My social media feeds have been particularly busy over the last 24 hours with teachers discussing the latest controversy surrounding David Walliams. What has struck me is the number who seem almost relieved to have a reason to remove his books from their classroom shelves. Not because they’ve suddenly discovered something objectionable about them, but because they’ve been uncomfortable with aspects of his writing for years and perhaps haven’t felt able to challenge its extraordinary popularity.
I can understand that. I’ve never particularly liked Walliams’s children’s books, and not simply because I don’t think he’s a particularly good writer. I’ve long been uncomfortable with the lazy stereotypes, racist undertones and rather unkind humour that characterise some of his stories. There’s a difference between encouraging children to laugh at the absurdities of life and inviting them to laugh at people because of who they are, and I’m not convinced Walliams always understands that distinction.
I’m certainly not suggesting that children’s literature should be sanitised. Some of the best children’s books are mischievous, irreverent and gloriously subversive. Children enjoy seeing pompous adults brought down a peg or two, and quite right too. But humour that depends on someone’s appearance, ethnicity or circumstances being inherently ridiculous is rather less appealing to me.
Walliams’s commercial success is undeniable. For years, his books have occupied an extraordinary amount of space in bookshops, school libraries and those supermarket displays that appear around World Book Day. But commercial success and literary quality aren’t necessarily the same thing, and I’ve often wondered how many better writers have struggled to find an audience while publishers and retailers have devoted so much attention to a relatively small number of established names.
The books I remember reading aloud
When I was teaching, one of the things I most enjoyed was reading aloud to my class. I loved the shared experience of a story, the anticipation of what might happen next, the laughter when something ridiculous happened, and those wonderful moments when a room full of children became completely absorbed in a book.
I remember The Silver Sword by Ian Serraillier, with its extraordinary story of children trying to find their way through war-torn Europe. It was an adventure, certainly, but also an introduction to displacement, separation, courage and the consequences of war. Children could become caught up in the story while beginning to understand something of the experiences of people whose lives were very different from their own.
At the other end of the spectrum were Alf Prøysen’s Mrs Pepperpot stories. I loved their gentle absurdity, the everyday world suddenly turned upside down by a woman who shrinks to the size of a pepperpot. They were funny, imaginative and wonderfully accessible. They didn’t need to be cruel to make children laugh.
Then there was Allan Ahlberg’s Heard It in the Playground, which captured the rhythms, conversations, friendships and occasional indignities of school life with such affection and precision. Ahlberg understood children, and perhaps just as importantly, he understood schools. His poetry was a joy to read aloud, and children could recognise themselves and their classmates in it.
Goodnight Mister Tom by Michelle Magorian was another favourite. It’s a difficult story in places, dealing with cruelty, neglect and the experience of wartime evacuation, but at its heart is the relationship between a damaged child and an adult who gradually learns how to love and care for him. I suspect that’s one reason it has stayed with me. The importance of a trusted adult in a child’s life has been a recurring theme throughout my career, and Magorian understood it beautifully.
And, of course, there was Jeremy James, David Henry Wilson’s wonderfully funny creation whose entirely reasonable childhood logic regularly exposes the absurdities of the grown-up world. I remember enjoying those stories enormously. They are a reminder that children’s humour can be mischievous, anarchic and very funny without relying on lazy stereotypes or making someone’s identity the joke.
Two more favourites come to mind. Robert Westall’s Blitzcat followed a cat making her way across wartime Britain, encountering the dangers and kindnesses of people along the way. I had no idea, when I was reading it to my class, that I would eventually find myself leading Cats Protection. Perhaps there was an early clue to my future career on that classroom bookshelf. And Jill Tomlinson’s The Owl Who Was Afraid of the Dark, with Plop gradually discovering that darkness isn’t quite what he fears, was a lovely way to explore courage and curiosity without preaching at children.
Looking at that selection now, I seem to have chosen an awful lot of stories set during the Second World War. The Silver Sword, Goodnight Mister Tom and Blitzcat all gave children different ways of approaching conflict and its consequences, through adventure, relationships and, in one case, the experiences of a cat. I don’t remember setting out to create a wartime reading list; perhaps those stories simply offered so much to talk about.
Looking back, what strikes me is the variety. Adventure, sadness, nonsense, poetry, humour and some genuinely challenging subjects. We didn’t expect every book to do the same thing, and I certainly didn’t expect every story to contain a moral lesson. Sometimes we read simply because it was fun, and because sharing a good book was one of the pleasures of being together in a classroom.
My complicated relationship with Roald Dahl
My feelings about Roald Dahl are rather more complicated, not least because I think he was a very good writer.
