Council killjoys have ruined Guy Fawkes Night
As a child growing up in the 1980s, autumn was my favourite time of the year. It combined two of my favourite things – fire and explosions. Back then, getting your hands on the kind of firepower usually left behind in third-world coups required little more than asking your mate’s older brother to go to the corner shop. Laws were rarely, if ever, enforced. It may have been the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness for Keats, but to a kid armed with Black Cat bangers and a disposable lighter, it was the season of sulphur and scorched grass. We blew up bins and shoved lit flares up our arses, years before that football fan did it. One year, we tried to recreate the flaming streets scene from Back to the Future.
