Six

Patrick McGoohan as Number 6. Image: Wikipeida

UPDATE!  UPDATE!  UPDATE!

The book this blog proposed became reality in April 2023, when it was released as Unity: Peace for All, Freedom for None.

Please visit Amazon for rave reviews, plus format options of paperback, eBook, and - in the UK - hardback.

Author of The Wicker Man, David Pinner, calls Unity 'A fine thriller,' and even diehard Prisoner fans are enjoying it. Be seeing you!

I'm using my blog site for a totally different purpose this time. Instead of another amusing,
thought-provoking article (settle down please) this time I'm presenting you with the first few pages of a potential novel.

The storyline is unashamedly inspired and driven by the cult British TV series The Prisoner from the late 1960s, starring Patrick McGoohan as an ex-intelligence officer who is captured and confined to 'The Village.' 

His wardens want to know why he resigned, and any other information he can give them. 

He resists, in every way possible. He will not be pushed, filed, stamped, indexed, briefed, debriefed or numbered. He is, he insists, a free man. Those behind the scenes of his incarceration would beg to differ. This is their story.

Six

The Prisoner: Same time, Same Story, Different Angle

  © Mike Bodnar 2021

1967

Central London

The thunderclap came out of nowhere. It shook windows in office buildings; shoppers and tourists stopped in their tracks and looked to the sky. It was bright and hazy. Confusing, no sign of rain. A second equally-loud thunderclap shook the air, rolling on for a moment, which then – for those in Westminster – morphed into the thunderous roar of a small sports car speeding through the streets.

The car's driver didn't react to the thunder, didn't slow down, actually didn't care about the weather. He had more urgent things on his mind. He swung round a corner, chopped from second to third and put his foot down.

                                                                * * * *

Virgil Street, London

Charles wound down the last of the windows of the gleaming black vehicle half way, and began the almost-ceremonial wiping of the tops of each door glass with his chamois cloth. Not many people know to do this final thing after washing a motor car, he thought. It's the attention to detail that counts. Anyone sees these windows down won't see any dried droplets along the top, or streaks. It's what sets a professional driver apart, he smiled to himself.

'There Tommy,' he said to his mechanic who was at the workbench. 'That's how to properly clean a motor car. Spick and span, ready for inspection.'

Tommy turned and shook his head. He'd heard this many times before.

The phone at the back of the garage rang, and Charles wrung his chamois out as he headed for the office door. 'I'll get it,' he said.

It was the red phone, Charles noted. His heart rate increased, and he cleared his throat, picked up the receiver.

'Yes?'

'I understand you can supply a dozen red roses on the 27th,' a woman's voice said clearly, then paused.

'Two dozen for members of the family,' Charles replied.

'Right. Charles, job for you, priority one.' The caller, satisfied that the counter-response was correct, now talked hurriedly.

'No problem ma’am, where and when?'

'Now actually – we might already be too late. One male. He'll be leaving Abingdon Street any moment. Green and yellow Lotus sports car, Kilo Alpha Romeo 120 Charlie. He'll likely head home, One, Buckingham Place, SW1. Head there if you lose him. If he doesn't turn up immediately, wait. He'll arrive eventually. Be careful. He's angry, so make sure the subject is compliant before entry. You know where to take him.'

'Of course ma’am. Leave it to me.'

The anonymous caller cut the connection and Charles put the phone down.

'Tom! We're on!' he called. Tom wiped his hands on a cloth and pressed the control that opened the garage door, then climbed out of his overalls and grabbed his black suit coat. Charles peeled off his own overalls to reveal his formal clothing underneath. He grabbed his own black coat and two spotless top hats off the shelf and ran to the hearse, donning the coat as he went.

Tommy climbed in the passenger seat and the gleaming Austin Princess eased out into the street, the garage door closing automatically behind.

Charles picked up the radio handset from under the dashboard. 'Mobile Black, Mobile Black to Mobile Control, receiving, over?'

