It is six thirty pm, Friday the twenty first and the longest night of the year. It is minus one degrees and the streets are crowded with Christmas shoppers, In the distance the drums have started and an air of anticipation is stirring the crowd, people start to line the streets, two police women with dogs walk by and the dogs have Father Christmas hats on. The Police have closed off the roads and children are playing in the streets, the drumming is getting louder and feet start to tap, heads are turned towards the beat and a troupe of young dancers come into view, hips swaying to the rhythm , behind them is a procession of people carrying tissue paper lanterns decorated with clock motifs glowing brightly in the cold night, among the lanterns are the drummers who's infectious syncopation is getting to the crowds, hips are swaying and feet are moving in time to the beat. The grandchildren, Jet, one month old and snuggled against the cold in the first tier of the buggy, above sits Truly, fifteen months old, eyes wide with delight, keenly watching the passing spectacle, Tyger, six years old, wearing a pair of flashing bunny ears and waving her flashing star, standing at the kirb with a growing larger group of children. The lanterns are growing in size and design now and musicians have mingled with the drummers, a trad band is bringing the sounds of New orleans to the streets of
Brighton and the crowds are almost dancing. The lanterns have evolved to life size figures of dancing girls, Ballerinas and Wizards all made of tissue paper and lit from within, themes are growing random now, we see a Hippo, a Dragon and a Bear, a
Spaceship with Aliens and a huge model of the Pavilion, more drummers are adding to the rhythm of the night changing the beat to a salsa rhythm, by now the crowd are
dancing in their hundreds, the parade takes a serpentine rout through the lanes and slowly makes its way to the sea front, we fall in line with the crowd dancing behind the parade and make our way to Madeira drive. on the beach is a tiered wooden clock tower inside a fenced corral and people are throwing their lanterns in one after the other, as the last lantern goes out the drumming stops, the crowd stop dancing and a deathly hush fills the night, the crowd remain silent in anticipation, knowing full well what's coming next, a deep base throb starts to build, slowly getting louder, a trumpet fanfare starts to play, the crowd, now in their thousands, lining the terraces behind and filling the streets are waiting for the moment. Suddenly one of the lanterns burst into flames and a huge roar comes from the crowd, this is the reason we are all here, to witness the Burning of
the Clocks, to a chorus of cheering and clapping the clocks burn them selves to ashes,
taking with them winters last chance of imposing its will over the earth. the old time has been destroyed, making way for the new, the sun is gathering strength to reclaim the days heralding a brighter future, rebirth for the soul. Pagan beliefs, thankfully still with us,
despite Christianity's attempt to over write them with the Christmas story. As the ashes
are blown into the sea the Firework display begins, bringing in the true new year.
Happy Christmas every one.
