Henry Pitter: The End Of An Era (Part One)

At the end of this week Harry Potter: The Final Fandango hits cinemas. Emma Watson has dressed as a swan and cried, JK Rolling has cried (surely just sobs to cover the mixed emotion that the sentiment ‘I’m just too rich’ produces in the inconsolably rich) and Danny Radcliffe has given up booze. It’s funny hey Dan, when you’re first offered a glass of wine for free you drink five, and then by the time you get to 25 you realise it’s difficult to drink and count piles of cash. Blurred vision’s a nightmare.

When I first read Harry Potter I didn’t get it. We didn’t own the books at home, and it just didn’t appeal. My first read of the opening chapters filled me with nothing but nonsense and piffle. My second encounter with The Philosopher's Stone saw me enchanted – you just have to get past all that stupid being in a cupboard stuff. Who do you think you are Harry, Andy Peters? You need a hand puppet for starters. But now – having fallen in love with the idea of being a wizard, oh come on, fighting dark lords and managing not to kill Hermione or snog Ron for 7 whole bookish years? I realised the similarities between myself and Harry. Loosely. One of my childhood houses had an amazing cupboard-under-the-stairs and by my third and forth read I dreamt of being back on St Andrews Road, in the cul-de-sac reading Harry Potter in that cupboard with dad’s defunct cameras and that weird 80s carpet cleaner. Chuck in a good wadge of teenage angst and general anger at another house move and I felt as distant and outcast as Hazza. I also have a scar on my forehead.

It would be an understatement to say I loved those books, my mum brought them home from school for me to read and I would read as I walked from class to class, onto the bus, in the car, I remember getting a lot of reading in during Miss Young’s Spanish classes (between her tears at the whole tutor group’s contempt for education) and probably spouted some arrogant revolting cheek along the lines of ‘err, Miss, I’m reading, and it’s not like I’m going to learn any Spanish from you anyway.’

When the films were announced, I discovered kindred spirits in several other HP fans in my class who thought the films were gross misconduct. I mostly thought the films were a problem as I wasn’t in them – and yes I did send off a letter to the address on Newsround when they announced open casting.

Anyway a bunch of us traipsed off to see the first film that soggy Christmas – and we discovered one thing. Not only were the child actors terrible, but it was delightfully camp. Harry Potter fans will know that when the first film was produced JK Rowling was still writing, and the Order of The Phoenix was a heart aching three years after Goblet of Fire. Kate Pyper and I came up with a plan. Based on the style of film one, the principles of consequences and using MSN messenger – and our Spanish lessons – we would write the fifth book before JK Rowling could be arsed to.

Thus, Henry Pitter and the Infamous Plan X was born.