The radio speaker crackled and a male voice answered immediately. 'Mobile Control, Mobile Black, receiving. You have your instructions?'

'Yes sir, en route now. Traffic is good, ETA five minutes.'

'Make it three. Out.'

'What's the job?' asked Tommy, checking his tie in the vanity mirror on the sun shade. He combed his hair with his fingers.

'Extraction,' said Charles. 'Just the one. Male. We'll use the knockout gas, through the keyhole.'

'Then what?' asked Tommy.

'Then I drop you back at the garage and you go about your business, as usual. I'll take care of the funeral.'

* * * *

Century House, 100 Westminster Bridge Road, London

McKeown put the telephone handset back in the cradle and blew his cheeks out.

'What?' asked Symes, turning from the window and breaking his gaze from the river which he'd been watching between the office buildings and the hospital.

'He's resigned. As we expected. Seems he was very angry.'

'Oh Christ. What reason did he give? Do we know?'

McKeown picked up the phone again, pressed one of the buttons on the console, covered the mouthpiece and replied, 'No. He thumped his resignation letter on G's desk but there was nothing in the envelope but a blank piece of paper. Hello? Get me Alison, quickly,' he said into the phone.

Symes sat at his own desk and gripped the arms of his chair. 'And this was just now?'

'Just now, in the last ten min... ah, Alison? Have you heard? Yes resigned. Mmm, our top man, as you say.... I know... and, no clear explanation. He's furious apparently. Should we... you know.. take action? Really? The undertakers are on the job already? I say, that was quick. Yes I suppose so.'

Symes noted McKeown ran a finger under his collar as he listened. 'Of course. Of course Alison, top secret, state secret. See you there shortly.'

McKeown stood and grabbed his jacket from the coat stand. Symes rose too, the colour draining from his face. 'The funeral director's involved? So this is it?'

'Yes, this is it. Not a drill, not a rehearsal. Call the undertakers and keep tabs on the extraction. They're mobile now and tailing him, to his place we think. Keep me informed. I'll be in a meeting in Sub-3 for a while, but brief me when you can. Control's alerting the facility.'

He blew his cheeks out again and rubbed his face. 'I'm not sure this is a good idea. Not at all.'

* * * *

Sub-basement 3, Century House, London

The lift doors opened and McKeown stepped out, almost colliding with Alison Hedley.

'Ah, Alison.'

He fell in step with her and they headed quickly down the quiet dimly-lit corridor.

'McKeown.' Alison acknowledged him, with a nod, but kept walking purposefully.

'You know we haven't had anyone of his calibre in the facility before.'

'And your point is?'

'Well, he's our number one operative. And he is our number one because he's so very damn good at what he does.'

Alison Hedley suddenly stopped. 'Exactly. Which is why we absolutely cannot let him out of our sight. He's far too valuable to be on the loose, especially the mood he's in.' She set off, and McKeown hurried to keep up.

'Yes, I suppose you're right. But...'

'But nothing. Think about the knowledge he's got in his head.'

They reached the black door at the end of the corridor. Alison punched the access code into the buttons on the lock and the door swung open automatically with a hum. They entered a dark space, almost black, except for a large structure in the centre, raised about three feet off the floor. It was a windowless room, isolated from its surroundings and lit from beneath. It seemed to almost float in mid-air. Access steps led to a steel door in the front of the structure, with another punch-code lock beside it.

McKeown and Hedley stepped inside. Those already there, seated around a large oval table, turned to face them.

'Ah, Hedley, McKeown, please, take a seat,' said the balding man with glasses at the head of the table. He had a voice like syrup.

'I think you know everyone here,' said the man, known to everyone in the organisation as 'G'.

Hedley and McKeown took the only remaining seats and sat down, nodding to those present. The table was bare save for some water jugs and glasses. Nobody had any notebooks or jotters, or even pencils. No record-taking was ever allowed within this secure room.

