#UK - Bonfire Night 2025: From Guy Fawkes to Granny's New Hip Replacement - And, How Britain Lost The 'Gunpowder' Plot with CAZ.
Or: Remember, Remember... The Money-Making Member.
Every 5th November, Britain celebrates Guy Fawkes Night - but in 2025, the Gunpowder Plot conspirator would barely recognise what his failed attack on Parliament has become. From councils violating their own Clean Air Zones with million-pound firework displays to people setting off rockets for driving tests in July, here’s how we turned 17th-century treason into Britain’s most hypocritical tradition.
Table of Contents.
What We’re Actually Celebrating (And Why Americans Got It Wrong)
So Americans think they invented revolution, right? July 4th, fireworks, freedom, the whole bit. Meanwhile, the British are over here going, “Yeah, yeah, we’ve been blowing shit up on November 5th since 1605, mate. Get in line.”
See, Americans celebrate winning their revolution. The British celebrate failing at one. That’s the difference right there.
Guy Fawkes tried to blow up Parliament - the whole building, with King James I inside - and they caught him. And instead of going, “Well, that was close, let’s maybe not celebrate our near-death experience,” the British said, “You know what? Let’s make this an annual thing. We’ll burn this bloke in effigy every year. Forever.”
Only the British would turn a thwarted terrorist attack into a national holiday with fireworks and bonfires. “Remember, remember the 5th of November” - yeah, we remember, you didn’t blow up Parliament. Congratulations on... not dying? Here’s a sparkler.
The Gunpowder Plot: The Actual History.
The plot was simple in concept, catastrophic in intent:
13 conspirators led by Robert Catesby (not Guy Fawkes - he was just the explosives expert)
36 barrels of gunpowder hidden in a cellar beneath the House of Lords
Target date: 5th November 1605, during the State Opening of Parliament
Motive: Catholic persecution under Protestant King James I
Outcome: Complete failure, followed by torture and execution
And the whole thing was about religion, naturally. Catholics versus Protestants. Because nothing says “love thy neighbour” like trying to explode them. Guy Fawkes was so upset about religious persecution that his solution was to commit mass murder. Real proportional response there, Guy.
But here’s the kicker - now nobody even remembers what it’s about anymore. It’s just “Bonfire Night.” Kids running around with sparklers, parents standing in the cold, going, “Why are we doing this again?”
“Something about treason, dear. Have a toffee apple.”
Modern Britain’s Version of Revolution.
You want to know what’s close to the Guy Fawkes thing today? Well, let’s actually think about this properly.
Back then, you had a guy so pissed off at the government that he literally wanted to blow up Parliament. Physical building, actual explosives, real conspiracy. Thirty-six barrels of gunpowder in a cellar. That took effort. You had to plan that. Get a team together, rent the cellar, roll the barrels in - it was a whole thing.
Britain’s Recent Riots and Civil Unrest.
The actual nearest thing we’ve got now? Those far-right riots in summer 2024 - Southport and all that spread across England. People are literally attacking police, setting fire to buildings, and trying to storm hotels with asylum seekers inside.
Or the 2011 London riots. Started with Mark Duggan getting shot, turned into days of burning buildings, looting, and police getting bricked. That’s actual chaos in the streets.
The difference is Guy Fawkes was an organised conspiracy - a plan, a goal, a religious and political ideology behind it. What we get now is spontaneous combustion. Something happens, social media amplifies it, and suddenly you’ve got mobs in the streets. But there’s no thirty-six barrels carefully placed under Parliament. It’s more like scattered matches thrown everywhere.
Even the stuff that is organised - like when that bloke drove into people on Westminster Bridge in 2017, right outside Parliament - that’s terrorism, but it’s not the same as a coordinated plot to actually decapitate the government.
Brexit: The Modern Gunpowder Plot.
Or look at Brexit. Half the country is so angry at Parliament that they voted to blow up forty years of international relations. Didn’t need gunpowder, just needed a referendum. And just like Guy Fawkes, nobody really thought through what happens after the explosion. At least Guy Fawkes had a plan. These lot voted for chaos and then thought, “Right, now what?”
Nobody’s really trying to blow up Parliament anymore. They’re too busy trying to burn down their own communities or each other.
Bit darker than toffee apples, that.
If Guy Fawkes Came Back in 2025.
Right, so imagine Guy Fawkes wakes up in 2025. Poor bastard.
