Penny for the Guy?

Penny for the Guy
November 6, 2007

All over the country county and town councils are cancelling Bonfire Night.

One of my earliest memories, so long ago in my wee brain that I had trouble deciding if it is something I made up later and then forgot I made up, or it was a real memory, is of having my first sparkler at the Bonfire. I hadn’t been too keen on Bonfire night before this incident, because it seemed not to involve my favouritest thing in the world to do in the autumn; namely dressing up as a fairy princess and running around outdoors after dark. But after this moment of truth, in which I literally saw the light, I have been a Bonfire Night fan for more than 35 years.

I was five and someone, it may have been my mother, but I seem to recall it was “Uncle” Fred (1), her foster father, or Uncle Mike, or someone else, gave me a sparkler. It was my first but I recall being terrified of it. I thought it was alive and extremely dangerous. Until someone took my hand, still holding the wildly fizzing and madly sparkling thing, and wrote my name in the air with it. After that, I was sold.

Well, after that and a toffee apple eaten with both hands whilst standing in front of a bonfire at least four times my height. And being outdoors late at night. Glory!

I didn’t know it was anti-Catholic. I had, of course, never heard of the Glorious Revolution. I knew only that someone had tried to blow up something called “Parliament”; that “Parliament” was quite a long way from Manchester, but was, despite this defect, still quite important and so probably it wouldn’t do to try to blow it up; and that it had all happened quite a long time ago. That and there was this straw-faced fellow whose clothes had been donated from the rag and bone man’s bag and stuffed with newspapers and we tossed him onto the bonfire for no adequately explained reason.

What it all had to do with the unbelievable magic of the sparkler was anyone’s guess, but I was asking no questions. Grown-ups were, and are still, so likely to put a stop to fun that is too closely questioned, that I thought it wiser to just stuff as much toffee apple into my mouth as possible, before anyone said it was looking like bedtime.

I have seen with a growing sense of horror and slowly enveloping despair, that the wicked forces of Grown-up NoFun, namely that wicked and slippery sprite, “elf n’ safety”, it’s bog-stupid brother, political correctness and an invasion of American commercialism, are slowly snuffing out the best holiday anyone ever came up with.

Kids in Britain are dressing up and “trick-or-treating” at Hallow‘een. But they are doing it with none of the style with which I used to do. (My mum and I worked on the outfit for days in advance; once, my last year at 11, even making an entire Darth Vader mask out of papier mache.) No, the kids in Britain are being dressed up in the horrid store-bought things and just showing up demanding sweets. It has grown out of, (sitting down? holding on to something nailed down?) the airing in Britain of that stupid American horror film, “Halloween”. Yep. One film did the whole job. And because, as I have been observing, English people have forgotten what they are supposed to be, it was adopted with a shrug. One thing as good as another right?

Now I was never against Hallow‘een as it was properly observed in my own youth. But its commercialisation has destroyed the flair, the charm, the fun and the point in N. America. To have waited until after it has died and simply transported the dead, plasticised carcass of the thing over here so the kids can dress up in tacky plastic muck from Woolworths, just seems a bit pointless.

I believe I have said elsewhere that I have longed for and searched for and cherished those Really Real things that are now being so lightly tossed away. The search, in this life of mass production and cheap grace, for the Really Real, has turned into a vocation. And for North America, Hallow ‘een, properly observed, is one of those things. But it is so rare now that I suspect it has died out. But that’s OK. I don’t live there anymore. Not my problem.

But Bonfire Night is another matter. It was, and is, a demonstration of the Really Real Britain, a country with a history, and moreover, with a people who know that history is important enough to remember and commemorate for very long periods of time. What is happening in this country, to this nation, can be illustrated I believe, by the carelessness with which Bonfire Night is now being treated.

It is being banned in councils across the land on the ridiculously thin ground that it is unsafe for children. Fireworks blow up, don’tcha know, and some idiot might fall into a bonfire.

It is being banned, unbelievably, because bonfires and fireworks contribute to that weird imaginary beast “global warming”.

