Guy Fawkes Night; What's it all about and why do we celebrate?

In two weeks time celebrations will reign across England. Flames will cackle at the wood by which they are fueled. Fireworks will soar and light up the night sky. Aluminum foil will blacken around the jacket potatoes housed within. And drinks will most certainly be drunk.

“Remember, remember the Fifth of November” is a phrase well known in the United Kingdom. Over 400 years have passed since the plot to destroy London’s Houses of Parliament was thwarted, yet Guy Fawkes Night (also popularly known as Bonfire, or Fireworks Night) remains a highly celebrated occasion in most of the UK, and even some of its former colonies.

As a Canadian writer living in London, whose awareness of the historical event was limited to that told in the blockbuster film V for Vendetta, I wanted to know more about what drew so many people out of their homes each year to join in the festivities.

So I went to my most obvious source and the person with whom I plan to celebrate the occasion: my Oxford-born girlfriend.

“It’s about Guy Fawkes. He tried to blow up Parliament,” she told me. I agreed, but asked again why it was a celebration and what exactly were people celebrating. “Hm. Don’t know really.”

I asked some friends in London. Nothing. I asked some people sitting in Starbucks as I drank my morning coffee. Nope. I asked the gentleman sitting next to me on the tube. Nada.

And then I came to the conclusion that, like Christmas has become a celebration of gifts and family, like Boxing Day has become a celebration of shops with slashed prices, like Easter has become a celebration of chocolate bunnies and painted eggs; the origins and the purpose of celebrating Guy Fawkes Night has long been forgotten by many (if not most) Londoners.

Guy Fawkes was one of 13 English Catholic conspirators involved in hatching the Gunpowder Plot to blow up the Houses of Parliament on 5 November, 1605. The Plot was led by Sir Robert Catesby, who was believed to be disappointed and angered when King James turned out to be much less tolerant of religion than his followers had hoped.

Most people today seem to have a general idea of how things unfolded. Fawkes was elected to set 36 barrels of gunpowder in a cellar directly underneath the House of Lords during the State Opening of the Parliament, killing the King. But an anonymous letter was revealed to authorities and to the King, who ordered the building searched until Fawkes was eventually found patrolling the gunpowder and all the necessary tools to set the building to dust.

On 7 November, Fawkes succumbed to his torturers, revealing the entire plot and all those involved. All 13 were either arrested and executed, or killed resisting their capture.

But does that explain the bonfires, burning effigies, and fireworks? Did Britons love their monarchy so dearly that the foiled plot gave them cause to shoot lights into the air and set stuffed-Fawkes dummies alight, continuing still even four centuries later? Not quite.

The year following the Gunpowder Plot, Parliament passed the Thanksgiving Act, making 5 November an official annual event on which sermons would be given to commemorate the spoiling of the Plot. Coincidentally, this occurred at the same time as the pagan Gaelic festival, Samhain. This overlap is where the flames factor in.

Samhain was celebrated to mark the end of the harvest season, what Gaels called the ending “lighter half”, and the beginning of the “darker half”. They saw the dying crops associated with end of harvest as the time of year when the gap between this world and the “other” was the thinnest, allowing the dead of the otherworld to take life from the living. Bonfires were the most prominent symbol in recognizing the occasion and they were used to cleanse the living.

The Gaels celebrated Samhain in full mask and costume, which they believed might placate the spirits of the otherworld. Turnips were hollowed and carved into faced lanterns. All traditions that eventually would make their way into Christian-celebrated All Hallow’s Day on 1 November and All Hallow’s Eve on 31 October; which has evolved into today’s secular Halloween.

Part of the Samhain celebration was the burning of a masked and costumed dummy that was thrown into the fire. After the Thanksgiving Act passed and Britons celebrated the foiling of Guy Fawkes alongside Samhain, the dummy, dubbed a “guy”, over time became a personification of Guy himself. This gave rise to the UK tradition of holding a bonfire, setting things alight, and watching an effigy of Guy Fawkes slow-roast. The Thanksgiving Act remained law until 1859, but the festive celebrations live on.

                So this Guy Fawkes Night when someone coyly remarks, “Remember, remember the Fifth of November,” you should certainly have no reasons as to why, “it should ever be forgot.”

My night out at the Royal Albert Hall

Royal Albert Hall at night

I have never been a fan of classical music. Screaming guitar riffs and pounding drum solos have always taken precedence on my iPod over screechy violins and weeping cellos. And as I wait for my host for the evening I begin to regret ever accepting the invitation to sit through multiple hours of the Royal Liverpool Philharmonic Orchestra, a performance to which I've been persuaded with an "extra ticket".


