So, now the powers-that-be and those that should be obeyed, are proposing to call a halt to the Blackheath fireworks display that, over the years, has entertained many hundreds of thousands – if not millions – of people, all in the name of saving a few quid.

Oh well, that’s all right then. Instead, we will all go out and buy our own fireworks from the local newsagent and have a good old-fashioned bonfire party in the back garden.

Damn, I forgot!

We must not do that because fireworks are dangerous and someone might get their fingers blown off or their face disfigured for life.

At least that was the message from the Blue Peter presenters, wasn’t it?

Your Lord is in a bit of a quandary now. Is the time-honoured tradition of bonfire night to be celebrated or not?

It’s a tough one, to be sure.

As a child, I remember being told the story of Guy and how he tried to blow up the Houses of Parliament but failed and was consequently hung, drawn and quartered.

In times past, during the run-up to Guy Fawkes’ night, we spent many a happy hour in the classroom drawing fireworks and bonfires and, come 5th November, could not wait for dad to get home after a hard day’s work so that we could drag him up to the top of the garden with the box of Standard Fireworks he had brought home.

The bonfire was waiting to be lit after weeks of building and the ‘Guy’ we had made from worn out clothes stuffed with old newspapers and anything else we could find that would burn, would be sitting forlornly in the passage awaiting its fiery end.

Mother would have wrapped some potatoes in foil ready to be put in the embers and the sparklers would be sitting in the biscuit tin waiting to be joined by Traffic Lights, Roman Candles, Catherine Wheels and the Mount Vesuvius that more often than not remained dormant long after its blue touch paper had been lit.

We had had the Firework Code drummed into us by our primary school teachers (and Blue Peter presenters) so we were forearmed and forewarned; never let it be thought that a child from our generation would be so silly as to return to a lit firework that did not perform, or pick up a sparkler that had gone out but still remained painfully red-hot to the touch.

After placing poor Guy on top of the bonfire, daddies all over the country would take great pride in lighting the fire and watching the delight of the children’s faces as the flames licked higher and higher. With cheers of joy from everyone, Guy would eventually be engulfed by flames and consumed by fire.

After watching the usually disappointing firework display of Catherine Wheels that did not turn and bangers that did not bang, the potatoes would be brought out of the ashes to be hungrily consumed by all, though there were a few burnt lips along the way.

Having said all that, we would still venture to Blackheath on the Saturday to enjoy the much bigger fireworks display and experience the crowds offering their ‘Oohs’ and ‘Aahhs’ and stand in wonderment with our necks craned to the night sky as it was lit up with exploding colours of pyrotechnic wizardry.

Now, back to 2008 … Our traditions are quickly being taken away from us at a frightening rate. Not only have Jesus and Mary been replaced in our Nativity plays by Postman Pat and Bob The Builder, but anti-hero Guy Fawkes has been pushed aside in favour of keeping an eye on the coffers.

Perhaps Mr Fawkes had it right all along? When I meet him in Hell I will shake his hand and buy him some grog.

Erastus