on Bonfire night

Small thoughts

A new phenomenon has taken hold of Britain during the past few years, called Halloween. Many grumpy old geezers, (my application is in the post) would have it that Halloween is an unwanted American import. Whilst it is true that trick-or-treat is new, celebrating All Hallows Eve certainly is not. As children we would wait with anticipation for it to become dark enough for the witches’ brew to be served and watch with astonishment as our faces turned bright green.

However, the major event of the year (apart from Christmas) that every child planned carefully for weeks happens on the 5th of November. Bonfire night commemorates an unsuccessful plot by Guy Fawkes to blow up Parliament. Yes, I know celebrating failure sounds counter intuitive, but to people of my generation it was the social event of the year. And there lies a conundrum that mystifies those of a certain age. Whilst hordes of small children hammering on doors demanding sweets with the threat of menaces is considered entirely safe and acceptable practice, the sale and use of fireworks is now ranked as a threat to public good.

This is all a far cry from a ten year old boy, living in the 1960s, who would stop off at the paper shop, pocket money in hand, stuff his pockets full of Jumping Jacks and Green Volcanoes before going home to review the growing collection. A key part of the fun of Bonfire night entailed taking your favourite fireworks to school to see who had the best. We would line them up in the playground and award points.

Another important part of the build up to the big night was collecting anything that would burn for the bonfire. Scraps of wood were naturally at the top of the list but generally we would take anything. Old chairs, broken up wardrobes, the odd mattress. The important thing was that it should be big, because at the top would sit the guy. An old jumper and trousers, stuffed with newspaper or other old clothes. A paper bag for a head with a Guy Fawkes mask for a face. If you did not require a ladder to sit the guy on his throne then you had failed to pay proper homage.

On the night itself, we would race home, dash through munching on sausages, jacket spud and baked beans and wait until it was almost dark before setting the pyre ablaze and watching the guy, that may have taken a whole afternoon to make, be consumed in seconds. Then came the fireworks. Catherine wheels that would not spin. Rockets that zoomed up into the sky with an apologetic splut and the big firework that never quite lived up to expectations. Weeks of saving, gone in fifteen minutes. Brilliant fun. If mum had not already called us in, we would watch the fire slowly burn itself out and the next day, we would start saving all over again.