Oliver Postgate died recently. And with his passing, a door to my childhood, my personal safe-place, a world where I felt protected.... died with him.
Come back with me to 1999. I'm a mewling ball of panic, as the world seems to be crashing down around my ears. There's nothing in the tank, my nerves are shot, and I don't seem to be able to focus on anything. I'm going under. A bad time, one I'm glad to have left behind. Right in the middle of what I now realise to be the onset of my first bout of an illness that never altogether goes away, I flick through the channels on cable and Nickelodeon's showing an episode of Bagpuss. The music starts, Oliver speaks. And suddenly all the panic, worry and insecurity leeches away. For fifteen minutes, I'm Five years old again, cosetted, comfortable, hypnotised. The world just seems right for a quarter of an hour.
Switch forward. There's one of those bloody interminable countdown shows on. Oliver gives as good as he gets to Jill Pythian and her psycho-sexual theories of children's viewing. I forget exactly what he says in his gentle, professorial manner, but it comes down to this - sometimes, a knitted pink mouse is just a knitted pink mouse, Jill. Sometimes, that's all you need. I'm actually off the sofa, cheering.
Switch, to better times. I'm having a rip-roaring night in with a close friend. Said friend leaves the room, and I'm ripping through the channels again, killing time. There's an episode of The Clangers on this time, and even though I'm massively drunk, once again I'm captivated. The whistling permeates through to the other room.
"Walter, are you watching The Clangers, in there????" comes an accusing voice.
"No! I'm.... just whistling. Don't come in!" I shout back, and we fall about, laughing hysterically.
Switch back, and I'm ploughing through the complete Clangers dvd. Admiring the artistry, submerging myself in another lovingly created world. And I realise how gut bustingly funny some of it is. The one in which an Earth Astronaut comes visiting and is driven away by hospitality must rank as one of the funniest ten minutes anyone's ever created.
Switch again, and there's a documentary on Smallfilms on the box. Peter Firmin and Oliver are rootling through a box of old props, and they discover the Soup Dragon, lovingly packed away. Missing a scale or two, but looking a lot better than you or I would after thirty years in a cardboard box. "Ah, there she is", says Oliver, his voice crowded with affection. My world becomes just a little bit nicer.
Switch to a freezing cold evening, buried in "Seeing Things". A stunning autobiography. Heartfelt, with a lightning change in tone at around the midpoint that I didn't see coming. I feel I know this man now, but instead of coming away from it disliking him as happens so often when you know the intimate details of a persons life, I realise that here is a decent, unswerving, downright nice human being, someone you'd want to know, to have in your life. Sadly, that's not going to happen now. Although in a way, he's still in my life. He always will be, as one of the prime shapers of my childhood. He may not have fully appreciated just how deeply affecting his work was to millions of us. I certainly didn't at the time. But just for a short time each week when I was growing up, a wise old voice told wise old tales, with charm, wit and the utmost love and craft.
When the news broke that he'd gone, my first thought was a deep, palpable sadness. As if I'd actually lost one of my close family. That's how much the work that he and Peter did - all those years ago, in that scraggy old barn out in the country - meant to me. He'd been ill for a while, but he's at peace now. Which is only just recompense for the deep peace he was capable of engendering in millions.
For Bagpuss, for the Mice, for Professor Yaffle... for Gabriel, for Madeleine, for the Clangers, for the Soup Dragon, for the Iron Chicken... for Ivor, Dai Station, Jones the Steam, for Idris the Firebox Dragon... for The Pogles, for Noggin, for Nogbad... for a life of meticulous craft, loving care, and for an existence immeasurably enriched just by your being in it, thank you, Oliver.
We miss you. And we love you. Goodnight.
