THE sound of silence is deafening. Apart from the odd lone bang, followed by a burst of colour showering the night sky, all is quiet. All is calm.

These past weeks leading up to Bonfire Night have been a nightmare. Apart from the obvious dangers that fireworks bring, they are nothing more than a nuisance.

And it's not my age that makes me say things like 'they should be banned,' because even as a kid I thought they should be banned.

It's just that I was too afraid to say it to my peers for fear of being ridiculed.

And having an air-bomb repeater stuffed down my trousers.

Walking down the usually serene streets of Lancashire recently has been like treading through a war zone.

I have lived in constant fear of being struck by a wayward rocket, set off by the hordes of youths, who somehow think throwing incendiary devices is fun. Every time an explosion went off above my head, I jumped, wondering where the enemy was stationed. Although they can be heard, they cannot be seen.

And the culmination came on Tuesday as all the shops and supermarkets slashed the prices in one last push to get rid of them.

The neighbourhood became more like Beirut than Blackburn as a continued onslaught of gunpowder rained down.

From behind the curtains, flashes of light peeked through, and one firework (obviously thrown a little too close to our window) made the glass rattle.

Any thoughts of rushing out to reprimand the rogues, was soon dispelled in case I was met with a face-full of fireworks.

Organised displays are fine.

I went to one on the Saturday before, which mixed culture with tradition. As expensive devices shot up into the air (nice to know my Council Tax is being spent on something useful) classical music was pumped through the speakers dotted around the field.

It was a grand sight which had an even grander finale to the strains of Land and Hope and Glory. It almost made you feel proud. Almost.

But it could have been so different. The first sounds to come through the speakers sounded awfully like a guitar -- or a cat being strangled. And then a powerful spotlight picked out a figure perched on high, guitar in hand, dressed in white.

And before you could say "what the Bryan May," he had started to pluck the national anthem, with all the earnest he could muster. Whether he had got lost on the way to Buckingham Palace - where the real Queen guitarist launched Her Majesty's Jubilee celebrations this summer - was never tackled.

As everyone looked on bemused, he went on to murder Jimi Hendrix before being drowned out by We Will Rock You on the sound system, and the first fireworks began.

Fireworks in that context I can deal with, but as for personal use, I am right behind the police chiefs and fire chiefs who want to see them banned.

They are dangerous to both the public and those who handle them.

I don't personally know anyone that has been harmed by fireworks - for which I am grateful - but there was a case last week where a teenager had his hand blown off. Last year who could forget the Burnley teenager who tragically lost his life.

Fireworks are OK in certain circumstances, but the sooner they are taken off the streets the better!