G looked at each person in turn, as though summing up their qualifications to be present. He seemed satisfied.

'Right. Let's begin. The only person in this meeting you're not likely to know is Miss Wilson here.' G gesticulated to an unsmiling woman with a severe haircut to his right. 'Olivia, perhaps you'd like to introduce yourself.'

Olivia Wilson pushed her chair back and stood up with her legs slightly apart and her hands behind her back. She raised her chin before speaking. Most in the room immediately recognised that she came from a military background.

'Thank you sir. I am Olivia Wilson,' she said to the group. 'I'm a qualified psychiatrist as well as having qualifications and extensive experience in psychology. My skills are used in this organisation in the field of psychological strategy planning and operations, which, as you know, involves manipulating the thought processes, emotions and beliefs of a subject or subjects to our advantage.'

She sat down again, and G resumed. 'Thank you.' He turned to the group. 'Any questions?'

A man to G's left, older, in a pin-striped suit which probably first saw a hanger in 1950, cleared his throat. 'Er, excuse my asking, but what is Miss Wilson's clearance?'

G stared at him for a moment before replying. 'Adequate' he snapped. 'Or she wouldn't be here.'

He turned to the rest of the group. 'Now, I've asked Olivia to join us today because, although we find ourselves in an expected situation, we didn't anticipate the timing of it. And it's a situation which, from today on, will demand all our initiative, intelligence and indeed cunning. We are dealing with what could be an unhinged mind.' G glanced briefly at Wilson. 'Not just any mind either. The mind of this man...'

G turned towards the wall behind him and pressed a remote control on the arm of his chair. The image of a good-looking man in his late 30s or early 40s appeared on the wall screen.

G turned back. 'As you can see, he has a half-smile on his face. He appears confident, at ease. As indeed he was when this photograph was taken just a year ago. Then he was at the top of his game, operating effectively in the field, and doing our bidding wherever we sent him, which was far and wide.

'He became, as you know, the best operative we have. Or at least had, until today. Now we need to ask, whose side is he on?' He turned once again to Olivia Wilson.

* * * *

Virgil Street Garage, London

Tommy watched the hearse drive regally down the short road and turn the corner, Charles using his indicator even though no vehicles were behind him. Perfectionist, he thought. Always the perfectionist. And then he recited the numbers to himself out loud: 'Four, two, seven, nine, six.' He repeated them, committing them to memory: 'Four, two, seven, nine, six.'

A train rumbled past over the bridge behind him as he unlocked the garage access door. He stepped inside, turned the lights on, headed for the office and stopped in the doorway. He removed his top hat and placed it on the shelf where it lived, then filled the kettle from the small sink in the corner and put it on the gas burner. He loosened his tie, thought about putting his overalls back on, but instead sat behind Charles's Desk.

He called it Charles's Desk (with a capital 'D') because he wasn't allowed to sit behind it. As with the rest of the garage, it was spotless, immaculate. Topped in green leather, it would have looked better in a gentleman's study than a garage office, but then Tommy didn't know much about Charles's background, nor was he supposed to.

The man carried himself with military bearing, always ramrod straight in his walk, thumbs to the front as his arms swung as though on parade. He was tall and lean, despite the cream buns Tommy had seen him devour for morning tea. He wondered how he stayed so slim, so... lanky.

The whistling kettle brought him out of his reverie and he made himself a mug of tea. His was the tin mug; Charles of course had a bone china one. Of course, thought Tommy. He would.

Not that he envied him in any way, well, not much. Charles was a good boss – not many blokes of my age have such interesting jobs, he thought. But then again, just what is my job, he wondered?

Tommy had not done well at school. Yes he was bright, always getting excellent marks for most subjects, but he was never a team player. His reports frequently said that, 'Tommy is a loner', 'Tommy doesn't seem to mix well with others,' and so forth, yet his English teacher – who doubled as the school's drama coach – adored him. 'Tommy could play Hamlet!' she wrote once. He was also good with his hands and did well in woodwork and especially metalwork.

