Guy Fawkes Day – Boom! Crash!
5 November 2005


Two small boys slipped unnoticed from the party. Squeezing through a wire fence they entered the deep gloom of the bush, high-stepping across coarse ferns, shin-deep in moss or crackling deadwood.

A clay bank ran sharply downhill, the remnant of a bulldozer track, held fast by the roots of black beech trees. The boys poked around in the bank with a sharp stick for a while, then crouched down to share their treasure.

They were instantly and totally absorbed, their shoulders hunched in concentration, heads close together. They were making mischief.

From the pockets of their grey school shorts they pulled strings of firecrackers, small red paper explosives. Three, four, five, six, the crackers spilled onto the dry clay, twenty to a string, like tiny chipolatas, their perfect wicks closely plaited. Quickly, expertly, the boys unpicked the woven fireworks, then gently tugged the wick from each and poured the fine, black powder – gunpowder!- into the small hole they had dug into the bank. The pungent saltpetre smell made them shiver with excitement.

One boy knotted several wicks together to make a long fuse which they packed into the heap of gunpowder before sealing the hole with lumps of dirt and small stones.

Their preparations complete they sat for a few minutes, breathless with excitement. They said little, their minds running too fast for words, anticipating the comic-strip climax of their game: Boom! Pow! Crash!

One boy, the taller of the two, fished out a battered matchbox. Now their shoulders touched as they bent closer to the fuse, truant and umbilical among the dry leaves. A sizzle of flame and it sprang to life. Whooping, the boys scurried up the bank, eyes fixed to the sparking fuse. It burned on, into the hole. A pause. Heads craned.

The explosion was quick and terrifying. A cloud of smoke shot out of the bank and grew. Knobs of dry clay rattled among the ferns, stones smacked against tree trunks. The stink of explosives filled the air, unstopping their voices.

“Wow!”
“Woo-Hoo! Did you see that?!”
“Yeah! Boom! I could feel it in the ground, it was shaking.”
“And that stone. It did a ricochet!”
“Yeah! Bing! Bang! Right through that tree.”
“Let’s see the hole,”
“Can’t see it in all this smoke. Woo-Hoo! All this smoke!”

The boys jumped down from the bank, capering among the wreaths of smoke, voices like machineguns. Forensically, they worked over the site of their triumph, analysing each clod of dirt, each fragment of paper, until darkness forced them home.

* * *

Like all young boys I loved fireworks. Blowing that hole in the clay with my brother was one of the purest moments of pleasure in my life. It inspired or was woven into a hundred childhood games where we became commandos, cowboys, assassins or that barely-understood shadow, Guy Fawkes himself.

Fireworks inspired a thousand pleasures. Sparklers were perfect for terrorising little sisters. Skyrockets taught us the science of trajectory – calculating a perfect angle between hen house and plum tree. Roman candles and catherine wheels mesmerised with pyrotechnics of spark and colour.

But, above all, I loved firecrackers. I loved their perfect cylindrical shape, the smooth red paper surfaces, the odour of explosives and, always, their marvellous potential energy. Light a match – bang! It was pure, thrilling naughtiness.

As an adult I naturally concur that the celebration of Guy Fawkes Day is nonsense. The season is wrong, the sentiment diabolical and as a society we simply don’t have the moral restraint any longer to handle the public sale and use of even ornamental explosives.

Like you, I want to wring the necks of those idiots who have formed the view that Guy Fawkes is the festival of exploding mailboxes. Where on earth did they get that idea? Do they really believe that Mr Fawkes and his fellow conspirators nursed a towering grievance against the postal service? Or that their outrage against the king was expressed in a desire to explode his private bag?

Furthermore, is it not irresponsible in these uncertain times to exalt the memory of a terrorist? The original purpose of Guy Fawkes celebrations was a cautionary reminder to the king’s subjects about what happens to those who plot his overthrow. But over time the rationale has morphed into a celebration of the baddie. Guy Fawkes has become heroic, and nobody spares a thought for King James. It’s a reminder of the very fine line between terrorist and patriot – an uncomfortable, if not seditious, truth in the eyes of certain world leaders.

Which is probably why I wouldn’t cancel Guy Fawkes Day. Its value lies in naughtiness, that tiny hint of treason as you light the fuse. It’s the pleasure of snubbing authority, the thrilling fantasy that you could blow up your overbearing boss – or at least his mailbox. It’s hooray for the little guy, the underdog, the backbencher.

Remember that as you light your fireworks tonight. Boom! Bang! Crash!