Brandon Robshaw | Contributors to Slightly Foxed Magazine

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Brandon Robshaw has written over 60 educational books and 21 children’s novels. Brandon also writes poetry, and regular book reviews for the Independent on Sunday. He lectures in Creative Writing, Children’s Literature, and Philosophy for the Open University, and Writing for Children for Westminster University. He lives in London with his wife and children, and the family featured in the BBC television series Back in Time for Dinner, about the history of food in Britain.

The numbers in square brackets refer to the issue of the quarterly in which the article appears.
The unbracketed numbers refer to the starting page of the article.
For entries in multiple issues of the quarterly, the occurrences are separated by semi-colons.

articles by, [47] 7; [52] 7; [56] 58; [66] 84; [75] 85; [81] 90

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Absolutely Smashing!

Brandon Robshaw on Boyhood comics

I am not one of those who think childhood was better in the old days. When my children were growing up I was fully aware that they had better toys, better telly, better food, better playgrounds, nicer clothes and more enjoyable school experiences than I ever did. Not to mention warmer bedrooms. But there is one area in which a twentieth-century childhood beats a twenty-first-century childhood hollow. I’m talking about comics.

Masefield’s Magic

Brandon Robshaw on John Masefield, The Box of Delights

I was 8 when I first read John Masefield’s The Box of Delights – in the late 1960s, in the high-ceilinged classroom of a Victorian-built school in East London. I had not long been reading ‘chapter books’ as we called them, and this was the longest, most challenging and most sophisticated one I had yet encountered – and by far the most rewarding. It’s not easy to convey the peculiar atmosphere of it: scary but funny; fantastical but believable; lyrical yet down-to-earth; grotesque, even nightmarish in parts, yet told in a friendly voice. Years later, when I had forgotten most of the details of the actual story and characters, the feeling of it remained with me, like the lingering memory of a dream.

A Modern Prospero

Brandon Robshaw on Iris Murdoch, The Sea, The Sea

The Sea, The Sea was Iris Murdoch’s nineteenth novel and the only one to win the Booker Prize (in 1978). It is, to my mind, her best novel, as well as being the most representative of her talents and distinctive world view. It is also hypnotically readable. Actually all her novels are hypnotically readable (with the sad exception of her last, fractured book, Jackson’s Dilemma), but most contain certain faults of excess: passages of over-description, stagey scenes, unrealistic over-intellectualized dialogue, plotting whose artifice is all too obvious. This does not make them less lovable or less intellectually stimulating. Still: you can see the joins. This is not the case with The Sea, The Sea.

An Extraordinary Ordinary Bloke

Brandon Robshaw on the essays of George Orwell

The Orwell of the essays has a pungent literary personality. He’s dauntingly knowledgeable, decided in his views and trenchant in their expression, a non-sufferer of fools, an enemy of pretension and hypocrisy; yet withal humane, reasonable, decent. He writes as if he’s just an ordinary bloke – yet not an ordinary ordinary bloke, but an exceptionally well-read, politically aware, sensitive and intelligent ordinary bloke with wide-ranging interests and a view on everything.

A Gentleman on the Case

Brandon Robshaw on the Albert Campion novels of Margery Allingham

What do you feel like reading, curled up in your armchair? Obviously, a whodunnit. But not just any old whodunnit. You don’t want the colourless style and arid tricksiness of Agatha Christie, nor the stately prose and rampant snobbery of Dorothy L. Sayers. You want the real queen of crime, the best, the darkest, the most interesting, idiosyncratic and literary novelist that the Golden Age of detective fiction produced. I refer, of course, to Margery Allingham.

Curiouser and Curiouser

Brandon Robshaw on the stories of Robert Aickman

All of Aickman’s tales (he wrote 48 in all) include some kind of supernatural element. ‘Pages from a Young Girl’s Journal’ is a vampire story, ‘Ringing the Changes’ is a zombie story, others feature ghostly visitants of various kinds. But that in itself is not what is strange about them. The characters are strange. The events are strange. The scenarios are strange. It’s hard to convey the special, unsettling atmosphere of Aickman’s work to anyone who isn’t acquainted with it; but let me try . . .

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