Article (Archive)
In Memoriam: Raymond Briggs
Of few people can it be said that they changed children’s perception of Christmas.
Raymond Briggs’s “The Snowman” was made into a film which was shown on TV every Christmas since 1982 in the UK, becoming a cherished part of the celebrations. The film-makers told him that his sole appearance would be walking somewhere in the snow, but the snow never came. One early winter Sunday he received a frantic call that snow had finally fallen on a nearby hill, so he drove over in the bitter cold and gamely climbed up the frozen furrows, as required. The director was not satisfied, and wanted more takes, so he barked out to the continuity girl: “Get the crew some bacon butties”. Raymond worried how she would find these, miles away from Brighton on a Sunday. She came back not long later with 24 hot bacon butties. Raymond sidled up to her later, to ask how she how she had managed it. She replied that, almost in tears at the impossibility of the task, as she finally got onto the main road to Brighton she spotted lorry drivers gathered round a caravan providing hot coffee, sausage rolls, and bacon butties. So, while every child thought of Raymond Briggs at Christmas, Raymond thought of bacon butties.
His stories did bring in the bacon. He moved from being an impecunious artist to a man of comfortable means, though his life changed little, other than him buying a new SAAB. We discussed the merits of our different models, speculating on how soon they would rust through and snap in two. He was not fond of big parties, and found holidays pointless because he had to carry his paints and brushes with him, and then attempt to set them out again in their proper order. His house was also his studio and the repository of his jokes. He kept one piece of every promotional sample as a memento, and a papier mache effigy of himself on the loo (made by an artist friend). By the front door he kept a list of the misspellings of his address to which he added every day when the mail arrived, and in the bathroom a framed outraged letter from an American matron, objecting to his cartoon depiction of “an act of personal hygiene” namely, The Snowman pissing in a hedge.
His studio was a temple, the very small workspace perfectly set out and, when we stayed the night, by each side of his desk the tall boards on which he had painted his parents. He loved conversation, and jokes, and convoluted stories of things going wrong, and would happily sit for an hour chatting over tea and cakes.
I first met Raymond without knowing that I had met him. I gave a lecture in Brighton on negotiating techniques as they might apply to nuclear conflicts, and was told that Raymond Briggs, who had painted the publicity leaflets, wanted to give me some copies. I was a fan of his, and was excited at the prospect. After the talk there were questions to attend to, and then the last train home to catch, and it wasn’t till the next day I noticed I had extra copies of the Raymond Briggs leaflets. A very quiet guy had handed them to me after my lecture, and then walked away while others questioned me.
I rang Raymond up, and by way of apology, invited him to Bertorelli’s on Charlotte Street, then part of London’s media world. Over lunch I asked his about his life (not his painting and books) and he replied he was an evacuee during the war.
Me: Where were you evacuated to?
Raymond: Dorset
Me: Where in Dorset?
Raymond: A little village, Stour Provost near Shaftesbury
Me: Where in Stour Provost?
Raymond: Just outside Stour Provost, in Scotchey Lane.
Me: Where in Scotchey Lane?
It turned out that house of his evacuee childhood was 200 yards away from that of a friend of mine. Raymond was startled. Years later when he was staying with us I took him to the house, which he found much changed, the little garden destroyed by car parking spaces. He recalled that every Saturday he would be taken to Shaftesbury market and then to the cinema, always leaving before the climax of the movie, because they had to catch the last bus home. “That was what turned you into a story writer” I surmised.
He asked me what I thought of his just-published book “When the wind blows” about an old couple dying of radiation after a nuclear war. “A love story” I replied. We talked about his parents, and I said he should write about them.
Some years later he gave us a picnic lunch in the garden of Liz’s house, and returning with the dishes I heard him marvel privately to her that our young daughter had been “less trouble than expected”.
