Christopher Fowler standing in a dark room looking out of French doors into the light

My Obituary

A typical example of the late 20th century midlist author, Fowler was born in the less attractive part of Greenwich in 1953, the son of a scientist and a legal secretary. He went to a London Guild school, Colfe's, where, avoiding rugby by hiding in the school library, he was able to begin plagiarising in earnest. He published his first novel, Roofworld, described as 'unclassifiable', while working as an advertising copywriter, a job he described as 'one level above sewer-toshing'. He left to form The Creative Partnership, a company that changed the face of film marketing, and spent many years working in film, creating movie posters, tag lines, trailers and documentaries, using his friendship with Jude Law to get into nightclubs.


Christopher Fowler with an axe through his head illustrated by Graham Humpreys

During this time Fowler achieved several pathetic schoolboy fantasies, releasing an appalling Christmas pop single, becoming a male model, posing as the villain in a Batman comic, creating a stage show, writing rubbish in Hollywood, running a night club, appearing in the Pan Books of Horror and standing in for James Bond. A gifted mimic, he wrote for many British performers including Kenneth Williams, John Cleese and Michael Caine.

Now the author of over forty novels and short story collections, including his award-winning memoir 'Paperboy' and its sequel ‘Film Freak’, he writes the Bryant & May mystery novels, recording the adventures of two Golden Age detectives in modern-day London. This ability of turning his hand to most literary forms granted him the honorary title of 'Wordslut' and landed him a column in The Independent on Sunday. The most notable feature of his writing style is a felicity with language that allows for the insertion of cheap jokes. Other works included his 'War of the Worlds' videogame with Sir Patrick Stewart, several peculiar graphic novels and plays of varying quality. His story 'The Master Builder' was filmed with Tippi Hedren. Other books included the coming-of-age fantasy Calabash, Faustian satire Spanky, haunted house novel Nyctophobia and the Ballardesque thriller The Sand Men.

In 2015 he won the CWA Dagger In The Library award for his detective series, once described by his former publisher as 'unsaleable'. There are 15 Bryant & May books so far, with more to come. He divides his time between King's Cross, London and Barcelona.

His columns were notable for nearly always containing the word 'peculiar'. Fowler is still alive and has finally realized his ambition is to become a Forgotten Author.

Requiescat In Pace.

Posted by Christopher Fowler 19th March 2016

Christopher Fowler at home with his library. Photograph by Jill Mead, The Guardian
Photograph by Jill Mead, The Guardian

Christopher Fowler Obituaries 


Bryant & May novelist Christopher Fowler has died aged 69

by David Barnett, TheGuardian, 3rd March 2023

Christopher Fowler, author of the Bryant & May series of detective novels, has died at the age of 69, having been diagnosed with cancer three years ago.

Fowler was best known for his Bryant & May thrillers, featuring the veteran detectives solving unusual crimes in London from the second world war to the present day. The series began with Full Dark House in 2003, and 17 more novels followed, most recently London Bridge Is Falling Down, published in 2021. A further book exploring the London of the characters, Bryant & May’s Peculiar London, came out last year.

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Christopher Fowler Obituary 

by Steve Holland, The Guardian, 20th March 2023

In a brief biographical sketch, the crime writer Christopher Fowler, who has died aged 69, claimed he had achieved several of his “pathetic schoolboy fantasies”: releasing an “appalling” Christmas pop single; working as a male model; posing as the villain in a Batman graphic novel; running a Soho night club; appearing in The Pan Book of Horror series; and standing in for James Bond. Rather than examples of Fowler’s wicked sense of humour, all these claims were true.

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Christopher Fowler, crime writer behind the eccentric series of Bryant and May novels – obituary

By Telegraph Obituaries, 8th March 2023

He began his career in film marketing and came up with the famous Alien tagline, ‘In space no one can hear you scream’.

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Christopher Fowler (1953-2023)

By Locus Magazine, 3rd March 2023

Writer Christopher Fowler, 69, died March 3, 2023 in London. He was diagnosed with cancer in 2020. Fowler was the author of over 50 books in a variety of genres.

Christopher Robert Fowler was born March 26, 1953 in Greenwich, London, and split his time between London and Barcelona until his cancer diagnosis. In addition to his fiction career, he was a marketing writer, and founded film marketing company The Creative Partnership, where he created the iconic tag line for the film Alien: “In space, no one can hear you scream.”

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Remembering Christopher Fowler

By Joanne Harris

Confession: I’ve never done this before. To write a person’s obituary seems like a very final act, and I don’t want this to be final. Christopher Fowler has been in my life for over thirty years, and the space left by his passing is something I still have to understand.

We met at a publishing party. My first – a celebration of my publisher’s “autumn list” in which dozens of soon-to-be-published books were displayed on a library table, including my debut – The Evil Seed –  and where people who knew each other drank wine, while I hid alone in a corner. My agent introduced me to Chris. I was painfully awkward, not least because I’d just read and loved his hit novel Roofworld, and he was a Real Author, whereas I was just a schoolteacher who happened to have written a book about vampires in Cambridge. But he was warm and funny and kind, and I came away feeling I’d made a friend. After that I wrote to him, and we started a correspondence that was to last nearly 30 years.

This was typical of Chris; as I came to know him, I realized how welcoming he was to new authors. His letters were always funny, sincere, authentic and peppered with little cartoons, as well as accounts of what seemed to me an incredibly glamorous lifestyle – parties on yachts, movie premières – always presented with the same self- deprecating humour. His three-volume memoir – Paperboy, Film Freak and the final instalment, Word Monkey – all feel like an extension of his letters to me; rarely does an author convey their authentic voice as well as he does. Readers of his blog know that voice; as do the readers of his clever, quirky Bryant and May detective series. He loved to talk about films and books; loved London with a passion; was the most well-read person I know, as well as being an inexhaustible source of little-known facts on all kinds of subjects; loved to have leisurely breakfasts; knew every café in London; every alley; every roof garden; every comic shop and hardware store.

