THE seven-year-old ruddy-cheeked and freckled version of me used to love Bonfire Night.

We would be conveyed by car to a riverside location where we would spend a good 20 minutes staring into the sky while fireworks exploded to a 1980s soundtrack, where the air would be filled with smoke. If we were lucky, we’d get a hot dog and candy floss.

Then we’d be taken home, handed a mug of hot chocolate and sent to bed, noses running and ears ringing.

Bonfire Night, therefore, was a process that was essentially over and done with inside two hours.

Now, maybe I’ve romanticised the whole thing in my head, but it doesn’t seem to be like that any more.

Bonfire Night as an experience seems to start in early October. You hear the first knockings of the season in the increasingly wintry air, under the cover of darkness, just about to take a drink of tea towards the mouth before the house is rocked by the sound of a banger outside.

Shell-shocked, covered in spat-out tea, the dog hiding under his bed, legs splayed – the dog, not me – I’d think we were under attack. This would reoccur two, maybe three times a night for the first week and increase exponentially from there.

By the time Bonfire Night itself has arrived, the street sounds like how I’d imagine it would be like to live in a warzone. In fact, I live in Middlesbrough. Rough around the edges it may be at times, it is not like residing in a war-torn area. Even if the Boro lose a game.

We have the full range of fireworks being set off by people who I presume have more money than sense.

No co-ordination, no soundtrack, just a few people standing in a garden presiding over a damp squib of a DIY display. I honestly don’t see the point.

Then there’s the idiots – and they are idiots – who set bangers off in back lanes, bins, letterboxes. You’ll remember the unfortunate gentleman who set a rocket off up an orifice usually reserved for things coming out, rather than going in. He obviously thought it was a good idea at the time.

A few years ago, the firework industry was tightened up, concerning the sale of items. To sell them, you need to hold a licence. To buy them, you merely need to be over 18.

I’d go further than that. I’d ban the lot of them. I’d be doing those who bought them a favour, saving the disappointment of an anti-climax, saving us all from the god-awful racket they produce, saving every single dog a potential heart attack.

And I’d put all of the revenue produced by the policing of this law through fines and charges into handing a decent budget to all local councils to produce at least one large scale display, to take place in a one-hour window before 8pm on November 5.

The best organised display I have attended was in Stockton. Every year, they have a different theme, to keep it fresh – you wouldn’t believe the amount of times I’d previously seen a display set to The Final Countdown – there’s loads of people there, pouring money into the local economy.

That would leave plenty of people with happy memories of Bonfire Night rather than a feeling of dread.

TALKING about feelings of dread, it was my wedding anniversary this week.

The wife thinks we picked November because it coincided with the month that we started going out, but in truth, there’s a better reason.

Value. I can be standing at an organised fireworks display, with all of the beautiful pyrotechnics exploding in front of our eyes, and I simply put my arm around the wife and whisper into her ear: “Happy anniversary, pet.”

Now THAT’S how you create happy memories.