Raymond was a very funny man. Some adults found his books unsuitable, but children loved them. He was drawn to incongruity, and relished absurdities, though he had strong views and viewed the barbarities of the daily news with horror. He was supremely kind, with a sardonic take on life, and a profoundly British abnegation of self. When younger he had suffered from acne, and this had made him even more diffident, though eventual treatment had long cleared it up.
As he grew famous, teachers brought school children to visit, and he was amused by one who complained about the food he was offered at tea. He said: “Of course, the teacher was absolutely mortified” but I think he admired the brat’s honesty.
He was mildly embarrassed that he lived in a separate house from his partner Liz, mostly because each of them had a house from before, and he worked best in his familiar study. When we stayed the night our daughter slept on a couch in his study, next to the full length portraits of his parents.
When we were away in summer, he came and stayed in our cottage, decorating it with funny joke drawings, and sketching the view from the garden. We usually had a day or two together at handover time, and had a big dinner together, which is where this photo was taken.
Our post cards to each other always involved a sardonic take, Christmas cards even more so, particularly the low carbon ones urging celebrants to have “A Low Emissions Xmas”.
The last time we saw him he was frail, having trouble moving, and living at Liz’s old house while his place was being renovated, yet he roused himself to eat the chocolate cake we had brought, and told us that he kept having rows with his Honda Jazz, which gave him commands he found impertinent. (There is a children’s book in this for someone). We talked politics (he was distressed by Brexit) and also talked about his life as a widower, missing Liz terribly. He had grown used to being some sort of national treasure, without it dimming his darker insights. We walked back through the garden of the picnic of 33 years before.
It is natural that I should wish dear Raymond to rest in peace, but I must honour him beyond that convention. He saw the skull beneath the skin, as T.S.Elliot said of Webster. The first book I read of his, when doing bedtime stories with my daughter, was “Fungus the Bogeyman”. There on the frontispiece was Robert Herrick’s couplet (impossible to do better in ten words) that has never left me since, and with which I honour him now:
Putrefaction is the end
Of all that Nature doth intend.
In Memoriam: Raymond Briggs
Of few people can it be said that they changed children’s perception of Christmas.
Raymond Briggs’s “The Snowman” was made into a film which was shown on TV every Christmas since 1982 in the UK, becoming a cherished part of the celebrations. The film-makers told him that his sole appearance would be walking somewhere in the snow, but the snow never came. One early winter Sunday he received a frantic call that snow had finally fallen on a nearby hill, so he drove over in the bitter cold and gamely climbed up the frozen furrows, as required. The director was not satisfied, and wanted more takes, so he barked out to the continuity girl: “Get the crew some bacon butties”. Raymond worried how she would find these, miles away from Brighton on a Sunday. She came back not long later with 24 hot bacon butties. Raymond sidled up to her later, to ask how she how she had managed it. She replied that, almost in tears at the impossibility of the task, as she finally got onto the main road to Brighton she spotted lorry drivers gathered round a caravan providing hot coffee, sausage rolls, and bacon butties. So, while every child thought of Raymond Briggs at Christmas, Raymond thought of bacon butties.
His stories did bring in the bacon. He moved from being an impecunious artist to a man of comfortable means, though his life changed little, other than him buying a new SAAB. We discussed the merits of our different models, speculating on how soon they would rust through and snap in two. He was not fond of big parties, and found holidays pointless because he had to carry his paints and brushes with him, and then attempt to set them out again in their proper order. His house was also his studio and the repository of his jokes. He kept one piece of every promotional sample as a memento, and a papier mache effigy of himself on the loo (made by an artist friend). By the front door he kept a list of the misspellings of his address to which he added every day when the mail arrived, and in the bathroom a framed outraged letter from an American matron, objecting to his cartoon depiction of “an act of personal hygiene” namely, The Snowman pissing in a hedge.
His studio was a temple, the very small workspace perfectly set out and, when we stayed the night, by each side of his desk the tall boards on which he had painted his parents. He loved conversation, and jokes, and convoluted stories of things going wrong, and would happily sit for an hour chatting over tea and cakes.