I absolutely love Danny, the Champion of the World, with its wonderful portrayal of the relationship between a father and son, their unconventional life together and their shared delight in outwitting the thoroughly unpleasant Victor Hazell. It’s a book about love, trust, ingenuity and gentle rebellion, and one I’ve returned to with enormous pleasure.
And then there’s Matilda, which celebrates intelligence, independence and the power of reading. Matilda is underestimated and dismissed by adults who ought to know better, yet finds the courage and resources to challenge them. Miss Honey, meanwhile, reminds us how much difference one kind, encouraging adult can make to a child’s life. Both books reflect something I’ve believed throughout my working life; that young people are capable of extraordinary things when someone believes in them, trusts them and gives them the opportunity to flourish.
But Dahl himself is much harder to admire. His antisemitism was explicit, deeply unpleasant and impossible to excuse as simply the attitudes of another generation. He expressed those prejudices openly, including at a time when their offensiveness was already well understood. I find it difficult to reconcile the warmth and humanity of some of his writing with the ugliness of those views.
Perhaps we don’t need to reconcile them. It’s perfectly possible to recognise literary achievement without excusing the prejudices of the person responsible. We can enjoy a book while acknowledging that its author held views we find repugnant, although I think we should be prepared to discuss that contradiction rather than conveniently ignore it. We should also be willing to examine the stereotypes and prejudices that sometimes find their way into the stories themselves.
With Walliams, I don’t face quite the same dilemma. I simply don’t think the quality of the writing is there to begin with.
Who gets the shelf space?
For decades, Dahl has been one of the dominant names in children’s literature. Walliams followed him, with an equally remarkable commercial presence. Both have benefited from the sort of recognition, promotion and shelf space that most authors can only dream of.
Of course, children should be allowed to read books they enjoy. I’m not suggesting that adults should march into school libraries and remove everything that fails a contemporary test of acceptability. Nor do I believe that every book needs to carry an improving moral message. Sometimes a good story is simply a good story, and that’s quite enough.
But classroom bookshelves are not infinite, and the decisions about what occupies them matter. Every familiar bestseller bought in multiple copies represents money that cannot be spent on something else, while every display devoted to the same handful of authors is an opportunity not taken to introduce children to someone new.
I wonder, too, whether the dominance of certain authors has encouraged us to be rather unadventurous in our recommendations. It’s easy to buy another set of books by someone whose name everyone recognises, particularly when schools are short of money and teachers are short of time. Finding something new requires a little more effort, and sometimes a willingness to take a chance.
Some books I’d make room for
I ought to offer a few suggestions of my own, rather than simply asking everyone else to do the work. I haven’t read all the contemporary books I’d like to, so some of these are recommendations based on their reputation and the accounts of people whose judgement I respect. But they strike me as offering something rather more interesting than another shelf full of Walliams.
I’d start with The Boy at the Back of the Class by Onjali Q. Raúf. It’s the story of Ahmet, a refugee child arriving at a British primary school, told through the eyes of a classmate who becomes determined to help him. What appeals to me is that the children aren’t simply passive observers of an adult problem. They have their own ideas about fairness and friendship, and they decide to do something. It’s a reminder that children are often more willing than adults to question the assumptions around them.
I’d also make room for A Kind of Spark by Elle McNicoll. Its autistic heroine, Addie, becomes fascinated by the persecution of women accused of witchcraft and begins challenging the prejudices of her own community. As someone who is neurodivergent myself, I’m particularly interested in books that don’t treat difference as something to be overcome. Instead, this story asks readers to consider what happens when adults fail to understand a child who experiences the world differently.
For children who enjoy funny books, I’d suggest The Boy Who Made Everyone Laugh by Helen Rutter. Billy wants to become a stand-up comedian, but he has a stammer and is terrified of speaking in front of other people. It’s an example of how to write humour that grows out of character and experience, rather than making someone’s difference the joke. Billy is funny because he’s funny, not because he stammers.
The Last Bear by Hannah Gold would be another choice. A young girl befriends a polar bear on a remote Arctic island, in a story that combines adventure with concern for the natural world. Given my work in animal welfare, I’m particularly drawn to books that encourage children to care about animals without turning every chapter into a lesson in environmental responsibility. The story comes first, and the concern follows naturally from it.
And if we’re looking for an alternative to Walliams’s particular brand of comic fiction, Jenny Pearson deserves attention. The Miraculous Journey of Freddie Yates is funny, absurd and full of unlikely adventures, but it also has something to say about friendship, family and belonging. It demonstrates that a children’s book can be wonderfully silly without being casually cruel.
