The Twelve Posts of Christmas 2025 - Day Four: Brussels Sprouts and the Mysterious Christmas Pong

 

 

The Twelve Posts of Christmas 2025 is my festive wander through memories, traditions, mishaps, and moments — from childhood Christmases of the 60s and 70s to the quirks of celebrating today. Think nostalgia sprinkled with humour, a pinch of honesty, and the occasional whiff of Brussels sprouts. 

Let’s unwrap the season, one story at a time.

 

It’s the mid-1970s, the day before Christmas Eve. It’s a typical British winter scene, as I’m trudging through a thin mist that we hope will deliver snow, but more likely it will rain. I’m on my way to the house of the family who was looking after my dog Lisa—a mischievous animal, with a temperament that suggested she was a law unto herself.

As soon as I stepped inside the front room, I was hit by it.

A smell.

Not a strong one, but the kind that creeps up on you — a sort of lingering, unidentifiable pong that is noticeable and doesn’t go away.

Naturally, my first thought was Lisa.

She was sitting in the corner, looking vaguely guilty in that classic canine way. Her ears were slightly down, as was her head, her eyes avoiding mine. If she were a human, her posture would say, “I’d like to speak to my solicitor.”

It wouldn’t have been the first time she’d left an aromatic surprise, but she had been trained to go outside.

Something felt… off.

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.