Oliver Postgate 1925 – 2008

A gentle, whimsical story teller and as with all the best stories, a thread of darkness, of implied darkness wove its way amongst the unspoken words. Sometimes the stories had no beginning and no end, they just were, much as life is; their purpose shrouded, obscure, they delighted in the joy of the telling; to listen was enough; they seem to latch into archetypes of the mind, plug directly into the subconscious, to be more, much more than their component parts. All was well during these moments.

The accompanying music, slightly archaic, perfectly emoted the tenderness and slight disquiet of the creation; sometimes discordant, never intrusive. His creations have not aged, or gathered dust, they still have the power and resonance of a brilliant storyteller, a true Bard, a genius that empitomised all that was best in the British Tradition. They still have the power to mesmerise and bring a tear to the eye; a remembrance of yore, halcyon days or even just a glimmer of light in the night of life; the smell of Mother’s cooking, the crackle of a real fire in the hearth, of Emily and friends, of Noggin and Ivor.

It is a sad indictment of our culture when such are person is not hailed for what they are, what they have done (made the world a better place), until they are gone. But he brought much gladness as he wend his way, there will always be a corner of my mind, a thread in my soul that belongs, is delighted by, the charm and joy of Mr. Oliver Postgate.