It was the annual ritual of Bonfire Night and I stood with the masses watching. The piled-up wood stacks dressed in fabric all readied for the controlled explosion. We waited in anticipation for the flames to seep into the veins of the dead tree, to release its soul back into nature. The smell was mixed with alcohol from the pubs on wheels and the cotton candy from the fair rides. One of my friends had a thick amount of perfume like she was going on a date. It was a crowded night. 

 

Some people sat down, mostly couples and children, waiting for the first signs of orange and yellow. But soon they had to move for other people of whom had decided to ruin their fun by standing in front of them. My friends and I barely had the luxury of finding the perfect spot. We had squeezed our way through to get close.

 

Whoever organised this event must have forgotten the number of people it was going to bring. The locals had their coats, scarves and chairs set up; these were the people who wedged their way through to the metal fences, close to the action. I saw mostly old and mature adults with their stern looks and tired eyes that spoke of a long day. They did not want to be messed up or they would give you the deadly English sigh. There were a few young adults crowded around us, some couples were wrapped in each other’s coats keeping warm. Romantic. I wished my boyfriend, at the time, had come with me, but he had other things to do that evening. It marked the first downfall of our relationship. Our flame had died out. I was a little jealous of the intimate nature of these lovers, the way they touched and the obvious passion these people clearly had. I wanted that. 

 

We huddled and craned our necks to see the bonfire. Everyone wanted to see the burning of Guy Fawkes. Now a dummy of course, for the man has been dead for nearly 400 years. I think it would be unfair to him. He was hung, drawn and quartered for a tiny plot to blow up Parliament. He had suffered enough, but no we still call this Guy Fawkes’s Night and celebrate his failure. 

 

The ritualistic burning was supposed to start at eleven o’clock, but two people in neon jackets were placing the dynamite from Looney Tunes down inside the wooden structure. It was quite a structure, perfectly laid out, building up to the dummy tied to the stake. It reminded me of those days when we burned witches. People would turn to their imagined watches and go, ‘Well it’s Sunday. Let’s go burn a witch’. They had no real form of entertainment back then; it was either sit back and read (for those who could) or work in the fields. Thank God I live in this century. 

 

No smile painted this dummy’s face, nor did they bother to stitch a mouth, his screams are silent. His eyes are blinded to those who wish to see him die. Dressed in dry rags this Guy Fawkes will go up in smoke easily. 

 

I wondered what the dummy did to deserve this treatment. This fake Guy Fawkes that we would happily destroy. Did he play a poor job at scaring birds in a field? Turn people into toads? Or said Brexit was a bad idea? Whatever he did, as Guy Fawkes, he’s been paying the price for decades. The neon men had finished setting the dynamite and step away a few yards to then press something...Nothing! The crowd let out a disappointed cry. Patience, I think, soon the flames will show. It took another few minutes until we could see amber flicking in the heart of the structure. I could see something happening, something glowing as if the structure had a beating heart. It pulsed. The kindle tried to take hold of the food left out for them. Eat it up. Let it burn.

 

Guy Fawkes looked out to see the vast amount of people viewing his execution. They revelled in it. The people wanted to see something burn. It was like an arsonist’s wet dream. I do enjoy the occasional burning of wood from time to time. The ritual of the BBQ in the summer, candles burn for my bath and this Bonfire Night. The smell of burning wood brings back memories of home and those calm days of relaxing in France with my Grandad. It’s a rich earthy smell, the smoke is nature having a fag. At some points in the night, the smell of cigarette wisps through the air and into my nose. I do not smoke myself and the smell is not one of my favourites, but I do enjoy watching the smoke flow out of someone’s mouth. It is like they are a dragon breathing, letting us know there is a fire in their belly ready for destruction.  

 

Now the flames erupt from the heart. The rapid beating of the fire latches on to the wood, growing gluttonous on the fat. Eating away. Soon the blaze took hold of the outer circle of the structure, we waited for the flames to catch on to Guy Fawkes. Alas the wind was not on our side as it blew the fire to the south-east. Nowhere near Fawkes.

 

Everyone sighed in disappointment. Although by this point the combustion looked glorious in the night air. 

 

The flames licked the sky and split apart as little ambers floated upwards. Sometimes the colour changed from the orange and yellows to an almost blue-green colour.