Barbarism Takes a Holiday

Remember, remember, the fifth of November,
Gunpowder, treason and plot.

November 5th is Guy Fawkes Night, or Bonfire Night as we called it. It’s a cross between Thanksgiving and 4th of July, in which we Brits--in order to show our gratitude for our Government not being blown to smithereens by a bunch of 17th century ne’er-do-gooders--stuff our faces, set off fireworks and burn the traitors in effigy. After Christmas, it was my favorite holiday of the year.

The month of October would be spent gathering bits of wood, old furniture, sticks, and piles of newspaper for my Dad to use in the construction of the Bonfire. Mum had started baking several days beforehand, so by the evening of the 5th we would have a small mountain of parkin—a kind of oaty ginger cake—and a large tray of dark, chewy Bonfire toffee. Made from brown sugar, black treacle (molasses) and butter, it was more of a weapon than a confection and could simultaneously clog an artery and gum your mouth shut with one utterly delicious morsel. There would be roasted chestnuts to throw from hand to hand until they were cool enough to peel and eat; and there would be potatoes, wrapped in foil to be put in the middle of the fire to bake and eat with butter and salt at the end of the night.

My role in the preparations was to make the “Guy”. This involved acquiring a pair of my Dad’s old work pants and one of my brother’s threadbare sweatshirts—assuming my Mum could persuade the old miser to part with it—and stuffing them with newspaper to make a man-sized doll. Add a paper bag head and a pair of old socks and voila—a source of income. Tradition requires kids to sit their Guy out on the street and hit up passing neighbors with “Penny for the Guy” requests. We seldom got much, but the more resourceful kids would invest two pence in the bus fare into town where they could make a small fortune out on the High Street. Once the Guy had earned his keep, his final role was to sit on top of the bonfire, like the angel on a Christmas tree and wait until the flames licked high enough to melt his nylon trousers and burn slowly through his newspaper stuffing. We’re a sadistic lot, we Brits.

When Bonfire Night finally arrived, I would anxiously wait for my Dad to get home, wondering if I’d been good enough this year to get any fireworks. For the entire previous month I had been eyeing the selection boxes of fireworks in the local newsagent’s store. Rockets, Roman Candles, Bangers, Catherine Wheels and sparklers all crammed into bright yellow boxes. I was pretty much always good enough for a basic box and a couple of packets of sparklers. Fireworks aren’t illegal in the U.K., in fact the British encourage their children to nail Catherine Wheels to the fence post in a 10 foot square back yard, or shoot rockets out of old milk bottles in a neighborhood with at least a couple of dozen other houses within a 100 foot radius. It keeps the local hospitals in business.

So, what is this Guy Fawkes Night all about, really?

Well, in 1605, a group of young men conspired to blow up the Houses of Parliament and Mr. Guy Fawkes was their fearless leader. Unfortunately for them, they were caught and Fawkes was charged with treason and sentenced to death. The favored method of execution at the time, of course, was to be hung, drawn and quartered—a most unpleasant way to go.
Although, as a kid, I understood the reason for the commemoration of the event, it wasn’t until years later that I fully understood the significance of the celebration and its traditions. In fact, it wasn’t until I first explained it to one of my American friends that it dawned on me what a barbaric holiday it really is. There we were burning this “Guy” in effigy, dancing round the fire like the pagans we all are at heart, stuffing our faces and risking life and limb setting off fireworks.

It’s a cruel celebration of a man’s brutal death – but it’s still my second favorite holiday.