Olly Mann thinks that Bonfire Night is superior to Halloween due to its lack of hype
HALLOWEEN HAS REALLY taken off, hasn’t it? When I was a sprog, October 31 delivered little more than a carved pumpkin, a Simpsons special, and a speech from the headmistress extolling the hazards of strangers bearing sweeties. But these days? Themed products line the shelves, decorations adorn the high street, and TK Maxx has been flogging orange tat since July (“It’s Goth Christmas!” my punky friend explains to me).
My kids, having come of age alongside pumpkin spice lattes and "spooky" scented candles, expect to go trick-or-treating on the night, and to enjoy a packed week of anticipatory build-up over autumn half-term. That includes our annual excursion to a pumpkin-picking patch we’ve discovered, replete with Dracula-themed adventure playground and promenading "bubble witch" (plaudits to the enterprising farmer who first turned his land over for this event—what impresses me most is the Instagram-baiting field of sunflowers he leaves to rot and die, so they look as bleak and Tim Burton-esque as absolutely possible).
But where does all this freaky festivity leave poor old Guy Fawkes? Bonfire Night on November 5 appears to have trended in the opposite direction to Halloween: my family hardly seem to notice it’s happening until we’re halfway up the dirt-path to the organised fireworks display, trudging through the mud with our head-torches on. I’ll grant you, the anniversary itself—celebrating the torture and death of a wannabe terrorist, driven to attempted mass murder after his religion was repressed into submission by the state is… slightly old-fashioned. But I don’t understand why, when Halloween’s mild flirtation with the underworld has the power to give modern-day children such a titillating frisson, the very real danger of having their fingers burned off by sparklers seems to hold such little appeal.
I mean, I’ve had genuinely terrifying experiences on Bonfire Nights. Like that year a skyrocket launched horizontally at the crowd during my secondary school’s display, setting alight one hapless dad’s hat. Or the time my father set fire to our fence, attempting to commandeer a cut-price Catherine wheel as we chewed on incinerated marshmallows. Or the year I lived in a London tower block, and some lads took to the roof and chucked firecrackers at pedestrians (which, to be fair, Guy Fawkes would probably have appreciated).
But here’s the thing: I’d argue
