So his schoolchildren aren't all jolly hockey sticks: they're spiteful, sly, violent, cunning prisoners, admirable when they turn their wits to beating the authorities, yet there's an undercurrent of inhumanity ready to emerge under pressure. The civilising influences of education, art and sport are minimal: the kids see through it to the mailed fist underneath (rather Gramscian, that).
I loved his work not just for their jaundiced view of humanity (definitely shades of his contemporary, Mervyn Peake) but for his style. The scratchy pen lines, the gloriously piggy eyes of Nigel Molesworth, the 'tough gurls' for whom violence is a way of life…
Waiting for Father Christmas

