Charles Dickens was born today.

Charles Dickens was born today.

For those who have followed and revered him, today represents the perfect opportunity to say thank you and give immense gratitude to a man who, within the space of a mere 58 years of living, single handedly revolutionised English literature so influentially that 149 years after his passing the name is still held up as the very definition of literary brilliance and genius. His name was, - and still is-  to those who believe that he's very much with us in spirit, Charles Dickens.

Today, on what was presumably a very cold and quite nippy day in 1812 in the coastal town of Portsmouth Charles Dickens was born into the dirt and squalor of early 19th century England. To say that Dickens didn't have it easy when he was young would be the grossest understatement. His father John was in prison and it was only when his son Charles achieved the heights of literary greatness that the son was able to dig his father out of a heap of debt, trouble and embarrassment. It was hardly the most auspicious start for the boy who would later find himself in a blacking factory with very little hope of any kind of social progression.

Some of us though just happened to stumble upon Dickens without really knowing why which does sound very strange. After a poor education and nothing  else to do with my time, burying myself in the local library during the 1980s seemed like the ultimate escape. Of course as a youngster we all had our reservations about the subject of reading because reading was boring and besides who wanted to genuinely improve themselves when there was so much else to do apart from reading? Now my curiosity would be instantly satisfied.

But then you discovered those big Secker and Warburg novels that seemed to be packed with big, lyrical descriptions, glorious story lines, wonderful characters and words that leapt from the page almost magically. You started with Joseph Conrad, moved through HG Wells, DH Lawrence, George Orwell, James A. Michener, Rudyard Kipling and then noticed out of the corner of your eye that name that beckoned you seductively towards him. Of course you were aware of the man's stature, his remarkably elevated stature, a household name, one of the leading celebrities of the day and still discussed in thousands of literary salons throughout the world.

After being honoured with the stunningly poetic prose of Thomas Hardy and reading all of his novels and short stories. Dickens must have seemed like a very a pathetic anti climax. But then you carefully picked up the first of Dickens novels with a nervous pair of hands not entirely sure what to make of it all. You knew Dickens wrote with a great sense of style and a decorative flourish but you didn't know that he could write like a dream.

Then you realised why this literary lion, this all conquering composer of words would change our thinking, astound us with the elegance of his rich grammar and vocabulary. Here was a man who would so effortlessly create memorable word pictures, painting  the most whimsical characters, bringing the whole landscape of Victorian society to life with  vivid imagery while at the same time inventing new settings and environments without any prompting at all.

Of course we'd heard all of the familiar stories about Dickens setting out very late night to wander through the piazza of Convent Garden,  listening out intently for the last cries of boisterous barrow boys on the fruit and vegetable market stalls. We knew that Dickens was helplessly fascinated with the sounds, sights and smells of the West End,  the haunting quietness of the City, the bell of Big Ben, the back streets, the winding alleyways. All had their story to tell and Dickens was the man to tell it.

Now you found yourself swept along with the vibrancy of the prose, the action packed narrative, the light and shade of the story, the darkness and the lightness, the Victorian lanterns sputtering and flickering, the tramps, the drunks, the scruffy, filthy urchins on street corners, the complicated relationships and the poverty stricken families who were barely managing to get by. Then, in contrast, there were the filthy rich and the aristocrats in their ivory towers who Dickens probably had very little time for.

So this was the essence of Dickens, the reason for your fascination with an author who never failed to disappoint at any level. You see the truth is that Dickens highlighted all of the social divisions and inequalities deeply rooted and festering within the decaying underbelly of society. Dickens though sympathised, empathised, understood, made fun of and then lampooned figures of authority with relentless derision. He knew what it was like to strive and struggle, scrimp and save and he made sure that people knew exactly how he was feeling at the time.

The novels themselves are like the sweetest box of chocolates, a magnificent concoction of all the good things that any novel should possess. In no particular order of merit there was Hard Times, Great Expectations, Nicholas Nickleby, David Copperfield, Dombey and Son, Martin Chuzzlewit, Barnaby Rudge, A Tale of Two Cities,  Oliver Twist and  Christmas stories galore.

And so it that today we celebrate the birth of one of England's greatest wordsmiths if not the greatest. True, there are those out there who genuinely believe that Dickens was ever so gloomy, critical, too opinionated for their liking. Dickens was too wordy, too flashy, over elaborate, too quick to judge and analyse, out of touch and not really their kind of author. They will tell you that most of the aforesaid novels were too long, verbose, perhaps vastly confusing and they would be wrong.

But as somebody who recently enjoyed BBC2's recent series on 20th century icons it would be remiss of me not to add Dickens to that esteemed list of explorers, activists, scientists, artists, pioneers and sportsmen and women. Dickens spoke for the people, he posed endless questions without ever really getting the response he may have been looking for and then became one of the great social commentators of his time and perhaps for ever more. Yet who's to say though that his enormous body of work is still being read.

When Dickens died halfway through Edwin Drood which subsequently turned into the Mystery of Edwin Drood it must have seemed like a whole set of Victorian street lamps had gone out, the life force of English literature had vanished for ever and would never ever return again. But then you look at the legacy which can still be found in millions of libraries across the world just waiting to be browsed at inquisitively, thoughtfully and then happily.

In retrospect I find myself wondering why I took the time to read as much as I possibly could because the sceptics would say that no good would ever come of reading a 19th century author whose language could only be properly grasped by the generation of the day. They would say that it was just a pointless exercise and that all of those fancy expressions and utterances, those snobbish characterisations, the intensely detailed descriptions and the endless acres of words would drive anybody mad.

In my defence it has to be said that are very few people whose novels are still being lavishly adapted for the movie screen, still immortalised on TV and still recognised on the back of a 10 pound note. Of course Dickens private life was immensely turbulent and nobody really knew him better than his adoring public.

 He pulled himself out of the gutter, dragged himself forcefully out of muddy obscurity and wrote because the necessity was an urgent one. The words  and sentences flowed like honey, the language as cultivated as an agricultural paradise at Harvest time. Wherever you are at the moment Charles Dickens, Happy Birthday and it's time to raise a glass. Have a good one Charlie.