I loved Noggin the Nog - it was initially broadcast between 1959-1965, years in which I was ending my childhood and entering teenage. Noggin the Nog, black and white TV, tales delivered with the authority of post-war BBC but quietly voiced in an English accent which was engagingly middle class rather than the austerity of an elitist BBC. I loved the storytelling, the line drawings, the clunky animation.
Postgate was responsible for a string of animations and characters which captured the imagination and enduring love of so many children – Bagpuss, Ivor the Engine, Pogles, the wonderful Clangers … and more. Nothing hi-tech about these, no fuss, no extravagance … just simple, gentle story-telling, inviting the viewer into the characters’ world.
Which is possibly why the autobiography is such a disappointment. It’s gentle story-telling, I can almost hear the voice, but it’s disappointing nonetheless. What we get are a chronological list of anecdotes – I did this, I went here, I made these, I talked to X, I solved a problem or two, got something to work, tried my hand at acting then found myself drawn into the world of animation. Anecdotes, engaging enough … but do you get to see the man? Are you left wondering what he's not telling us? It just feels sanitised.
Postgate had a relatively privileged upbringing – his grandfather was George Lansbury, briefly Labour Party leader in the 1930s, a man of socialist and pacifist principles, and hardly a rich man. But Postgate grew up in a secure, middle class family – safe, a stable home, with resources for holidays, a life in which encouragement and stimulation were offered the children, a home which could afford to send the children away from London when war broke out, providing them with schools in the West Country.
And we get one hint about Postgate. He got his call-up papers towards the end of the war and refused to serve in the army – he had apparently inherited the pacifism from his grandfather. He tells us what he did as an alternative to becoming a soldier, he doesn’t explain his beliefs, doesn’t write about the courage it must have taken to stick to principles when a war against Fascism seemed principled enough.
And that’s what we get in the autobiography. Anecdotes and stories about memorable incidents – in 1948 I was here, in 1950 I was there, in 1952 I did this, etc. He’s a shadow man, a spectre – a black and white cartoon appearing on a black and white TV screen, with a voice over telling the story … but no colour, no passion.
It’s politically moribund. Life in England, in the UK, across the world was changing so rapidly during his lifetime. A Labour Government was returned in 1945 (Lansbury had died in 1940), it ushered in the Welfare State. Nothing, not a comment, no sense of hope, no passion.
Korea, Cold War, spread of nuclear weapons, etc. Nothing. Just a list of the jobs Postgate did, his first ventures into TV, etc. It becomes so bland and passionless any enthusiasm you had at the start of the book becomes dissipated.
Great memories of the characters Postgate invented … the autobiography is instantly forgettable.