First thing he notices - Parliament’s still standing. Nearly got blown up in the Blitz, caught fire a few times, but it’s still there. Four hundred and twenty years later, and the same building he tried to destroy is still full of the same sort of people arguing about the same sort of bollocks. He’d be absolutely livid.
Then someone tells him, “Oh yeah, we burn you in effigy every year.”
“You what?”
“Yeah, mate. Kids make little versions of you, stick you on a bonfire, set you on fire. Been doing it since 1605. It’s a tradition.”
Guy Fawkes would be furious. Not only did he fail, but they turned him into a cartoon villain for children’s entertainment. That’s worse than execution. At least execution has dignity. This is just taking the piss for four centuries.
What He’d Find in Modern Parliament.
Then he discovers Parliament. Goes to have a look, see what he missed. And what does he find? It’s falling apart. The whole building’s literally crumbling. Stone’s rotting, the roof’s leaking, and there are sewage problems. Parliament’s basically destroying itself, and they can’t even agree on how to fix it.
Guy Fawkes would be stood there going, “I risked my life for this? I could’ve just waited!”
Then someone shows him Prime Minister’s Questions. Just chaos. Grown adults shouting at each other like school children, nobody listening, everyone talking over everyone else, the Speaker going “ORDER! ORDER!” like a supply teacher who’s lost control.
Guy would watch that for five minutes and go, “You know what? Maybe the gunpowder was mercy.”
But here’s what would really do his head in - he finds out Catholics can vote now. Can stand for Parliament. Can even be Prime Minister, technically. Everything he tried to blow people up for? Sorted. Took a few hundred years, but they worked it out eventually through, you know, not murdering each other.
Social Media Revolutionaries vs. Real Conspirators.
Then someone hands him a smartphone. Shows him Twitter, or X, or whatever we’re calling it this week. And he sees thousands of people every day calling for revolution, saying “burn it all down,” posting V for Vendetta memes with his face on them - but none of them actually doing anything except typing angry messages.
That would break him, I think.
All that plotting, all that risk, getting tortured to death - and now any idiot can call for revolution from their sofa while watching Love Island. No consequences, no commitment, just performative rage and retweets.
Guy Fawkes would look at modern Britain and realise he died for nothing, got turned into a tourist attraction, and his legacy is anonymous masks sold on Amazon and people lighting sparklers in Asda car parks.
Then he’d probably try to blow up Parliament again, just out of spite.
Except this time he’d have to get past the security barriers, the armed police, the cameras, the bollards, the scanners - and he’d realise even that’s harder now.
Poor sod couldn’t even fail properly in 2025.
He’d end up on a watchlist before he made it to B&Q for the fertiliser.
The IRA Nearly Succeeded Where He Failed.
But here’s what would really finish him off. Guy Fawkes finds out that in 1984 - living memory for millions of Britons - the IRA actually nearly succeeded where he’d failed.
The Brighton Grand Hotel bombing. 3:00 AM, 12th October 1984. A bomb ripped through the hotel where Margaret Thatcher and her Cabinet were staying during the Conservative Party Conference. Five people killed. Thirty-four injured. The Prime Minister herself narrowly escaped death - she was still awake, working on her conference speech in her suite.
The IRA released a statement afterwards: “Today we were unlucky, but remember we only have to be lucky once. You will have to be lucky always.”
Chilling stuff.
An actual, successful bombing attack on the British Prime Minister and government. In our lifetime. Real terrorism. Real deaths. Real attempt to decapitate the government.
And what do we do to commemorate it?
Nothing.
No annual fireworks display. No Brighton Bombing Night. No effigies. No sparklers. No kids running around going “Remember, remember the 12th of October.”
Because that was actual terrorism. That was real. That killed people. That’s not something you turn into a family fun night out with toffee apples.
But Guy Fawkes? The bloke who got caught in a cellar before he could light the fuse? The one who killed precisely nobody with his thirty-six barrels of gunpowder?
Him we celebrate. Every year. With millions of pounds worth of fireworks. Because he failed so spectacularly that it’s safe to turn into entertainment.
Guy Fawkes would be stood there, looking at the history books, going: “Wait. The IRA actually blew up the Prime Minister’s hotel. They nearly killed Thatcher. They succeeded where I failed. And you don’t celebrate that, but you celebrate me? What’s wrong with you people?”
And we’d have to explain: “Well, you see, Guy, yours happened long enough ago that we’ve completely forgotten it was actual terrorism. We’ve had four hundred years to sand off all the scary edges and turn it into something we can sell at Tesco. The Brighton bombing? That’s still in living memory. People remember what real political violence looks like. Can’t really make that into a Catherine wheel, can we?”