But worse by far is that it is being banned on the grounds that it is an affront to people of other cultures, whom we must now for some reason call “British” as well, for English people to commemorate our history. One council, (I won’t look up which one,) banned Bonfire night because it is a “white” British festival whose existence might tend to remind “New Britons” that they are new and their ancestors had no part in the historical events which it commemorates. It is an English custom, therefore so offensive to our guests that we must never mention it again.

No, I’m not making that up.

I am happy to report, however, that on the Saturday night of Bonfire Weekend, I was kept awake until well after midnight by the sound of fireworks. And the next night, and the night after that. So, once again, I have grounds to believe that the insanity is confined, mostly, to the small class of ruling busybody grown-up NoFunners who cannot keep their misery to themselves and are not content until the land that once rang with the joyful shrieks of laughter of my small delighted self on November 5, 1972, is as silent, pinch-faced and bored as they are themselves. The rest of us, it seems, are not going along.

I’m also glad to say that I’m not the only one who thinks so.


1. Due to the enormous complexity of middle class British kinship systems and the wholesale redistribution of children after the war, I have several uncles and aunts, cousins, nieces and nephews who are not actually any blood relation at all...the rule, in general, is that any male relative or close family friend of your father’s generation or older, who is not your father, is “uncle.”

Oh, and Steve? It's "phenomenon" singular, not "phenomena" plural, since we are talking about the (sing.) "prostitots" phenomenon.

Thoughtcrime of the day

Definition of a political gaffe: "When a politician accidentally says something true."

like...

Enoch Powell was right.

Don't be too pround of this technological terror you've constructed...

This had to go up, no matter what the cost.

Can anyone verify if this is true? Did the Queen's military band really play the Imperial March to greet the king of Saudi Arabia the other day? Can any of our London correspondents confirm?

Because if it is true, as people around the sphere are saying, it is probably the most hopeful sign I have seen in ages that the True Britain is still alive under all that rubble somewhere and we might just be able to get to it yet if we keep digging.

OK Enough of that.

Comment moderation is off again. What a pain.

I thought I'd drop a quick note in here to let people know I'm still alive (all two of my faithful readers who are still coming back to check, that is.) It's really not that I'm deliberately negelcting y'all. Really.

I just left a comment at Steve's place saying that being out of the 'sphere is making me very sympathetic to the Borg (always have tended to root for the bad guys anyway) who kept getting kidnapped by those nancy-boy Federation people and cut off from the Collective. Now I know what it's like!

People have been so nice about my triumphant return to the 'sphere and have sent lots of emails saying welcome back that I thought y'all deserved a bit of explanation. Everything is really going swimmingly here. I've got the keys to a cottage in the lovely little rural Cheshire village I've landed in. It needs a bit of work, but it really is a dream come true. It's tiny of course: four rooms in total and no central heating, but I'm all for that. The height of the door frames makes me think it was probably built by hobbits. I have banged my head on it exactly five times now, each time harder than the last. We tested the fireplace in the main room and it draws a coal fire very nicely and the extremely kind landlady has donated an electric kettle and will be brining round a pile of firewood. There's another fireplace in the bedroom but it needs to be restored before I can use it.

The kitchen is an add-on at the back, probably put in sometime after WWII, and it needs to be completely redone. No gas, but I've a plan to buy a propane barbeque and use it as an outdoor gas range for big cooking projects that I don't want to pay the electricity for (like oxtail soup that requires five hours of simmering and jams). Already done a batch of crab apple jelly and another of rosehip syrup. Went out and collected the last of the rosehips day before yesterday and there's more to come. (Was menaced by a bull! Very exciting story that; can't wait to tell you.)

It's one of a row of cottages built shortly after the Enclosures to house the families of farm labourers mostly men with families who had been forced out of their small land holdings during that first proto-Communist government land-grab...more on that later. I really can't do it or the village justice in words. I've taken lots of pics and as soon as I can I'll be posting them to make you all wild with jealousy.

But here's the rub. I've been staying with the until-recently-long-lost relatives here and they, although wonderful in every way, are not internet people. They have real lives instead (weird, I know, but hey, each to his own right?) and so only have a dial-up connection that (...wait for it, are you sitting down?) you have to pay for BY THE MINUTE!

Agh!

So, you may imagine that I'm very strictly rationing my internet time and limiting it to paid work-related things. I open the pages I find that relate to the thing I'm writing and then shut the connection down while I'm reading and putting the story together. It's driving me mad.

