The Boy, the Bonfire, and the Man Called Guy – Remembering Bonfire Night

It begins in October, with the sound of a loud bang in the early evening, followed by an occasional whoosh. It tells me Bonfire Night is almost upon us. Come November, the air will smell faintly of smoke and fireworks—it was the same when I was a boy. 

A memory stirs.

I’m back in a 1960s backstreet, clutching a homemade “Guy” and hoping for a penny or two. This is a look back at Bonfire Night, the real story of Guy Fawkes, and the fading sparks of a very British tradition.

Somewhere in Middle England, late 1960s

A small boy stands outside a corner shop with a homemade effigy, whom we call “Guy”. A bundle of old clothes stuffed with newspaper, a hat perched at a slight angle, and a paper face meant to resemble one of the most famous villains in British history: Guy Fawkes.

“Penny for the Guy?” the boy calls, hopefully.

A man passes, uninterested. The boy tries again. “Penny for the Guy, please, sir?”

A young woman looks over, smiles, and rummages through her basket. She pulls out a purse and produces a big copper penny, and then another — pre-decimal coins that felt like real money.

“Be careful with those fireworks,” she says kindly, handing them over.

He grins, pockets the coins, and can already hear the whoosh and bang of rockets in his imagination.

I was that boy, out on dark nights, asking strangers for a few pennies so I could buy fireworks to celebrate a tradition that, at the time, I had little understanding of. Except we were told that Guy Fawkes was a bad man.

The Spark Behind the Celebration

For those unfamiliar with the roots of Bonfire Night, it all goes back to 1605, when a group of English Catholics plotted to blow up the Houses of Parliament. It was called the Gunpowder Plot, and its aim was simple but spectacular—to assassinate King James I and wipe out much of the Protestant ruling class in one fiery blast.

The ringleader was a man named Robert Catesby. He believed that Catholics were persecuted under Protestant rule — and, in fairness, they were. Catesby’s “solution”, however, was not one that would have gone down well in any century.

Enter Guy (or Guido) Fawkes, a soldier and explosives expert who had been fighting for Catholic Spain. He was recruited to handle the dangerous bit — guarding the barrels of gunpowder and, when the time came, lighting the fuse.

As plots go, it was elaborate, daring, and destined to fail. The conspirators were betrayed before they could strike. Fawkes was caught red-handed in the cellars beneath Parliament with enough explosives to change the course of history.

Whatever Happened to Storytelling? We All Need Stories.

Whatever happened to storytelling?

It’s a question I’ve found myself asking quite a lot lately.

I read that people want real stories, the personal, authentic glimpses into someone’s life. I was watching a YouTube video on this yesterday, and I thought, “Yes, I’ve been there.” But scroll through your average feed, and you’ll see something else entirely. A parade of how-to guides: how to write better, how to be more productive, how to succeed at something (anything!), how to do this and that.

Then there are the ‘how-to’ stories — which, ironically, often don’t contain much storytelling at all.

They all seem to follow the same formula:

• Identify a problem.
• Explain why it matters.
• Offer a neat solution.
• Finish with a motivational takeaway and a promise of success.

And that’s fine, for a certain type of writing. There’s a huge audience for that kind of thing. The self-help and “personal development” world is thriving. But that’s not always storytelling. That’s instruction. It has a purpose — but it’s not quite the same as sitting someone down and saying, “Let me tell you what happened to me one summer…”

Or, “I wrote a book of good stories that might offer a life lesson or two. Hopefully, you enjoy the read.”

A story doesn’t need to solve a problem. It doesn’t need to teach you how to fix your life or build a better version of yourself. Sometimes, a story just needs to help the reader drift off into a different world for a few minutes — escapism.

But surely, storytelling is, and always has been, about entertainment.

Book Review - David Niven - The Moon's a Balloon - The Joy of a Born Storyteller.

 

I first read actor David Niven’s memoir, The Moon’s a Balloon, published in 1971, back in the mid-1970s. It was the first “adult” book that I read. It was adult, in the sense that parts of it were somewhat naughty. Other than that, it was a book of stories that were easy to read. It arguably provided a blueprint for others to follow. 

I came across the book when I saw it on the bookshelf of a neighbour of mine, an elderly lady by the name of Violet. She had an extensive book collection, and would allow me to pick one occasionally to take home and read.

Having chosen a book, I would have to give it to her for approval.

“What have you chosen today?” She would ask.

On this day, I handed over The Moon’s a Balloon, a paperback with a somewhat ordinary cover showing David Niven, with four balloons above his head. Each one containing a word of the book title. As book covers go, it didn’t look like one that would sell millions of copies.

