Thank you Mr Fawkes?

 On Saturday night I stood in a bus shelter with a group of middle-aged Swedish women and looked on as a fierce-looking, fire-wielding mob marauded through narrow, ancient streets and burned an effigy of a man on a bonfire right there in the centre of the town. Then, accompanied by about 40,000 men, women and children baying for more, we marched to a large field and burnt another effigy of the same man on an even bigger bonfire for good measure. Everyone was delighted. 

Bonfire Night, Windsor Castle, 1776

We were of course celebrating Bonfire Night, on this occasion in Battle, England. The effigies, carefully sewn together by local children, were of an Englishman called Guido 'Guy' Fawkes who tried but failed to blow up the Houses of Parliament in London on 5 November 1605. Every year since, hoards of people across Britain gather on the anniversary to watch the effigy of this man burn atop a bonfire.  

The Swedish people were there with me for a language and cultural experience but I was wary of the potential rowdiness of the event and the very real dangers of taking them to Bonfire Night. Despite my verbalizing this they remained keen, although I knew they were comparing it in their minds to Sweden’s Walpurgis Eve (Valborg) at the end of April. Really the only similarity between the two however is the bonfire. Everything else, from the sheer scale to the murderous theme, is quite different.  

Bonfire Night, Battle Abbey, 2010

Throughout the evening there was fire all around us constantly and the smoky air turned red with flares being set off in all directions by the public. For around four hours the ground was rocked every few seconds by deafening, bone shaking explosions. Following the parade and the two burnings of the ‘Guy’, the evening rounded off with an awesome firework display, the crescendo of which was the oddest, rawest firework I have ever seen - an immense, hellish fireball about the size of a hot-air balloon which exploded in mid-air. No sparkle, no beauty - no ironic ’ooohs’ and ’aaahs’. Instead the entire crowd spontaneously and audibly gasped, their breath literally taken away by this incredible spectacle. 

And then we all went home. 

The evening was primitive, powerful and intense. And my small group of quiet, unimposing, well-to-do Swedish ladies thoroughly enjoyed every minute of it. While the first bonfire was being lit in the open street and the firecrackers that filled it were ripping the air apart, one of them noted that this would never be allowed in Sweden on health and safety grounds. I nodded in agreement and then couldn’t help wondering to myself why on Earth it is still allowed here in England.  

This event could easily have lost its soul to health and safety regulations. But I have to say that there was little or no sign of any overbearing, party-pooping restrictions designed to mollycoddle the public. The police presence was low-key and there were very few marshals or barriers to control the flow of revellers. Just a vague map of the procession route down the tiny streets hinted at some semblance of organisation. Otherwise, we were allowed to get on with it and look after ourselves. Someone somewhere along the way has understood that Bonfire Night is precious. Although England has a national day on 23 April, Bonfire Night is what really matters. In fact it is perhaps the only annual celebration where we get together, young and old en masse, and really have a blast without too much interference from the authorities. It doesn’t make it free from incident, but it gets to keep its edge and in doing so, has become somewhat sacred. 

So despite being arguably the most reviled person in English history ever, perhaps we have something to thank old Mr Fawkes for after all. But unfortunately for him, the end result is we’re just going to have to keep on burning him year after year for centuries more to come.

Dave S