But do not despair. I've been collecting photos and have had many adventures that I'm longing to share. In fact, a big purpose of the "New Devout Life" blog is to write about life in England in every aspect. So, get ready. Because it is a wonderful wonderful place. Utterly amazing. Full of incomprehensible legal rubbish, but wonderfully resiliant and fun people. So far I've been completely bowled over by the kindness and generosity of the people here. Country people rule! lemme tell ya.

OK, that's enough for now.

I got BT to put a phone line into the cottage next week and broadband will follow shortly so not much longer now.

Watch this space.

(No, I didn't get to the EU rally in London. But that's OK.)

HJW

Well Duhhh

Of course I meant the one on the 26th.

Sheesh!

So, has anyone got a ride?

A general call

I know, I know; I've been remiss. I've got plenty of excuses - plenty believe me - but I'm not going to give them now.

Right now, I've got a bee in my bonnet.

I want to go to the reactionary social event of the year, to wit: the EU Referendum rally in London on the 27th that everyone is talking about.

All the cool kids will be there, and I want to go too.

But here's the rub: I'm broke and require alms. Or, at least, not alms exactly, (I'm in no immediate danger of having to apply to the local parish for food relief) but a lift.

I've just moved to another country, you see. To this one, I mean, from a completely different one, and I've spent all the spare dosh I had stashed way on making the change. So I can't afford another there-and-back-again-in-one-day trip to London and am putting out a call for transport assistance.

I can throw in (modestly) for petrol (hee hee, listen to me being all English! "petrol"! haw!) and provide witty banter and amusing anecdotes about Canadian and American politics.

We can play rousing games along the way of "Who's the most right-wing?" and "spot the sheep".

I also do a fair imitation of Her Majesty addressing Parliament.

So, anyone heading down from the Norff for a jolly day of speeches, bun-chucking and heckling Parliamentarians with an extra seat in the van? I'm deep in the heart of beautiful rural Cheshire, close to Chester.

Seriously, not making it up.

Really.

Leave a note in the box, or email me.

HJMW

So do I

Six mounted police on the beach at Bournemouth erased the slogan that was written on the West Undercliff Promenade in Bournemouth, clearly visible from the Bournemouth International Centre and the secure zone around it, where the Labour Party conference was being held.

That's so gay

Among the long and growing list of things I like about Britain is that in this country, the term "gay", while sadly hardly ever used in its original OED sense, is almost exclusively used as a derogatory.

I am glad, in general, that my experiences thus far have bolstered my theory that the great majority of people here are not on with the Labour/BBC/Guardian political orthodoxies. That "gay marriage" is just as scare-quoted in ordinary conversation as it is in certain online publications. (In fact, I was very happy to note that the Daily Telegraph also uses the quotes. Good on 'em.) That the only people not willing to openly admit that it is mass immigration from cultures wholly alien to ours that is causing most of this country's problems, are the members of government (and their media toadies) who have allowed it. That nearly everyone thinks the "political correctness" thing has gone to absolutely intolerable lengths of absurdity (though no one seems willing just to thumb their noses at it...yet).

Happy to report that the Ordinary British Subject (that I have met so far) is, while not the intolerant xenophobe so gleefully depicted in the self-hating screeds of Jeremy Paxman, every bit as old-fashioned and sensible, honest and normal as one could hope.

Today I realized something very important about the difference between Britain and That-Country-North-of-the-US. In TCNOTUS, there is no market for a paper like the Telegraph. There could not possibly exist anything like a backlash party like the BNP. It seems clear that the average Canuckistani is totally incapable of thinking outside the box of Officially Approved doctrine, a gift that, TBTG, still exists here. (Of course, the question is now, how to get the polite Brits to move from "Oh isn't it dreadful, they've banned Bonfire Night, conkers and fox hunting," to the pitchforks and torches phase.)

In contrast, the Canuckistanis are, in a word, Goodthinkful. To a man.

Couldn't make this stuff up

I have been informed by a reliable source that in this country there are areas in which the local government installs microchips in people's bins to make sure they are not throwing away things that might be recycled.

Average British tax rate: 40%

Not Making It Up

really was there.


H/T to the Duckfan