The man would be livid. Not only did he fail where others later succeeded, but his failure is the only one we’ve turned into profit. The IRA’s attempt gets solemn remembrance. His attempt gets sparklers and hot dogs.
That’s got to be the ultimate insult.
How Supermarkets Turned Halloween and Bonfire Night Into a Double Payday.
But here’s what would truly finish him off. Here’s the bit that would make Guy Fawkes weep.
We took his failed Catholic terrorist plot and turned it into a retail opportunity.
The UK fireworks market was worth approximately £29 million in 2024, with the industry expected to grow steadily. But that’s just the wholesale figure - when you add in retail markups, related products, and organised displays, British consumers are spending vastly more on celebrating a failed terrorist attack than we ever spent trying to prevent one.
Halloween’s Celtic Origins (Not American)
Now, here’s the thing about Halloween. Americans didn’t invent it - we did. Well, the ancient Celts did. Halloween comes from Samhain, the ancient Celtic festival that marked the end of summer and the beginning of winter. Two thousand years ago, the Celts in Ireland, Scotland, and Britain celebrated it on October 31st, believing that the barrier between the living and the dead was at its thinnest. They wore costumes to disguise themselves from spirits, lit bonfires, left out food offerings.
The Irish took these traditions to America in the 19th century, the Americans commercialised the absolute life out of it, and then sold it back to us in the 1990s with plastic tat and pumpkins.
So we’ve got an ancient Celtic festival that went to America, got turned into a shopping opportunity, came back home dressed in corporate packaging, and now the shops run both celebrations simultaneously for maximum profit extraction.
The Supermarket Strategy: Both Holidays, Same Aisle.
Because here’s the genius bit: they don’t even wait. Halloween ends at midnight on October 31st, and already by 6 AM on November 1st, Tesco’s selling off the last of its Bonfire Night stock at discount prices. They’ve had it all out since mid-October. Both holidays. Same aisle. Halloween on the left, fireworks on the right.
You walk in for a pumpkin and walk out with a Catherine wheel because it was right there and it was on offer.
It’s not even a one-two punch anymore. It’s both fists at once:
October 31st: Sugar, plastic, fake cobwebs, costumes
November 5th: Explosives, jacket potatoes, toffee apples
But you’re buying it all at the same time, aren’t you? One shop, two holidays, double the spending.
The Americans get one day. We’ve managed to create a week-long spending festival that combines an ancient Celtic harvest ritual with a failed terrorist attack, all flogged to you by the same supermarket trying to shift wonky carrots.
And by November 1st? It’s all on clearance. “Last chance for fireworks! 50% off!” Because they need the shelf space for Christmas tat, which has probably been lurking in the warehouse since August.
From Terrorism to Entertainment: The Firework Evolution.
Guy Fawkes had thirty-six barrels of gunpowder. One purpose: destruction. Blow up the building, kill everyone inside, change the country. Singular, focused, deadly intent.
We’ve taken that same explosive power and turned it into entertainment. Pretty colours in the sky. Different effects. Sparkly bits that go whoosh. Some that make smiley faces or hearts. Rockets that scream on the way up. Ones that crackle, ones that whistle, ones that do absolutely sod all except make your dog hide under the stairs.
The True Cost of Bonfire Night 2025.
And the prices! Twenty quid for a box of rockets from Tesco if you’re skint - probably marked down to a tenner by November 1st. But the proper commercial displays? The ones the councils put on? Those fireworks cost £500, £1,000 each. Each one! They light up the sky for maybe thirty seconds - if you’re lucky - and then it’s gone. Just smoke and the lingering smell of cordite.
Millions of pounds worth of fireworks. Just... up in smoke. Literally. Gone into the atmosphere in a cloud of pretty sparkles and particulate matter.
And what do we do? We stand there in the freezing cold, necks craned back, going “Oooooh” and “Ahhhhh” like we’ve never seen coloured explosions before. Then there’s a gap. A long gap. Everyone’s standing there, waiting. Freezing. Kids are asking if it’s finished. “No, no, there’s more coming. Just wait.”
Then another one goes up. Thirty seconds of sparkly. Then another wait.
We’ve turned attempted regicide into a very slow, very expensive light show that requires industrial levels of patience and thermal underwear.
Guy Fawkes wanted his barrels of gunpowder to mean something. To do something. To fundamentally alter the course of British history. We’ve turned those same barrels into a thousand quid’s worth of “pretty sparkles” that everyone forgets about by the time they get home.
