Rustle, crump, whoosh, crackle, bang, phut. Where would we be without fireworks to cure the November blues? True, dogs hate them. The fire brigade isn’t keen. Sensible mums buy in extra calamine. But fireworks are part of our national life, perhaps more in British gardens than anywhere west of China.
Watching my father lighting rockets and Etna cones with the glow from his pipe was an unforgettable part of my early childhood. Most of us have memories of teeth-snapping toffee apples, sparklers and spluttering Catherine wheels failing to rotate.
Handel’s Music for the Royal Fireworks, an early sound and light show held on April 27 1749, was the classic display gone wrong. The wooden structure it was staged on caught alight and burned down. Musicians were singed. Serves George II right for “celebrating” anything quite as boring as the Treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle.
But no one has ever come up with a better way of celebrating jubilees, opening ceremonies, colonial handovers and the power of governments than a firework display in which thousands of pounds goes up in a few minutes of light and smoke. Watching money burn is its own joy. The Beijing Olympics opening ceremony used up an estimated £13 million worth of whizz-bangs in one bash. Even then, it is said that they digitally faked parts of the display for the telly coverage.
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