sunday morning for the next three months is all cool and pretty f**k’n funny to boot, ‘cos that’s just all part of our breezy, unique tropical lifestyle hey (“you got a problem with that??”).
But all good things must come to an end, and eventually most unique Territorians stagger home. And as sure as night follows day, the day follows the night (?) and dawn breaks to another sublime Darwin sunrise, revealing a golden expanse of tropical beach that on closer inspection more closely resembles a giant ashtray. But sure enough the tide soon comes in and thoughtfully tidies it all up, stashing the smouldering remains, broken glass, scorched camp chairs and innocent victims somewhere out in the beautiful blue expanse of the Arafura municipal waste disposal facility Sea. Unique Territorians struggle out of bed, nursing sore heads, flash burned fingers and missing eyebrows. Down we trundle to the markets to down a coffee and smash a laksa (extra chilli thanks), share a chuckle about the naked fella running down Nightcliff Jetty with a cracker up his clacker, and reflect on the how freakin’ lucky we are to have Territory Day/Cracker Night and the laid back, carefree, tropically beautiful and unique Territorian lifestyle that we love and treasure.
Cracker Night? F**k yeah, what a great night!
Footnotes: (1). One thing you need to understand is that we Territorians are unique. Bloody unique. We’re so incredibly friggin’ unique and have the goddamn unique-est tropical northern lifestyle of all. Don’t let smartarses from Cairns, Townsville and Broome tell you any differently. Gottit?! Good. Don’t forget it. Unique. (2). An unfortunate side-effect of self-government being achieved in 1978 was that the competition to design a new flag was held in an era bereft of style, quality in design, and color coordination, resulting in the brown and burnt orange catastrophe we proudly fly to this day. (3). Southerners are permitted to join in the fun on the proviso that we, in turn, get somewhere to stay when we need to escape for a few weeks to somewhere fit for human habitation during the late build-up. (4). Selling mouldy, termite riddled, unfathomably priced dog box houses to gullible Southern latecomers. Not that I’m bitter… (5). Product Warning: Fireworks can be dangerous if mishandled or used incorrectly. This product should not be used in the presence of anyone under the age of 18). (6). Weird, odd-looking, vaguely suspect middle aged single men comprise a significant proportion of the population of the Northern Territory.
Shane Papworth moved to Darwin from Victoria six years ago but still refuses to accept that the weather in June is ‘freezing’. Shane always believed himself destined for greatness, but was recently somewhat surprised to find himself a regular, middle-aged, middle-class, middle manager and suburban father of three. To begin to address this unfortunate turn of events he decided to become a famous author, combining writing with his great passion in life - complaining about stuff.
