The night after Guy Fawkes Day,

The night after Guy Fawkes Day.

So here we are on the night after the most explosive and colourful night of the year. While the children have finally let off those traditional bangers and Catherine wheels with their pungent smell of fire and smoke drifting languidly into the night sky, the adults are probably more concerned about General Elections, their personal choice of Prime Minister and the loose tongue of one Jacob Rees Mogg.

But fireworks night always takes us back almost inevitably to our childhood when those trusty Standard fireworks would come neatly packaged,  complete with a whole box of which remind you of sticks of dynamite. Here they sit bunched together, ready to be launched before a breathless and excited audience of children and doting parents, ever smiling, wide eyed and desperate to see that annual display of pyrotechnical fun and games.

For those of us who grew up in the peaceful and salubrious Essex suburb of Ilford, most of us can still remember gathering together every year on a boggy, muddy playing field where once the great feelgood soul man James Brown once graced us with his presence. We must have known it was James Brown because every so often you could still probably hear that loud grunt of pleasure, a stifled scream indicating that euphoria had indeed broken out over Ilford. Of course Brown felt good if only because that extravagant rock and roll lifestyle had quite categorically entered his soul.

Every year without fail the Melbourne Fields would come alive on Guy Fawkes Night. And yet the firework display itself would never seem to turn up on the night in question. For reasons best known to the local organisers it would always be held a couple of nights before. It was usually on the first Saturday evening in November and every year we would patiently wait outside Valentines Park, shivering with cold, rubbing our hands together desperately for warmth before realising that this was as good as it was going to get.

So it was that we leaned on the green railings next to Melbourne Fields, pulling up our coat hoods against the first hints of rain that would eventually give way to torrential rain. Then we raced onto a dark and dank playing field now completely caked in thick, cloying mud, exposed to what became an increasingly bitterly cold evening, wind swept, murky and only redeemed by something pretty special. The night was young and in the distance we could see, to the great delight of the youngsters, a mini fairground. Yes folks, a fairground with all the trappings of a fairground in November.

Now it was possible to believe that the usual summer fairground that had so briefly entertained the children of our age had come around again. Suddenly, there was the flashing, flickering, sparky ferris wheel, spinning and whirling, winking at us amiably, flying through the air at the rate of knots. There was that stall where you could quite easily win that much coveted goldfish but only if you could prove your throwing skills by landing three rings on whatever object you were required to get those elusive fish.

Then there was the dart board which bore no resemblance to the one you would normally find in your local pub because there were no pints of lager by way of reward if you were ever so fortunate to win cuddly teddy bears or yet more goldfish. There was that carousel that rose and fell, mechanical horses that responded in perfect time to the latest music of the time. What did seem baffling though was why the people who ran the carousel were so intent on playing the likes of Eddie Cochran or Johnny Rae. Of course there was nothing wrong with such rock and roll royalty but it was music that was relevant to the 1950s and no longer seemed applicable to the late 1970s. Still, we did know how to enjoy ourselves and who cared.

Over on the other side of the Melbourne Fields there was something else going on which illuminated a now freezing November night. Now to say this was one of the most improbable sights you were ever likely to see on Bonfire Night would be entirely correct. Proudly standing in one very isolated corner of Melbourne Fields was a film projector screen ready and waiting to crank out some of the most charming cartoons in the whole of Essex.

Before you could say Walt Disney, a spectacular repertoire of Disney's finest would burst onto the screen. Courtesy of Redbridge council and its exceedingly generous coffers, Mickey Mouse, Donald Duck and all of his Disney colleagues would put on their familiar show of camaraderie just for us. Amid the now sleeting, slanting rain we would gaze up at a considerably scaled down version of the conventional Odeon screen, squinting through the drizzle and then rushing for the fairground if only to camp out under one of the stalls.

By the end of the evening we felt as though as we'd been part of an evening that was somehow unique, a double whammy dose of good, old fashioned childish entertainment. In the old days of course there were no distracting I Pads or Tablets to worry ourselves over unduly, no Facebook or Twitter friends to add or communicate with and none of those millions of Apps to peruse and then to inquire about should you have been so inclined.

We played football on the streets and roads until dark when our parents ordered us back into our homes. We threw stones onto the pavement, thrilled to the experience of hop scotch and then listened out for the Rossi's ice cream van because that was so immensely exhilarating and just a sweet, innocent joy. Guy Fawkes though night represented complete escapism, an event of  such deep significance that school homework had to be delayed temporarily.

 For one evening we could cry out with amazement at something we must have seen a thousand times before on previous Guy Fawkes nights. It was the re-enactment of that old story. Oh to be a child from yesteryear. Such fond memories. May they never fade. Life is so sweet. Has anybody got a Space Hopper or Adidas T-shirt to spare? Of course they're in the cupboard.