He never did play the Prince of Denmark, though he'd joined an amateur repertory group and had some good roles. But his day job had been as an apprentice mechanic. He'd joined a large engineering firm and, after going through all the usual initiations – he was too clever to fall for the 'Go and ask stores for a long weight' ruse – worked hard and diligently. Until he was accused of stealing.

It still riled him of course. He hadn't stolen a thing, it was fit-up, that's what it was. He slurped his tea, and put his mug on the desk, then thought better of it and got a saucer to put it on in case the hot mug marked the leather. Before he swung his feet up onto the desk he placed a cloth on it to avoid scratching. He didn't want to lose this job, because now he worked for 'the government', even though he wasn't quite sure which part of it. Charles was his boss, and the only person he answered to.

He thought about this morning's job. It had gone smoothly. They'd arrived at the underground car park just in time, then trailed the subject to his flat. He hadn't once looked back to check if they were there, which made it easy. Very easy. Inside, knockout gas cylinder and hose ready, into the keyhole, then after a few minutes bring in the casket and off we go. But where, he wondered? Where do they go, the departed?

Thomas Alex Deighton finished his tea, lifted his legs off the desk and wiped it to make sure Charles wouldn't know he'd sat there. He washed and dried his mug and turned to leave the office but then stopped and took his top hat off the shelf and placed it on his head. He looked in the mirror on the wall beside the door, tilted the hat to a jaunty angle and tapped it on top to ensure it stayed in place.

I work for the government, he thought. As 'an undertaker's assistant.' Sure. Of course that's what I am. But at least my so-called criminal record has been wiped. Now all I've got to do is keep my nose clean and deal with the 'funerals.' His reflection smiled a lop-sided smile back at him and he started singing softly to himself.

'Dem bones, dem bones, dem... dry bones, dem bones, dem bones, dem... dry bones...'

To be continued...

I am looking for feedback on these first few pages, but more on the concept in general, so please feel 'free' to contribute a comment, file, brief, index or number (score out of ten). Thanks for reading. 

Be seeing you :-)

Note: Unity was released in April 2023 

and is now onto its second edition

Dead Man Talking

Riding the London Underground is a risky business. We’re reminded of this every time we travel on

the tube, inevitably at the stations when the train pulls to a stop: ‘Mind the Gap’, says a disembodied recorded voice. Or sometimes, just in case we don’t know where the gap is, ‘Mind the gap between the train and the platform’.

I’ve looked at this gap, studied it closely, and I can tell you that at most stations you’d have to be stick-thin to ever stand a chance of falling into it. (That’s English for you: stand a chance of falling…) Mind you, small children are obviously at greater risk, so the caution has merit.

Bipeds apart, the gap is invariably big and gaping enough to accommodate mobile phones, umbrellas, wallets and purses. And Oyster cards. So just in case you didn’t hear the announcement, or are hearing-impaired, platforms also have the warning painted on the edge at regular intervals. At Baker Street, the worst for gap incidents on an annual basis (which brings a whole new meaning to the term ‘gap year’), blue warning lights have been installed as an extra precaution.

The verbal warning was first introduced in London in 1969. In January of that year I boarded a train to Southampton in order to catch the SS Canberra, and sail off to a new life in New Zealand. No warnings about gaps were given, though I made it on and off the train without problem. No caution was given either that it would be a gap of over forty years before I fully returned to the UK, during which time ‘Mind the Gap’ had become synonymous with rail travel, particularly in London.

In fact a whole souvenir industry has evolved around the phrase, with tee shirts, mugs and even underwear spreading the message globally. When I am finally laid to rest I plan to have it stencilled at the graveside so that as my casket is lowered within nobody comes a cropper and joins me. ‘Mind the gap between the graveside and the casket’ my recorded voice will announce to the mourners. Or mourner; who am I kidding?

