Anyways. Bizarre, in a way, that we honour a plot to blow people up by spending an evening outside in the cold, eating jacket potatoes and stodgy slabs of Parkin (if you’re not from Yorkshire, you might have to Google it, sorry chaps!). Seems a pretty fey menu in comparison to the 36 barrels of gunpowder that were apparently stashed under the ‘ole Houses of Parliament. Surely a hog roast and pewter tankards of ale would be more fitting? Nope. Seems us Brits have, as usual, opted for the more cottage-core middle-of-the-road option. 

Never mind the spuds, academics would say that Bonfire Night is a reminder of the (at times) complex interplay between political power, faith and cultural identity of Britain’s past. We have a long history of blowing stuff up, and 5th November is basically a micro-version of what we’ve been doing for centuries, but in our own back gardens – dangerously close to the bloody shed.

My own childhood Bonfire Nights kicked off with a shonky Guy Fawkes effigy, fashioned from a few pairs of my mum’s tights, scrunched up newspapers and my dad’s decorating clobber. We’d wheel the monstrosity round in a ‘borrowed’ (ahem) shopping trolley and knock at pensioner’s doors, begging for, “A penny for the Guy”. [Disclaimer: the oldies were more likely to cough up – their own brood having departed many moons ago and therefore, having a spare bit of wonga to hand over to imps like me]. 

We love an excuse to waste money, and fireworks are just the ticket. No wonder everyone’s parents moaned about Bonfire Night, those pyrotechnics cost a friggin fortune! With every whizz! bang! crackle! People up and down the country are standing around in puffa jackets and wellies, watching £50 notes literally go up in smoke. Wadda night! Some folk trudge down the local park for the council’s health & safety executive approved bonfire and hotshot professional firework display.

I always thought they were a bit boring TBH. I preferred the jeopardy of watching the ‘responsible adult’ gingerly lighting a fat one from the box with one of those long cook’s matches, before moonwalking quickly backwards (and definitely not going back to check if it’s been lit). We’d all then lean our heads back and gawp at the night sky in awe, cover our ears and watch in wonder as the explosives did their thing. Schmaltzy to admit, but there’s something kinda wholesome about the whole process being repeated in unison across the land, with gloved hands writing their names in the glowing sizzle from a sparkler. 

Distressed pets aside, it was always better than whatever was on the tele.