Violet put her reading glasses on. “Ah! David Niven, the old Hollywood charmer. It’s not written for children, but you are probably old enough to read it.” And she was right. Niven had a reputation for being a charmer, a true charming man.

Like a librarian, she passed the book to me. “Look after it, and use a bookmark; I don’t want to see any folded corners on the pages.”

I never folded corners anyway.

But back to the naughtiness.

The Truth About Medium, An Interlude - Writing For Pennies - A Poem

Writing for pennies, I wait and dream,

Writing for pennies, is not what it seems.

Writing for pennies, just you and me,

Writing for pennies, stories no one can see.

Writing for pennies, time moves so fast,

Writing for pennies, good times never last.

Writing for pennies, I want my reward,

Writing for pennies, I’m getting so bored.

Writing for pennies, too good to be true,

Writing for pennies, no time to feel blue.

Writing for pennies, for every penny earned,

Writing for pennies, a life lesson learned.

Writing for pennies, where stories unfold,

Writing for pennies, more precious than gold.

Writing for pennies, a tale to be told,

Writing for pennies, I won’t sell my soul.

I originally published this poem on Medium in early September. 

The Truth About Medium - Part Six - Here's the One About Money

 

This post covers my earnings at Medium for 2024-25. 

2024 earnings from the time I joined the Medium Partner Program to the end of December.

Sep — $11.55

Oct — $7.47

Nov — $36.52

Dec — $10.19

2025.

Jan — $2.49

Feb — $1.46

Mar — $2.04

Apr — $2.88

May — $0.63

Jun — $2.74

Jul — $1.24

Aug — $0.54

Sep — $0.04 

Son of My Father - We All Did Dumb Things At School (an extract)

Just one of the dumb things that I did at school, when I was a lad. From Son of My Father.

I remember the headmaster because of the one time that I got into trouble at school. It was the only time that I owned up and got into trouble, and he got involved. For the most part I was not a troublemaker, I kept my head down. However, I admit there were moments of stupidity when I did something unbelievable that got me into trouble. This was one of those moments, but at least I owned up to what I had done.

I was playing football in the front school yard, and I recall that no one else was around. I kicked the ball onto the flat roof of a small building. For a moment the ball was heading towards the edge, but then it stopped and got stuck in the guttering. The building was a toilet block which had blacked out windows around the top of it. It was my ball, and I wondered how I was going to get it back.

How Son of My Father Found Its Name - The Story Behind a Book Title, and a Half-Forgotten Song

In 2022, I wrote a book called Son of My Father.

I remember the moment the title came to me. I was pacing around my home, thinking — searching for a phrase that might hold the whole story together. Titles can be elusive things, they are jotted down, forgotten, some look great, then they don’t. I had a handful of ideas, each discarded for one reason or another. 

None seemed to bring the chapters together in the way I wanted.

At one stage, I had an idea that I felt could really work — to open each chapter with a subheading drawn from a song of the time. A piece of music that had shaped not only my personal experiences, but also the atmosphere of the era I was writing about. I imagined each song acting as a lyrical thread connecting memory, mood, and meaning to the story.

Then reality intervened. Copyright.

Yes, “fair use” might have allowed me to borrow a few lines, but even that felt like a legal grey area. The deeper I looked, the more it became a potential minefield of permissions and costs. Reluctantly, I let the idea go.

Still, once music had entered the conversation, I couldn’t get it out of my head. Songs have a way of unlocking memory, and as I sifted through those from my past, one stood out: Son of My Father, a 1972 hit by Chicory Tip.

I can’t say the band were favourites of mine, nor that the song had any special place in my life at the time. I remember it being played on the radio and Top of the Pops, but I was more into music by T Rex, Slade, Sweet and ELO. Years later, the song — and something in its story — resonated. It felt as though it was an ideal title for the book.

Here’s the song:

I later discovered that the title had been used before — in books, in other contexts — but that didn’t matter. For me, it fit.

Because although my book isn’t solely about my relationship with my dad, he is the presence that runs through it. The man, the mystery. As he left my life almost fifty years ago now, the book is most of what I know about him.

Writing Son of My Father was, in part, an act of discovery — not just about the past, but about what remains when memory fades and imagination takes its place. 

Read more reflections like this here.

 

Image by Tibor Janosi Mozes from Pixabay

Son of My Father - Who Was My Dad? The Man I Never Really Knew

When I began writing Son of My Father, I realised how much of my dad’s story I never really knew. So much of who he was existed quietly in the background — unspoken, unseen. What I do remember, though, was his creative side.

From my memoir, Son of My Father

I know nothing about my dad’s childhood, his schooling, or whether he was academically bright or not. I don’t even know the name of the school that he went to. I’m not sure that I ever did. He probably left school with few if any qualifications. Questions like this were never the subject of conversation between us.