(As an aside, someone should record an announcement for President Trump’s mobile, so that just before he sends out yet another inflammatory Tweet it says, ‘Mind the gap between the brain and the [social media] platform’)

As a former voice on radio and television I listen to the gap announcements with professional interest. They vary according to whether they’re in-train or on-platform, the latter often being done live by unseen TfL staff. Theirs is always a bit rushed and often a bit too close to the microphone, but I guess making them is in their job descriptions.

One of the recorded train announcements sounds very like actor and columnist David Mitchell, though I doubt it is him. When the gap warnings were first recorded it was indeed by a professional voice, but the actor’s agency sought royalties from London Underground at the time, who refused, so the original announcement was actually recorded by the audio engineer instead. Hah. You can stick your ten percent you greedy agency you.

There’s also a particular female voice that sounds a bit like Joanna Lumley, and I wait in vain for a ‘darling’ to be added to the end of the announcement. I think it would be great if Transport for London engaged some famous voices for the cautionary gap announcements (and yes, paid royalties). Maybe not full-time, but now at Christmas for example, what fun it would be to listen to Sir Ian McKellen gravely shouting in his best Gandalf voice: ‘None shall pass, without minding the Gap!’

Or French and Saunders could do it…

Dawn: ‘Is this a station coming up?’

Jen: ‘Looks like it. Shall we tell ’em?’

Dawn: ‘What, about the…’

Jen: ‘Yes, you know, mindin’ the gap’.

Dawn: ‘You do it. I’m West Country, your voice is posher…’

Jen: ‘Really? You think so? No…’

Sir David Attenborough might breathily contribute too: ‘The gap… which has been around since trains were invented… remains as tricky, and ubiquitous, as when it first appeared. Ready to consume its prey at a moment’s notice, it should be treated with extreme caution…’

Okay, maybe not. An announcement needs to be brief and to the point. Miranda would likely pull it off - ‘Mind the gap, cheeky!’ - but best of all would have to be a Dalek. That would be brilliant.

I learned recently that one particular gap broadcast is in fact a voice from ‘the other side’. At Embankment the doom-laden tones of the ‘Mind the Gap’ message on the Northern line station are those of theatrically-trained Mr Oswald Laurence, who died in 2007. His voice had been heard at many a station on the Northern line before then, but it was slowly phased out, until Embankment was the last place it was used.

After his death, his widow Margaret would still enjoy listening to his voice, but one day in late 2012 she was devastated to find he had been replaced. No longer could she enjoy her late husband’s announcements. But when TfL learned that she was missing her Oswald’s voice they did a wonderful thing – they reinstated him.

I went to Embankment specifically to hear Mr Laurence. It’s a stentorian performance, worthy of Shakespeare. He enunciates perfectly, and adds a dramatic pause between the word ‘Mind’ and ‘the’, just to get our attention. I suspect he wore tights and held a skull in his hand when he recorded it. Alas poor Oswald.

That’s not to say the contemporary performances are dull – they’re actually a lot warmer, and usually include the word ‘please’ at the start. (Which is better than putting ‘Or else!’ at the end)

But I like the announcements, all of them, and it was great to get on a train at the weekend and hear the Cockney driver say over the speakers, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome aboard this Polar Express to the North pole via Lapland. Stand clear of the closing doors please, stand clear of the doors!’ And off we went. The whole carriage was smiling, the gap between strangers on a train safely reduced.

London in Black and White

I am apparently to leave London. It is imperative that I get out, turn my back on the city’s iconic bridges, cathedrals and historic river, and – with head hung in shame – seek a place where I can lay my conscience to rest. A place where guilt will not follow me.

I’m not going, I can tell you now. I will continue to traipse the backstreets of Stockwell to shop at Lidl, Sainsbury’s and Costcutters, but I have clearly been told that I have no right to enjoy living here; the implication is that I should feel guilty.