As she turns the corner a few dozen yards away, I catch the eye of my company for the night; a former co-worker from my college job at a clothing store that specializes in over-priced jeans and flashy crystal-studded shirts. On her arm is her new beau, a successful Hollywood special effects man and the gracious donor of the now-dreaded extra ticket. I hug my old friend and introduce myself to her hubby, thanking him through my teeth for having insisted that I join them. He asks if I ever enjoy classical in my spare time. I lie.


There is one detail of the night, however, that as we stroll towards our destination has me hopeful and excited that I may still enjoy myself: the venue.


"Have you ever been to the Albert Hall?", he asks me. I hadn't, despite an interest since I'd seen a documentary featuring the site in some forgotten period of my yet earlier youth. As I answer, the corner of my mouth curls up at my first distant view of the Hall as it emanates every bit of grandeur I had expected.


The Royal Albert Hall was the brain-child of Prince Albert after the 1851 Great Exhibition, held in Hyde Park, which prompted the Prince Consort to propose construction of new grounds to permanently exhibit the Arts and Sciences and educate the public. Sadly, Prince Albert died ten years before the Hall's completion and grand opening on 29 March, 1871.


The exterior design makes the building one of the most recognizable in London. The influence of Ancient Greek or Roman amphitheatres is immediately apparent in the work of the Hall's designers, civil engineers Captain Francis Fowke and Major-General Henry Y. D. Scott. Its elliptical body consists of Fareham Red brick and terra cotta. Around the building stretches a large mosaic frieze, illustrating various scenes titled "The Triumph of the Arts and Sciences"; the cause to which the Hall was commissioned.


Atop the stunning red building sits its most defining feature, a 41-metre-high glass and iron dome. At the time of construction in 1869, the roof was, "the largest of its kind ever to span an unsupported space".


While London school children popularly purport The Albert as the home to Hitler's, er... lost private part, the interior has served far greater purposes. The Albert has been home to performances from Rachmaninov to Led Zeppelin, from Wagner to Sinatra, from The Beatles to Jay-Z. It has housed
speeches from world leaders such as Her Majesty The Queen, Sir Winston Churchill, Nelson Mandela, and the Dalai Lama.


I step into the entrance hallway through Door 6, and maneuver through crowds of concert-goers and classical enthusiasts, most mingling at the bar and chatting over glasses of champagne and wine. The usher checks my ticket and points me through a doorway into the Hall.


I can't help but grin. It's stunning. I'm struck by a wave of deep red, every bit in keeping with the Hall's "Royal" title. The chairs in the first section of seating that surround the floor and stage are covered in rich scarlett velvet with aged golden frames. The private boxes are framed by scarlett drapes and white Ionic columns with scroll-shaped capitals resting at their tops. The sectioned seats wrap all the way around behind the stage and underneath the masterpiece of the room; the second largest organ in the British Isles, boasting 9,999 pipes.



At the height of the room, suspended from the roof, are a series of large discs, or "mushrooms", as they are commonly called. I think back to the documentary in an effort to recall their purpose. The discs had been installed in the late 1960s to remedy problems with the building's acoustics. The grand opening, nearly 100 years earlier, had revealed that the acoustics of the room had not been entirely thought through and the Hall was plagued by a noticeable echo.


As the Royal Liverpool Philharmonic take the stage, led by conductor Vasily Petrenko, stragglers shuffle into their respective rows. They murmur "thank you"s and flash insincere smiles to the early-birds who muddle their discontent at being removed from their chairs time and time again.


The stage comfortably houses the massive orchestra. My eyes adjust as the house lights dim, leaving only the spotlight to illuminate the orchestra in an electric blue, which contrasts the scarlett room beautifully. The orchestra begins and I'm delighted to discover that I recognize several of the opening pieces. I can't quite put a name to them until I'm later told, but the simple sense of familiarity fills me with a false sense of belonging at the event.


The music continues as Petrenko passionately conducts his orchestra and guest soloists enter and exit the stage at the behest of the cheering crowd. I couldn't care less, but I'm still entertained. Not by the orchestra, or Petrenko, or the series of FM Radio hosts emcee'ing the evening, but by the room itself. I feel part of something older than me. Bigger than me. Something truly royal.


The orchestra concludes the evening with Tchaikovsky's "1812 Overture", cannons and all, and I bustle towards the exit with my hosts and the rest of the sold-out crowd. After a few extra moments of mingling, I thank my new and old friend and I head home, happy. Classical music may not have swept me off my feet, but a classic venue did.