Andrew Kay: Fizz Bang

Whilst you are enjoying loud bangs, I will be listening to the gentle popping … of corks

Whilst most of the country will be shivering in the dark and watching their hard earned literally go up in smoke, I will be doing something very different on November the fifth.

It’s years since I celebrated bonfire night or Guy Fawkes. It simply does nothing for me, and for a number of reasons.

The first I have already alluded to: the sheer waste of money, hundreds of thousands of pounds up in smoke and – am I being a curmudgeon? – pollution. Surely all those chemicals blasted into the sky cannot be any good for us?

Secondly, the danger. I know this first hand … or should I say, first foot. Picture this: it’s 1961, a chill late autumn afternoon and Mum is in the kitchen baking parkin and making treacle toffee. My brother and I are in the front room stuffing an assortment of rags into some discarded clothes. It’s meant to be a Guy, but it looks more like our grandfather as they are mostly his discarded clothes. At about 5.15pm, Dad returns home from work and we rush to the hall to greet him with more than our usual enthusiasm.

Why? Well, on this night he will have returned with a box of Brocks or Standard fireworks. A small box, but enough to add to the celebrations when we join our neighbours for bonfire night.

I rather liked these odd incendiary devices that burned red or green. Or at least I used to …

By six o’clock we have put on our warmest clothes; thick jumpers knit by Aunty Betty, long scarves and gloves on strings threaded through the sleeves of our duffle coats. Mum tries to persuade me to wear my balaclava but I refuse. I know that when it gets wet, which it no doubt will, it will rub and chap my chin. Chapped chins were the blight of my childhood and all down to knitted headgear.

We walk, as a family, to a small patch of waste land close to our house. For weeks we have been gathering waste timber and wood to build what is now a rather impressive bonfire. Everyone has taken something along to eat and share; there are potatoes wrapped in tin foil to throw into the embers, cakes and toffee. Mum adds hers to the trestle table and illicits a chorus of oohs and aahs. She is regarded as a good cook and the arrival of her parkin is much lauded.

On another trestle table, no doubt borrowed from the church hall, one neighbour has declared himself firework captain and is sorting the assembled offerings into groupings. It will hardly be a massive display, but he is making a major song and dance of it.

At 6.30pm the fire is lit. Our Guy is sat on top, and with the crudely drawn mask it looks rather less like our grandfather, thankfully.

The Firework Führer declares the evening open with a round of sparklers, and in gloved hands we write our glittering names in the dark. Next come the flare matches. For some reason I rather liked these odd incendiary devices that burned red or green. Or at least I used to.

One boy, slightly older than me, has decided that they look best when tossed into the air. I am not convinced, and even less convinced when one of them drops into the top of my wellingtons. There, it catches light to my synthetic football sock, needed to make my too-big-boots fit. The result – molten nylon on flesh. I miss the rest of the night, the treacle and baked spuds and parkin, as I sit in casualty. I hate bonfire night and I hate fireworks. This year, for me, it’s sparkling wines at Hotel du Vin.

Follow me: latestandrew