This has all come about thanks to the all-seeing all-trolling social media platform called Facebook. I recently changed my profile image to one of Tower Bridge, a nice pic that I took on a sunny day a couple of weeks back and which, in Photoshop, I turned into a ‘watercolour’. It is in fact the same image sitting behind what you’re reading right now. Good isn’t it?

It drew a nice comment from one of my FB friends, saying how much she loved London, to which I responded in agreement. Then I got this from a Kiwi who, until then, I thought was a friend:

‘But Mike what role has this "city" had over time across the planet? I'm not sure it is noteworthy enough for the World to respect it, even in this modern context. Africa, Middle East, Indian subcontinent, East Asia, Australia, New Zealand and the Pacific - where hasn't it taken for its own benefit and left a mess behind for others to clean up. Look carefully at its history and evaluate it against quality principles and values.’

This, unfortunately, is where political correctness and common sense part company. It’s also where he and I part company – I’ve temporarily blocked him. This comment comes from someone who has enjoyed holidaying in France, a country which boasted a colonial empire including – but not limited to – Canada, North Africa, Polynesia, India and Indochina. A country also responsible for a direct terrorist attack on a Greenpeace ship moored in Auckland harbour in 1985, something my erstwhile Kiwi friend seems to have forgotten. Or has chosen to ignore.

If I am to analyse my own genealogy, I find that – oops  – I was born in Liverpool, which played a pivotal role in the slave trade. I should presumably rip up my birth certificate, and get the Liver Bird tattoo removed from my arm. My mother and family were from Ireland, so I perhaps should loathe the British (which would mean hating myself). And as for planning a holiday in Germany, well, didn’t they bomb us in World War II?

This finger-pointing based on an assemblage of historical guilt is counter-productive if we are to move forward as a viable society, in fact as the human race. In New Zealand there is a strong undercurrent of culpability based on European settlement of the country from the early 19^th century onwards, a process that started with a fragile land deal called the Treaty of Waitangi. Put simply, the argument is that Māori were hoodwinked into handing over precious land to the British in return for not very much and some broken promises. (Trolls please note that I prefaced this with ‘put simply’.)

Subsequently, Māori have quite rightly aired grievances over the process, and the New Zealand government has been working to atone, with reparation payments, formal apologies, and the return of some disputed land. Many would say it hasn’t done enough, or that it ever can, and that Māori have a right to be aggrieved until the last European (‘Pakeha’ in Māori) leaves the country.

But that’s not going to happen. I doubt even my Kiwi critic has any intention of atoning for his forebears’ wrongs by uprooting himself and his family and emigrating elsewhere. No, he will stay there and continue to cycle through Aotearoa’s lovely countryside, enjoying the sweet life around him. However, I am not supposed to enjoy London without adopting a  cloak of guilt that supposedly goes with its history.

Bollocks. The past is past, what’s done is done. Yes, if mistakes were made they can be acknowledged and, where practical, compensated for. They can, however, never be erased, but I don’t believe that means we should carry the burden forever. We can acknowledge without beating ourselves up, we can atone without wearing metaphorical hair shirts, and we should make every effort to move on, move forward and do better next time.

A direct lineage to ancestors who were brutal, overpowering, devious or complicit 150, 250 or 500 years ago does not mean we personally should feel guilt today. We can feel contrite maybe, but if we are to personify the crimes and misdemeanours of our forebears by never living in or setting foot on places that carry a legacy of wrongdoings, where on earth would we go?

Not all Facebook stuff is bad. I was dared to participate in a project that has seen some traction on the social media platform in recent months, namely a ‘Seven-Day Black and White Photography Challenge’. In this you are nominated (by someone who has already done it) to post one black and white photo of ‘your life’ every day for seven days, with no explanations and no people in the images.

It’s a good and harmless thing to take part in. It has forced me to take my camera out onto the streets, or wherever I am going, and to look for photographic opportunities, ones that speak for themselves (since I am not allowed to add any captions). It makes me look closely at my environment, to analyse what I am seeing for a story opportunity.