I first met Raymond without knowing that I had met him. I gave a lecture in Brighton on negotiating techniques as they might apply to nuclear conflicts, and was told that Raymond Briggs, who had painted the publicity leaflets, wanted to give me some copies. I was a fan of his, and was excited at the prospect. After the talk there were questions to attend to, and then the last train home to catch, and it wasn’t till the next day I noticed I had extra copies of the Raymond Briggs leaflets. A very quiet guy had handed them to me after my lecture, and then walked away while others questioned me.
I rang Raymond up, and by way of apology, invited him to Bertorelli’s on Charlotte Street, then part of London’s media world. Over lunch I asked his about his life (not his painting and books) and he replied he was an evacuee during the war.
Me: Where were you evacuated to?
Raymond: Dorset
Me: Where in Dorset?
Raymond: A little village, Stour Provost near Shaftesbury
Me: Where in Stour Provost?
Raymond: Just outside Stour Provost, in Scotchey Lane.
Me: Where in Scotchey Lane?
It turned out that house of his evacuee childhood was 200 yards away from that of a friend of mine. Raymond was startled. Years later when he was staying with us I took him to the house, which he found much changed, the little garden destroyed by car parking spaces. He recalled that every Saturday he would be taken to Shaftesbury market and then to the cinema, always leaving before the climax of the movie, because they had to catch the last bus home. “That was what turned you into a story writer” I surmised.
He asked me what I thought of his just-published book “When the wind blows” about an old couple dying of radiation after a nuclear war. “A love story” I replied. We talked about his parents, and I said he should write about them.
Some years later he gave us a picnic lunch in the garden of Liz’s house, and returning with the dishes I heard him marvel privately to her that our young daughter had been “less trouble than expected”.
Raymond was a very funny man. Some adults found his books unsuitable, but children loved them. He was drawn to incongruity, and relished absurdities, though he had strong views and viewed the barbarities of the daily news with horror. He was supremely kind, with a sardonic take on life, and a profoundly British abnegation of self. When younger he had suffered from acne, and this had made him even more diffident, though eventual treatment had long cleared it up.
As he grew famous, teachers brought school children to visit, and he was amused by one who complained about the food he was offered at tea. He said: “Of course, the teacher was absolutely mortified” but I think he admired the brat’s honesty.
He was mildly embarrassed that he lived in a separate house from his partner Liz, mostly because each of them had a house from before, and he worked best in his familiar study. When we stayed the night our daughter slept on a couch in his study, next to the full length portraits of his parents.
When we were away in summer, he came and stayed in our cottage, decorating it with funny joke drawings, and sketching the view from the garden. We usually had a day or two together at handover time, and had a big dinner together, which is where this photo was taken.
Our post cards to each other always involved a sardonic take, Christmas cards even more so, particularly the low carbon ones urging celebrants to have “A Low Emissions Xmas”.
The last time we saw him he was frail, having trouble moving, and living at Liz’s old house while his place was being renovated, yet he roused himself to eat the chocolate cake we had brought, and told us that he kept having rows with his Honda Jazz, which gave him commands he found impertinent. (There is a children’s book in this for someone). We talked politics (he was distressed by Brexit) and also talked about his life as a widower, missing Liz terribly. He had grown used to being some sort of national treasure, without it dimming his darker insights. We walked back through the garden of the picnic of 33 years before.
It is natural that I should wish dear Raymond to rest in peace, but I must honour him beyond that convention. He saw the skull beneath the skin, as T.S.Elliot said of Webster. The first book I read of his, when doing bedtime stories with my daughter, was “Fungus the Bogeyman”. There on the frontispiece was Robert Herrick’s couplet (impossible to do better in ten words) that has never left me since, and with which I honour him now:
Putrefaction is the end
Of all that Nature doth intend.
