Remember, Remember The Fifth of November

Remember, remember the fifth of November
Gunpowder treason and plot
I can think of no reason, why gunpowder treason
Should never be forgot

So goes the old rhyme. These days it could be remember the third, fourth, fifth, sixth..... Like all festivals it seems that in the current age days leading up to, or soon after, the actual day are suitable to celebrate, as if the festival leaks into the surrounding calendar, and I have no objection to this. Only Christmas Day stands strong where the whole country unites and marks the occasion united.

For Guy Fawkes Night fireworks explode in the sky for the week of the fifth of November. This leakage may be down to peoples' many commitments but it means there are plenty of opportunities to rush out into the garden when yet another ASDA bought arsenal starts banging, wheezing and fizzing into the night sky.  In London, I don't doubt in many other towns in Britain, the fireworks may also be marking Diwali, Festival of Light. I love fireworks of all shape and form, from the small but interactive sparkler, to fence scorching catherine wheels to the mammoth apocalyptic pyrotechnics organised displays provide. I salute, oooh and aaaah at them all.

Early November is a transitional time of year. The weather turns cold or at least it bloody well should do. Guy Fawkes night should promise damp, chilly air. I want to see my breath as I wait for the display to begin. I want to bob up and down, with my hands in my pockets and, like all Brits, comment on the weather, "It's turned cold, hasn't it?". All hope of a warm spell, an Indian summer now passed, and thoughts turn to cosy nights at home or a charmed pub, a best kept secret where a roaring fire, pint of bitter and chat with friends, are the order of the season. Guy Fawkes Night stakes out this pivotal point, confirming to one and all it's time to forget the hedonism of the summer and start thinking of what the missus wants for Christmas.

As a child, I used to celebrate at home in the garden with a bonfire, jacket potatoes or soup to eat, and the inevitable box of fireworks from the local shop, supplemented by a few additional rockets that Dad would have sneakily bought under Mum's wise frugal radar. These days many opt for organised displays, and why not? As a staunch traditionalist this transition worried me. The death of what has always happened and the start of something new is always of great concern.  I am now thoroughly in favour of  public displays. They are often free, thank you local council and my direct debit for the council tax. More importantly, they have better fireworks than any private pyromania could possibly provide. More bang for your buck, more pzazz for your pound. The only thing I miss from the humble home display is Dad, despite all government sponsored warnings,  inevitably returning to a lit firework, lighter in hand, ready to give it another go. 

This year, Tower Hamlet's very good but ultimately pretentious "Son et Lumiere" display in Victoria Park was snubbed for a revolutionary trip south of the river, to Clapham Common. Thank you very much Lambeth Council and the good tax paying folk of the borough for the display. The fireworks were huge, lasted for a good thirty minutes and they were close, really close.  This I am sure was in part to the choice of location for watching the show. Stood near to the launch pad it felt as if each enormous explosion would, given any mild deviation off course, melt our faces. Or at  the very least, leave us without eyebrows

To add to the danger most of us brought sparklers and, being "we have money, we can pay" Londoners, bought quite a few, of varying sizes and quality. I particularly enjoyed the extra smokey ones waved around by some members of the group. As if it weren't enough that after a couple of pints we all happily forgot that we were stood in a crowd and waggling giant burny sticks in the air, the fog created by some of the incendiaries made it near impossible for innocent bystanders to see where the next sparkly attack might come from.

In safer times, posing for the camera

So, this is Guy Fawkes Night 2010 for Londoners. Four hundred and five years after Catholic Guy Fawkes and his conspirators were caught in their attempt to blow up Parliament and kill Protestant King James I, we continue to commemorate this occasion. There is not always a bonfire which means no guy to burn, the guy usually being an effigy of some disliked or mocked public figure of the day. This means no calls of "penny for the guy" from children on the street asking for money for their effigy. A friend of mine, Guy, himself a Catholic, does not mourn the passing of this part of the tradition. Guy Fawkes Night is a uniquely British celebration and captures the imagination of most and so it stands alone as something special for this country and long may it continue.