Not all the stories I see are pleasant, not all are easily captured either. So I have to see beyond the obvious, and actually a black and white image is in fact shades of grey.

Which is poignant. We may live in places with spurious histories, places with blood running in their historical gutters, but history is very rarely black and white. Nor should our reactions be.

Gunpowder, No Reason, and Rot

Last evening London was rocked by explosions near Parliament, and although no suspects were arrested we know who was responsible: the city's mayor Sadiq Khan. Oh, and some guy called Fawkes.

Guy Fawkes - a non-event

It was (as you guessed) the occasion of the Mayor's firework display on the River Thames, and Liz and I had front-row seats on a boat mid-stream. Well, when I say seats what I mean is we were standing in the bows of one of the many Thames tourist boats, jostling shoulders with dozens of others as we watched the display light up the sky just beyond Waterloo Bridge.

Earlier, before the pyrotechnics, the boat had cruised upstream past Westminster and the Houses of Parliament, about which our lovable Cockney skipper shared a few interesting tidbits. Blimey, the stories that came out of his north and south, you wouldn't Adam and Eve it. 

But no mention of Guy Fawkes or the plot to destroy Parliament, which I guess isn't necessary now anyway since it's falling down on its own without any gunpowder or treason (just rot) and costing a few billion in restoration and conservation that we can ill afford since we have an NHS that's also crumbling and needs rescuing. (Enough rant; get on with it - Ed.)

The Thames was hugely busy on this particular evening, with large tourist boats, super-fast RIBs, the usual floating obstacles like rusty barges and anchored hulks, and even a flotilla of hardy kayakers battling the chop. Our plate of kipper (that's Cockney rhyming slang I just invented to reference the captain) had his hands full a) not hitting any other boats and b) maintaining our position midstream in the fast and choppy murky waters. He did well, and the life rafts and buoyancy aids remained unused. When you think about it, sending up a distress flare in the middle of a fireworks display would likely have been useless anyway.

The fireworks started, and - thank you Mr Khan - it was a cracking good show; taxpayers' money literally going up in smoke. But it was also the first fireworks event I've experienced in the proper context. I mean, the primary reason we have fireworks in November is to 'celebrate' the failed attempt at blowing up Parliament in 1605, and here we were, within a banger's throw of Westminster watching a commemorative display of controlled and colourful explosions. 

But it's a wibbly-wobbly upside down concept when you think about it - a massive display of potassium nitrate, sulphur, carbon and a few other chemicals - all designed to bang and swoosh and cackle and light up the sky in acknowledgement of an event that didn't happen. 

What are we missing here? There must be plenty of other things in history that failed or never eventuated as planned - why don't we celebrate them as well? The flying saucer crash at Roswell in 1947 for example; why not a day to celebrate this unsuccessful attempt by aliens to invade Earth? We should, every year in the first week of July, be lighting little burners under saucer-shaped paper balloons and sending them skyward into the night.

Canute Day - worth celebrating

And, a thousand years ago, King Canute allegedly sat on his throne and waited as the tide slowly came in and lapped around his ankles and calves, proving to his sycophantic courtiers that in fact he didn't have any divine powers and couldn't stop the water coming up the beach. Surely each year we should all go down to the seaside with our chairs and plonk them along the tideline, celebrating Canute's failure as we are slowly but inexorably - yet delightedly - soaked.

If someone had the time and inclination to do the research, we could probably be celebrating things that didn't happen virtually every day of the year.

It's a shame really that the fireworks barge wasn't moored directly alongside the Houses of Parliament, since that's where all the fuss was 412 years ago, but then it doesn't bear thinking about if it suffered a catastrophic malfunction and blew up.

Then again, that might have solved a whole lot of problems in one glorious spectacular go, and given us something to really celebrate. Remember, remember the 11th November...