Last night the British sky exploded with an orgy of fireworks. People across the country celebrated the anniversary of the world’s most famous execution by burning effigies and pounding the sky with explosives. It is the one time of the year where people are able to quell their pyromaniac cravings and re-enact execution. And we love it. But amongst all of this magnificent splendour and excitement there is there is tragedy.
The horrific truth - a young firework stick - abandoned and left for dead.
The thrill of releasing a rocket the size of a cannonball into the sky and watching it detonate into a thousand glorious fizzing shards of light is almost as good as it gets.
The humble stick that plays the most important role of guiding and supporting the firework to ultimate glory is neglected; rejected; and ignored. Whilst people scream, cheer and applaud they never consider poor little firework stick. Each year on November the 6th the dawn sun rises revealing the true extent of the massacre. Thousands of wounded fireworks sticks are left scorched, battered and broken on roofs, gutters and fields across the land. Poor little firework sticks.
I ask you good kindly people to consider the feelings of these poor little blighters and if you are to find one on your journey home this evening be compassionate. Pick them up; hug them; tell them God loves them. Remind them that the world is a fickle and twisted place but that they should endeavour to remain strong and that even at their lowest point hope will see them through. Provide the support for them that they provided to the rocket head because by God they need it.
Next time you watch fireworks think of the sticks.
