I love Roald Dahl. I really do. Not the man, obviously, because I never knew him (and I hear he could be a grumpy old rotter at times). I love his books. I love them because they are funny, because they are disgusting, because they are irreverent, because they are empowering, especially when you’re a kid. Dahl had an amazing ability to see adults exactly the way children often do – as scary, often grotesque beings who can cause a great deal of annoyance and upset! Dahl’s villains are caricatures, yet to a young reader there is something very true in the way they look and behave. I remember very fondly that it was Dahl’s books which made me realise that adults weren’t always to be taken seriously, and that they didn’t always get their own way…

Dahl was certainly one of the people who inspired me to write, and many of the stories I wrote when I was a teenager did have a very Dahl-esque quality to them. My lasting memory of him was actually an instruction on the best way to make your writing funny. The problem is, I never actually managed to catch what the secret was!

I was quite young, maybe six, and Dahl was speaking on telly. I remember watching it in the evening, my younger sister Kate (she must have been four or five) playing next to me as Mum got us ready for sleep. I was studying intently because to my young eyes there was a god on the screen, the man who wrote my favourite books, a real live author! I already knew that’s what I wanted to be when I grew up, so I was absolutely goggle-eyed, trying to absorb everything Dahl was saying. If I learned something then maybe I could be a famous author too!!

And then, the great master began to talk about writing, about the way to make your readers laugh. I leaned forward, my nose almost touching the television, ready to hear his words of wisdom.

‘You see,’ he said, or something like it – this was twenty-five years ago so I may not remember it word for word. ‘There is something in the world funnier than anything else. It is simply the most hilarious thing I can imagine.’

‘Tell me! Tell me oh great one!’ I cried out, ready to use this golden nugget in my next story.

‘The funniest thing in the world is–’

‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRGGGGHHHHH!’

It was at that moment that my sister began to scream, blotting out the last few words to come out of Roald’s mouth. I don’t remember whether she was playing, or having a tantrum. All I know is that those miraculous words of advice, the ones that would have seen me published and a millionaire at seven years of age, were forever lost.

‘What did he say?’ I shouted at my sister. She carried on screaming.

‘What did he say?’ I implored my mother. She didn’t know.

‘WHAT DID YOU SAY!’ I demanded of Roald. But he was oblivious to my despair.

These were the days long before rewind TV, long before +1 channels, long before reruns. This had been my one opportunity and I had missed it. I spent the next few days trying to find out from friends and family what the funniest thing ever could be, but nobody I knew had seen it. Distraught, I carried on writing, but the knowledge that I was missing out on something so big, so important, was all-consuming. In the end, I never did find out what Roald had been talking about, but I often wonder how different my career would have been if I had heard what he had to say. Perhaps I would be writing comedy now instead of horror!

Despite this, though, I still feel I owe Roald Dahl a great deal. He was an inspiration, and even if he didn’t teach me what the funniest thing ever was, he did help me learn how to write, and how to write well.

Thanks Roald, and Happy Birthday!

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