He was incredibly generous. He wrote my very first review – for Time Out – words that meant far more to me than any publisher’s advance. (Later, I tried to return the compliment by writing a blurb for his fantasy novel Calabash: I wanted so much to do justice to the book that I wrote a three-page essay). And when, my third book failed to attract a publisher, he was the one who cheered me on; found me a new agent, and when Chocolat finally became, first a bestseller, then a film, he was the one cheering hardest, and with a kind of brotherly pride.

I’ll never forget that. The way he cheered. Anyone else might have felt slightly envious – especially someone with a long career in writing, an equally long career in film, and yet who never became a household name in the profession he loved the most. But that was one of the things about Chris that made him unique in the business: he genuinely cared about others. If someone treated him unfairly, he tended just to shrug it off: but if the same thing happened to someone else, he was furious on their behalf. He had the same self-effacing attitude to his work, calling himself “word monkey” rather than “author,” in spite of a peerless talent that spanned many genres and media, and in spite of his many awards in the world of fantasy and crime.

He was born in Greenwich in 1953. His first memoir, Paperboy, describes a humble, solitary childhood filled with a passion for comics and films. The jacket shows him as a little blonde boy of 10, in round glasses like the Milky Bar Kid, grinning at the camera. The grin stayed the same throughout his life, and so did the humorous outlook. His second memoir, Film Freak, outlines his journey into the film world: he began his career as a copywriter, and aged 26 he founded The Creative Partnership with his business partner Jim Sturgeon. It became a hugely successful UK and international film marketing company, and Chris spent 25 years creating movie posters, trailers and documentaries. You’ll know his film work, even though you may not be aware of it: he was the one who created the famous tag line from Alien: “In space, no-one can hear you scream,” as well as the iconic campaigns for films like Reservoir Dogs, Trainspotting, and Moulin Rouge. He wrote for everyone from Kenneth Williams to Michael Caine, the Spice Girls, Pierce Brosnan, Leslie Nielsen, Julie Walters, John Cleese and Eric Idle. During that time, astonishingly, he also wrote successful novels of his own, as well as many, many short stories. The short story form especially suited him. It gave his mercurial temperament the chance to show its brilliance. And he was as prolific as he was pitch-perfect, with hundreds of stories published in dozens of collections and anthologies.

When Jim died, Chris left The Creative Partnership to concentrate on his writing. By the end of his career, he had authored over 50 books, was a five-time British Fantasy Award-winner as well as winning countless other awards, including the CWA 2015 Dagger In The Library for his body of work. His books had been optioned by everyone from Guillermo Del Toro to Jude Law. His short story The Master Builder became the film Through The Eyes Of A Killer, starring Tippi Hedren.

Anyone else might have allowed his success to go to his head. Instead, he always downplayed it, portraying himself as an accident-prone, Norman Wisdom-style figure of fun who had somehow accidentally found himself in a Hollywood movie. His letters to me were filled with stories of misadventures in glamorous surroundings; fingers trapped in limo doors on the way to Cannes premières; hotels disappearing into sinkholes on exotic foreign holidays; spectacles left on Concorde, or dropped into the sea from the deck of a celebrity’s yacht. On his blog, he describes himself thus: “Christopher has achieved several pathetic schoolboy fantasies, releasing a really horrible Christmas pop single, working as a male model, writing two London stage shows, posing as the villain in a Batman graphic novel, running a Soho night club, appearing in the Pan Books of Horror, and standing in for James Bond.” And yes, of course, it’s all true. But no list of achievements really conveys the breadth of his talent, his humour, his zest, his intelligence. None of those things can portray a life. I remember him most through his stories: through long walks through the West End; through many years of breakfasts; through comic shops and theatres; from his terrace house in Kentish Town to his glass cube over Regent’s Canal; through the death of his business partner and friend; through his marriage to Pete, and their loving, often hilarious partnership; through their shared love of Barcelona, where Chris and Pete bought a beautiful flat (which Chris referred to as his “writing shed”); through the letters that finally became e-mails and texts and Twitter DMs as we spent time more regularly in person.

Over lockdown, both of us were diagnosed with cancer. I got better: Chris didn’t. Throughout his treatment and mine, he supported me from afar; made me laugh; swapped chemo tips and Netflix recommendations; made jokes about those people who come out of the woodwork to sell you patented cancer cures based on crystals and whole foods. He died on March 2nd, just a three weeks away from his 70th birthday. Typically upbeat till the end, he told me in a text message that he was hanging on for 70, because “I don’t want to go down in history as an unfashionable sexual position.” When I last saw him, he was housebound, but still writing at a furious pace; blogs, short stories; letters; tweets. He wrote because he loved it; told stories because that was his way of interpreting the world. And he did that so very well. His insight was extraordinary. His literary comic lightness of touch was on a par with Wodehouse. His love of his people and of his world shone out from everything he wrote. His stories made me love London – in spite of the fact that I was a country mouse who worked from a shed in her garden. He taught me that books last forever, that the world is an adventure, that sleep is for lightweights, that words can be knives, or swarms of bees, or fireworks. He has been the most enduring influence of my career, both as a writer and as a friend. He wrote my very first review. He was there at the start of everything, and it feels all kinds of wrong for me to have to write his obituary. I’ve probably made a hash of it. I don’t have his aptitude with words. If only I could ask him for help –

Chris would have done it better.


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