A Nation Divided: Why Julies War on Fireworks Has the British Blazing

Today, Julie Doorne of Grantham, Lincolnshire, will arrive at Downing Street, armed not with a Roman candle but with a million-strong petition, calling for sweeping restrictions on the nation’s fireworks. It's not an anti-Guy Fawkes vendetta, mind you—she’s fine with that particular evening of mayhem—but rather a bid to keep Tiddles and Widdles from quaking in their booties on all 364 other days. Apparently, these days a British cat or dog can barely survive the faintest pop of a Catherine wheel without needing six sessions of pet therapy.

Backed by the RSPCA, Ms Doorne’s campaign calls for fireworks to be fired off only on pre-approved holidays, with decibel levels capped at a mild 97—a sound level apparently comfortable for the nation’s Labradoodles, but presumably about as thrilling as a slow clap for anyone hoping for a bonfire and a bang. And she has a point, does our Julie: nobody really expects fireworks on, say, a random Tuesday in June. How are you supposed to warn the vulnerable if a neighbour suddenly decides to let off a few rockets, because they’re either celebrating or have mistaken Coronation Street for the season finale?

For Julie and her fellow campaigners, the solution is clear: fewer bangs, more bureaucracy. She suggests licensing for public displays, noise warnings on packaging, and if possible, a nationwide switch to “quiet” fireworks—the sort that emit a lovely flash but as much noise as a sneeze. Meanwhile, over at Discount Fireworks in Hull, Mike Carter stands defiant, hawking traditional fireworks to the grumbling masses who refuse to settle for a laser show in place of good old-fashioned TNT. Business, he says, is booming, with fireworks in demand for everything from weddings to gender reveals. “It’s hard to keep up,” says Carter, “People want a show, not a whisper. Some are even asking for silent ones, but most… let’s just say, they want more bang for their buck.”

Mike’s pyrotechnic prowess isn’t going unnoticed by the British Fireworks Association, whose chairman Steve Raper, while sympathetic to Julie’s pet crusade, warns against restricting the good folk of Britain to a regimented, pre-approved calendar of booms. “Significant impact,” he mutters darkly, warning of a dystopian black market full of dodgy, unlicensed, and frankly dodgy rockets, smuggled in from goodness knows where, all because the “responsible” display has been legislated out of existence. “Restricting fireworks is misguided,” he says, perhaps wistfully recalling the days when a legal thrill in Britain meant a box of fireworks and not, say, a quiet glass of Pinot.

And the data is telling. The Social Market Foundation reports that three-quarters of respondents actually enjoy fireworks, though 91% said they’d settle for alternatives like lasers or drones if it made the campaigners happy. (One assumes the remaining 9% couldn’t stomach the thought of swapping a rocket for a Roomba with lights.) All the same, a notable 44% called for private displays to be outlawed, and a further 34% demanded tighter rules. One gets the sense that Britain’s once-mighty Bonfire Night is on the verge of turning into a supervised, whisper-quiet viewing experience, the public reduced to murmuring polite “oohs” and “aahs” as laser beams gently stroke the sky.

Julie’s supporters aren’t about to let up either. RSPCA campaign manager Carrie Stones warns that “more responsible use” is vital to ensure fewer animals are left shivering under the nearest coffee table. And with statistics like 55% of pet-owners “dreading” fireworks season, the call to arms is clear: surely we can enjoy a Guy Fawkes night that leaves more room for Whiskers’ emotional stability.

But perhaps, just perhaps, Britain might not be ready to give up its bangs and booms in favour of a certified calendar of low-noise, silent-celebration dates. After all, some traditions run deep. So the question remains: will Tiddles need to endure? Or will Julie Doorne’s decibel crusade set the nation ablaze—or at least mildly smouldering—in the name of pet protection?