Oxford's largest Fireworks Display, all profits to charity. Buy tickets from Walters of Turl Street, Shepherd & Woodward (Summertown), Eggs Eggcetera (Botley Road), Old Black Horse (St Clements), Fusion Hair (Headington), Sainsbury's in the Westgate Centre or any G&Ds café.
When I was young and full of fun we used to beg around.
‘Penny for the Guy' was commonplace:
A dummy with a mask upon his face,
And a broken pram we'd ‘found'!
He'd Dad's old suit that Mum had said was only fit for burning.
Moth-eaten scarf around his throat;
Trousers tied with a length of rope,
We'd jockey for the richest Witney pitch: outside the pub or chippy.
Banter with drunks for some of their change;
Ambush them by The Corn Exchange,
Get thumped for being lippy!
We bought bangers and rockets at Boswells (well, we got the older kids to!)
Jumping jacks and sparklers packets,
Easily concealed inside our jackets,
To be let off in the cut-through!
Everyone knew a kid who'd lost some fingers to a banger.
He'd just held on
For a second too long,
And dropped the ultimate clanger!
Organised parties are all very well and the displays are often magic.
But bonfire night
Doesn't feel quite right
If you're out with your mum: it's tragic!
So give me the days of begging on the street for a penny or two from a stranger.
A homemade Guy
In an old school tie
And a bommy night fraught with danger!
The Poppy's Power
I sit on a beach,
I sit in a car,
I sit at home,
I sit in class,
Mothers, Brothers, Sisters, Cousins, Aunties, Uncles and more.
We have to stop and pray for them
two minutes, that's all they get
for they fought for us in the war
and the Government have to bet.
The British win, the German lose.
Each poppy represents a man or woman
and that's the poppy's power.
I saw a guy. Up on a stack,
He looked pretty sad
I looked again, and a flame on his leg,
Burnt through his pants he had,
His bum was scorched,
His hair was too,
He did not scream,
The pain was through,
A bit of him here,
A bit of him there,
All the village folk,
Just stop and stare,
Another year gone,
A terrible shame,
There once was a man,
Who had, had a name.
Indian Summer's been and gone
The Harvest now is safely stored
Grey squirrels curl up in their nests
To hibernate in winter warmth
Autumn Days are rushing by
Pumpkins flourish in their prime
Soon it will be Hallowe'en
A special supernatural time
Witches will be flying high
Clearly etched against the moon
Their broomsticks sturdy, spruce and strong
Silhouetted in the gloom
Fast approaches Guy Fawkes Day
With flashing fireworks loud and bright
A little piece of history here
Burning Bonfires on the Night
The dying embers glow and pop
Large potatoes bake and roast
“Apple-bobbin's” still in vogue
And russet cider's served by ghosts
Traditional food is handed round
To nourish and delight each guest
Oatmeal parkin circulates
Homemade toffees pass the test
Sweet chilli bangers taste so good
Magic sparklers dip and weave
The woodland creatures hide and watch
The trespassers until they leave
As I follow footsteps on a wet ground,
I see orange leaves dancing in the windy air,
Surrounded by a rainy symphony,
Expressing the anger of the Autumn soul,
Singing the melody of a transitional heart,
Exploding in emotions,
Screaming as fireworks,
and fading away as the shades of a colourful rainbow...