The Hull Hub Issue 22

Whizz! Bang! Catherine Wheels and Roman Candles
- Shaun French
A
kids
view
of
the
70’s
It seems like forever since the last article, so let’s get a few
pleasantries out of the way, yeah? You OK? Good. How’s
the family? Great!
Right, that’s enough of that.
This Hull Hub should be coming out around ‘Bonfire
Night’, or ‘Guy Fawkes Night’, or ‘Bloody Hell, Have You
Seen The Price Of a Box Of Fireworks’ Night.
Whatever you call it, in the seventies it was that muchloved
time of the year when your garden fence would
mysteriously be missing a few panels, your dad’s best
sports jacket and flat cap would never be seen again
and hordes of grubby kids would be allowed to use their
father’s lighter or buy a box of Swan Vestas matches and
pretty much set light to whatever looked flammable,
including other children.
A week before the 5th of November, there would be those
marvellous Public Information Films about the dangers
of fireworks, un-supervised bonfires and pleading with
people to go to organised events. This advice was mostly
ignored. For my part, our gang of scruffs and cannon
fodder would roam the estate looking for anything made
of wood that wasn’t nailed down. Actually, it didn’t matter
if it was nailed down because we had a range of clawhammers,
chisels and other alarming tools that would be
deployed to take apart an old
chest of drawers in seconds.
The location for your
bonfire would be chosen
very carefully and if you
were foolish enough to start
building your towering
inferno too early, you ran
the risk of those nefarious
“Bonny Raiders” who would
dismantle your stack of
wood like termites, and
you’d be left with a few twigs
and the odd chair-leg.
The art of building a bonfire would also involve making a large triangular-shaped
structure with heavy furniture at the bottom and tapering to the top where an
enterprising person would place their “Guy”. The “Guy” was a rudimentary sacrificial
dummy made of an old jumper and trousers stuffed with newspaper and a papier
Mache head (or your little brothers plastic football) and a flat cap to top it all off. The
idea was that the “Guy” would be the last to burn. The “Guy” was often fitted with a small
booby-trap like an aerosol can, which would explode and shower nearby onlookers
with shrapnel and burning plastic. What larks!
Bonfires were usually set alight just as dusk was settling in and the chill of night would
be accompanied by sharp crackles of burning wood. One person would be designated
to hold a rolled-up newspaper at arm’s length while a friend struck a match, and the
burning paper would be hurled into the heap of wood, and you’d have to wait a few
minutes to see if the fire would catch. This soon became boring and before long, the
air would be filled with burning matches, like tracer-fire in the trenches as everyone
tried to get the fire going.
Usually, by luck, the fire would eventually catch, and the next part would begin.
Someone would bring out a biscuit tin with a few potatoes in, and they would throw
the bundle into the depths of the conflagration, provided they could get close enough
without losing an eyebrow or the sleeve of their Parka Jacket going up like a distress
flare. More often than not, the resulting potatoes would be inedible, blackened and the
temperature of the Earth’s core.
If your fire was sufficiently large enough, it would draw a lot of people who would bring
extra wood to keep it going. The fire-brigade would mostly leave you alone if the fire
was on waste-ground nowhere near housing or petrol stations.
Once the fire was going, the ceremonial box of fireworks would be brought forth.
Back in the seventies, there was only really Standard Fireworks as a brand and pretty
much anyone could buy them over the counter of the sweet shop. These dazzling boxes
would be on display in a glass cabinet and came in a range of sizes to suit budgets or
how much you wished to frighten neighbours, pets, and low-flying aircraft.
These lovely red boxes would be alongside triple packs of rockets with their little
wooden launch stick and those family favourites; the Sparkler.
The rockets would need a milk bottle to assist the lift-off and daring folk would often
put 2 or 3 rockets in a bottle and light them all quickly before the whoosh of sparks
and the firework would reach around 100ft and explode with a satisfactory bang and
showers of golden spark raining down.
Sparklers are still available today, albeit in a much more reduced size. They’re a little
metal stick with a coating of
iron filings and when the top
was lit, it would burn slowly
down in the hand, sending
out a small shower of sparks
and emitting a very satisfying
burning smell. Good fun,
although the risk of burning
the hand was high if you
held it in the wrong place.
Lots of skin was lost over
the course of Bonfire Night
by overzealous waving of
the sparkler and picking up
dropped ones.
The real pleasure was in
reading the names of the
fireworks in your little box of gunpowder mayhem. Evocative names like, Roman
Candle, Yellow Zodiac, Jack In The Box, Traffic Light, Airbomb and the gloriously
named Mount Vesuvius. Wonderful names that promised so much, but most of them
emitted the same shower of coloured sparks as each other, prompting calls of “We’ve
just had that one!” and “What a rip off!” The Traffic Light was unique as it fired out red,
amber and green flares every few seconds.
There was also the risky Catherine Wheel. A little circular firework, like a dynamite
fuse. This came with a small nail which would have to be hammered through the centre
of the Wheel to a convenient fence. The fuse would be lit and – all being well – the
Catherine Wheel would spin faster and faster, trailing the silver glow until fizzing out
and slowly decreasing the spin. Many times, the wheel would refuse to spin leaving the
firework to burn its way through the fence and leaving an interesting mark that would
never go away despite 4 coats of creosote.
Once the fireworks were all done and the bonfire began to die down, we all headed
home, smelling of smoke and with curious little scorch marks on our clothes, our hair
lightly covered with the glow of embers and gunpowder. The next morning, we’d wake
up to see the remnants of the fire with the forgotten biscuit tin and spent firework
cases all over the street, and your dad asking where the hell the back gate was.
NEXT TIME – CHRISTMAS.
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