The Clean Air Zone Hypocrisy: When Councils Violate Their Own Rules.
And here’s the absolute beauty of it: standing right there in the crowd, necks craned back, going “Oooooh” and “Ahhhhh” at the explosions? The climate activists. The very same people who spend the other 364 days of the year banging on about carbon footprints and air quality.
You cannot make this up.
Climate Activists Love Fireworks (Apparently)
These are the people who’ll lecture you about your diesel car, your gas boiler, your holiday to Spain. They’ll glue themselves to motorways, throw soup at paintings, and chain themselves to oil refineries. But come November 5th? They’re right there with everyone else, watching councils burn through millions in taxpayer money to pump toxic chemicals into the sky for thirty seconds of pretty colours.
The cognitive dissonance is staggering.
“We must save the planet! Also, let’s set fire to tonnes of gunpowder and metal salts and watch them explode into the atmosphere! Oooh, that one’s shaped like a smiley face!”
Clean Air Zones: Rules for Thee, Not for Me.
And don’t even get me started on the councils with their Clean Air Zones. You know, those same councils charging you nine quid a day to drive your ten-year-old Fiesta through the city centre because apparently your exhaust fumes are killing everyone?
Those exact same councils are the ones organising massive firework displays that pump more particulate matter into the air in one evening than your car produces in a month.
According to research, Bonfire Night causes soot levels in the atmosphere to be up to 100 times higher than usual, with particulate pollution remaining suspended in the air for days afterwards. Studies have shown that in 2010, estimated emissions from Guy Fawkes celebrations were greater than those created by municipal waste incineration over the entire year.
“Sorry, your 2015 diesel? That’ll be nine quid. Health hazard, that is. Oh, by the way, we’re setting off £50,000 worth of explosives on November 5th. Totally different. That’s tradition.”
The hypocrisy is chef’s kiss.
They’ll fine you for idling your engine at a traffic light - “Think of the air quality!” - then turn around and organise a coordinated municipal bombing campaign that turns the sky orange and makes the whole town smell like a war zone.
The pollutants released on Bonfire Night include carbon monoxide (CO), carbon dioxide (CO2), sulphur dioxide (SO2), particulate matter (PM2.5), and toxic metals including lithium, barium, copper, strontium, and aluminium. These particles can penetrate deep into the lungs, causing respiratory issues and exacerbating conditions like asthma and COPD.
And nobody says a word. Nobody protests:
Climate activists don’t glue themselves to the firework launch site
Just Stop Oil doesn’t throw soup at the council’s Bonfire Night planning committee
Extinction Rebellion doesn’t chain themselves to the gates
Because it’s tradition, innit? It’s culture. It’s British.
So the rules don’t apply.
You can’t drive your car without paying a pollution tax, but the council can literally explode chemicals into the atmosphere by the tonne and call it “community celebration.”
Guy Fawkes would be fascinated by this. Here’s a society that claims to care desperately about the environment, implementing ever-stricter controls on emissions, banning this and taxing that - and yet once a year, they all gather together to celebrate his failed terrorism by intentionally polluting the air on an industrial scale.
And paying for the privilege.
Ten quid entry to watch your council violate its own clean air policies in the name of remembering a bloke who tried to commit mass murder four hundred years ago.
You couldn’t write it. Except, I am. Right now, in fact.
When Every Day Became Bonfire Night.
And here’s where it gets properly mental: it’s not even just November 5th anymore.
Guy Fawkes tried to blow up Parliament on one specific day for one specific reason. It had meaning. It had purpose. It was supposed to be about something.
Now? Fireworks go off whenever someone fancies it.
The Year-Round Firework Phenomenon.
“Remember, remember the 5th of November” has become “Remember, remember... literally any day we feel like it.”
Real reasons people set off fireworks in 2025:
Grandma’s had a hip replacement? Fireworks.
Tommy passed his driving test? Fireworks.
Gender reveal party on a random Tuesday in March? Fireworks.
New Year’s Eve (fair enough)
Diwali (absolutely legitimate)
Weddings? Fireworks.
Birthday parties? Fireworks.
Mate’s stag do at 11 PM on a Thursday? Fireworks.
The cat’s had kittens? Better let off a few rockets. Passed your GCSEs? That’s worth some Roman candles. Your team won the match? Time to terrorise every dog in a three-mile radius.
We’ve completely divorced fireworks from Guy Fawkes. They’re no longer about remembering a historical event - they’re just recreational explosives for any occasion whatsoever.