I’d also make space for more poetry. Michael Rosen, Joseph Coelho and John Agard remind us that children’s enjoyment of language needn’t be confined to novels. Poetry can be funny, rhythmic, surprising and particularly rewarding for children who don’t yet think of themselves as readers. I still remember the pleasure of sharing Allan Ahlberg’s poems with a class, and I hope today’s teachers have equally rich collections to draw upon.
These aren’t all obscure writers, and several have already won major awards. But I suspect there are many others, particularly newer authors and those without substantial marketing budgets, whose books have yet to find the audiences they deserve.
Should we retire some old favourites?
Perhaps we should, although I’d be cautious about turning this into a campaign to ban books. I’ve already made my view of David Walliams clear: I wouldn’t be buying more of his books for a classroom library, and I’d be happy to make room for other writers instead.
I have to confess to a sneaking love for Enid Blyton’s Famous Five. I know perfectly well that the world they inhabit is dated, that the assumptions about class and gender can be exasperating, and that parts of Blyton’s wider output are indefensible. But I still remember the pleasure of those adventures, the independence of the children and the irresistible prospect of disappearing for a few days with a bicycle, a picnic and a mystery. I wouldn’t want every childhood favourite preserved in aspic, but neither do I feel obliged to pretend I didn’t enjoy them.
If I’m going to be braver about clearing shelf space, I’d look beyond the obvious historical offenders to some of the contemporary celebrity names. I’ve never been convinced that David Baddiel’s children’s novels deserve quite the prominence they receive. They can be inventive and entertaining, but too often, for my taste, the enormous comic premise does the heavy lifting that character and language ought to do. I’d question, too, the automatic prominence given to Tom Fletcher’s books. I’m not suggesting that children shouldn’t enjoy them; I am suggesting that a famous name and a substantial marketing campaign shouldn’t be mistaken for a compelling reason to stock an entire series.
And perhaps I’d be more ruthless about the endless spin-offs, branded stories and formulaic series that fill shelves simply because children already recognise the characters. I understand why publishers produce them and why children pick them up. But when school budgets are tight, I’d rather see teachers and librarians given the chance to introduce an unfamiliar writer with something original to say. That’s a judgement about priorities and literary ambition, not a call to confiscate anyone’s favourite book.
There are certainly older children’s stories whose assumptions about race, class, gender or disability deserve scrutiny. Some may still be worth reading, with appropriate context, while others may simply have had their day because better alternatives are available. I don’t think we should feel obliged to keep recommending the same books indefinitely simply because we enjoyed them as children, or because their authors have become household names.
Nor do I think we should underestimate children’s ability to engage with difficult ideas. Older children, particularly, can benefit from discussing why a book reflects attitudes that we would now challenge. Literature offers opportunities to explore prejudice and injustice, and sometimes an uncomfortable book can prompt a valuable conversation.
But that doesn’t mean every book deserves a permanent place on the classroom shelf. Teachers make choices about the material they use all the time, balancing literary quality, educational value, children’s interests and the resources available to them. Choosing to replace a book with something better is not necessarily censorship; it may simply be good teaching.
And I wouldn’t claim that every book I enjoyed reading aloud when I was teaching necessarily deserves a permanent place on today’s shelves either. Some will have aged better than others, and today’s children have access to voices and experiences that were largely absent from the books available to us then. That’s something to celebrate, not resist.
Making room for something better
I’ve spent much of my life working with and for young people, and I’ve seen how much difference it can make when a child discovers something that captures their imagination and gives them confidence. Books can offer escape, companionship, reassurance and challenge, sometimes all within the same story.
For a child who has been made to feel that reading isn’t really for them, finding the right book can make an enormous difference. It might be something funny, something fantastical, a story about someone whose life resembles their own or one that introduces them to an entirely unfamiliar world. What matters is that they find something that makes them want to read another.
I also hope we haven’t lost sight of the importance of reading aloud. There was a particular pleasure in sharing a story with a class, watching children respond to it together, and discovering that the book you had chosen had caught their imagination. I suspect some of my former pupils will remember those stories long after they’ve forgotten whatever else I was trying to teach them that day.
So perhaps the most useful response to the current debate about David Walliams is to think rather more carefully about the books we choose to put in front of children. Not simply which authors we might stop recommending, but which ones we ought to be recommending instead.
I’d be particularly interested to hear from teachers, librarians, parents and others who know contemporary children’s literature better than I do. Which authors are being overlooked? Which newer writers deserve greater recognition? Are there old favourites that really have had their day, and others whose writing remains every bit as valuable as when it was first published?
And if we do decide to clear a little space on our classroom bookshelves, whose books should take their place?
