I love fireworks on Bonfire Night but have always hated going to parties where they chuck an effigy on the pyre.
As a kid I couldn’t wait for November to come round and the thrill of Penny for the Guy.
Scrunched up newspaper stuffed down Mum’s old stockings was used to make a mannequin.
Then we’d draw on a face, dress it in jumble sale clothes and strap it into a pushchair.
But as I wheeled our Guy around the streets, fleecing people out of their coppers, I always grew rather attached to “him”.
And on Bonfire Night I would hide indoors until the poor little bugger was immolated.
Burning effigies still gives me the creeps, conjuring images of medieval witch hunts and executing heretics at the stake.
Yes, I remember that the fifth of November is all about the 1605 Gunpowder Plot, commemorating the survival of our King and Parliament from Guy Fawkes’ murderous intent.
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But when the Catholic baddie killed himself moments before his execution, people were urged to celebrate by burning effigies of The Pope.
And that sectarian symbolism rumbles on in Northern Ireland’s Eleventh Night celebrations where the burning of political effigies is still a hot potato. So I was genuinely disturbed to see the 11-metre tall figure of Liz Truss built by a bonfire society in Kent.
Especially as I recently re-watched 1970s horror classic The Wicker Man – a terrifying film which shows how fear of “other” can fan the flames of hatred and intolerance and drive a primal desire for vengeance.
We live in a time of cancel culture and fake news, where politicians and their families are attacked and murdered for their views.
So while I disagree with almost everything Liz Truss stands for, I respect her right to free speech.
And I don’t think we should be burning her image when it’s her arguments and policies that need to go up in smoke.
There’s more than one way to roast a discredited Tory politician after all. Like sticking one in the Australian jungle with a bunch of fiery and articulate companions who’ll subject him to sizzling interrogations.
And then giving an angry and disgusted public the chance to make him sweat – through an endless stream of disgusting trials involving bugs, rats and kangaroo testicles.
Matt Hancock, eh? What a guy!
I can’t wait to see him sitting beside that I’m a Celebrity campfire.
I’m sure there will be fireworks.