The Facebook Group Posts (Every Single Time).
And every single time, you get the same thing on the local Facebook group:
“Anyone know why fireworks are going off in Wythenshawe? It’s not November 5th???”
“Someone’s probably celebrating something.”
“At 10:30 on a Wednesday?!”
“Could be anything. Birthday, anniversary, Tuesday...”
“My dog’s having a breakdown.”
“Why are people allowed to just set off fireworks whenever they want?!”
“It’s a free country, innit?”
Is it though? You can’t drive through a Clean Air Zone without getting fined, but you can apparently launch explosive devices into the sky whenever the mood takes you, for whatever reason you fancy, regardless of who it disturbs or what it does to the air quality.
Fireworks Regulations: The Rules Nobody Follows.
Guy Fawkes had thirty-six barrels of gunpowder and a very specific political and religious motivation.
Modern Britain’s got thirty-six varieties of firework at B&M and absolutely no motivation whatsoever except “felt like it.”
The man risked his life, got tortured, and died a horrific death trying to make a statement.
We’ve turned his statement into “Congratulations on passing your MOT, mate. Here’s a Catherine wheel.”
It’s not even about tradition anymore. It’s just become accepted that sometimes, for no apparent reason, someone in your neighbourhood is going to start World War Three at 9:47 PM on a random weeknight, and you’re supposed to just... deal with it.
Your dog’s having a panic attack? Deal with it. Your baby’s just woken up screaming? Deal with it. You’ve got work at 6 AM? Deal with it. Someone’s celebrating... something. Could be anything. But they’ve got fireworks, and by God, they’re going to use them.
And the best bit? The councils that run those massive organised displays - the ones that violate their own Clean Air Zones - they’ve got rules about when you can set off your own fireworks. Very specific rules. Can’t do it after 11 PM, except on certain designated days.
Do people follow them? Do they bollocks.
Because once you’ve normalised exploding things in the sky as entertainment, it’s very hard to put that genie back in the bottle.
Guy Fawkes wanted to explode Parliament to change the course of history.
We’ve turned explosion into such a casual part of everyday life that hearing rockets go off on a random Tuesday doesn’t even warrant investigation anymore.
“Oh, fireworks. Must be someone’s kid got into uni. Or their hamster died. Or it’s a day that ends in Y. Who knows anymore?”
The man died for nothing, got turned into a children’s party, and his legacy is that British people now think setting off explosives in residential areas to celebrate absolutely anything is perfectly reasonable behaviour.
That’s the final insult, really. Not just that we commercialised his revolution or turned it into entertainment. But that we made it so mundane, so routine, so utterly divorced from meaning that people are launching his symbolic weapon into the sky to celebrate hip operations.
“Remember, remember... oh, sod it, can’t remember why we’re doing this. Something about Grandma’s physiotherapy going well, did you say? Okay, light the fuse.”
The Most British Thing Ever: What Bonfire Night 2025 Really Means.
It’s the most British thing imaginable, really.
Take an ancient Celtic harvest festival, let the Americans commercialise it, buy it back and run it simultaneously with our own violent revolutionary act, strip out all the politics and danger from both, add corporate sponsorship, stick them both in the same aisle at Tesco, charge people a fortune to stand in a muddy field watching expensive explosions that pump toxic chemicals into a Clean Air Zone, normalise setting off explosives for literally any reason whatsoever at any time of year, and serve with overpriced refreshments.
And have everyone, including the climate activists, turn up and cheer.
What We’ve Done to Guy Fawkes’ Legacy.
Guy Fawkes wanted to change the country with thirty-six barrels of gunpowder.
We’ve turned those thirty-six barrels into:
A £29 million fireworks industry (wholesale value alone).
Millions more in commercial displays exploded in Clean Air Zones by councils that fine you for car emissions.
Air pollution spikes 100 times normal levels, with emissions exceeding annual waste incineration output.
Random celebrations throughout the year for everything from Diwali to “our Kevin passed his forklift certification.”
Entertainment for climate activists who’ve declared a permanent ceasefire in their war on pollution (as long as it’s colourful)
A complete contradiction that nobody acknowledges
The Modern Bonfire Night Experience.
Every town’s got an organised display now. Multiple times a year, if you count Diwali and New Year’s.
What you get for your money:
£10 entry, £10 parking
£5 for a hot chocolate that’s just warm milk
£3 for a hot dog from 2019
90 minutes watching fireworks that cost more than your monthly food budget
PM2.5 particulate levels up to 100 times normal, containing toxic metals
More pollution than your annual driving produces
Agonising gaps between each explosion
Where this happens:
In a Clean Air Zone
That the council created
And is now violating
With your money
Whilst charging you £9 a day to drive through it
While someone three streets over is simultaneously setting off their own fireworks because their daughter got her braces off.
We’ve turned religious extremism into a family fun night out with premium ticket packages, VIP viewing areas, a complete suspension of all environmental principles, and an open invitation to set off explosives whenever anyone feels like it for whatever reason they can think of.
The Ultimate Irony.
Guy Fawkes tried to destroy the establishment with gunpowder. Instead, the establishment turned his gunpowder into a profit centre that makes nothing but noise, light, air pollution 100 times normal levels, and shareholder dividends - whilst simultaneously fining you £9 a day (in Bristol) for the emissions from your car - and we’ve normalised it so thoroughly that people think setting off explosives to celebrate a driving test is perfectly reasonable behaviour.
That’s got to sting worse than the torture.
The man’s been dead for over four hundred years. He’s still making money for the system he tried to blow up, and providing cover for that system to violate its own rules about air quality. His weapon of choice has become so commonplace that it’s now acceptable to detonate it in residential areas for literally any reason, including medical procedures and minor personal achievements.
The logic is flawless.
What Nobody Remembers Anymore.
Ask a kid at a bonfire display what it’s about and they’ll say, “Fireworks, innit?”
“Why, though?”
“Dunno. Something about a man. Can I have a toffee apple?”
“But why are there fireworks going off in July?”
“Someone’s cat’s birthday, probably.”
We’ve managed to divorce the commercial celebration from any actual meaning completely, as well as from consistency with our stated environmental values and any connection to the actual date it’s supposed to commemorate. It’s just explosions, all the time, for any reason, consequences be damned.
The Americans at least won their thing and keep their fireworks to the 4th of July.
The British are out there year-round celebrating a failure with a £29 million industry (and growing) worth of fireworks that violate every environmental principle we claim to hold dear, watched by climate activists who’ve decided air pollution is fine if it’s colourful enough, set off by councils on official occasions and random citizens whenever they feel like it, all in the name of... well, nothing really. Just because we can.
That’s very British, isn’t it? Making the best of a bad situation whilst maintaining absolutely no logical consistency whatsoever and normalising the absurd to the point where nobody even questions it anymore.
“Well, we nearly got blown up. Let’s blow up several million quid on sparkly rockets that create air pollution 100 times normal levels whilst we just spent millions on Clean Air Zones. Better have a sausage. Oh, and Dave down the road’s setting some off tonight because his lad got a job at Currys.”
We’ve taken an ancient Celtic festival about the dead, treason, torture, religious persecution, and state execution, and somehow turned them into wholesome family entertainment where the biggest threat is hypothermia, the biggest tragedy is three damp squibs, the biggest hypocrisy is councils violating their own Clean Air Zones, and the biggest absurdity is that we’ve made it so normal that people think launching explosives to celebrate Gran’s hip replacement is just what you do.
I’d say Guy Fawkes is spinning in his grave, but knowing the British, we’ve probably sold tickets to that too. Premium viewing, an extra tenner, carbon offset not included. Fireworks display at 9 PM, regardless of the day, because someone’s goldfish has learned a new trick.
Remember, Remember...
Remember, remember the 5th of November... or don’t. Just set them off whenever. For whatever. Nobody cares anymore. It’s a tradition. Sort of. Maybe. Was it? Doesn’t matter. Got any sparklers?
Happy Bonfire Night 2025. Your council thanks you for your compliance with the £9-a-day Clean Air Zone charges, while they violate their own regulations with your tax money, creating pollution spikes 100 times the normal level. Guy Fawkes thanks you for turning his martyrdom into a reason to celebrate driving tests with explosives. And Tesco thanks you for contributing to the £29 million UK fireworks industry by buying both Halloween and Bonfire Night stock in one convenient shopping trip.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, someone three doors down is setting off rockets because their hamster’s learnt to use its wheel. It’s 11:37 PM on Halloween. This is Britain. This is normal. This is fine.
What are your Bonfire Night 2025 plans? Attending an organised display in your local Clean Air Zone? Setting off fireworks to celebrate something completely unrelated to the Gunpowder Plot? Share your thoughts below - just don’t blame me when your neighbour sets off a rocket at midnight because their sourdough starter finally worked.