Ray Harryhausen – A Hollywood Legend with a Grimsby Fishmonger

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Every Wednesday afternoon, as I worked my way around my London customers, there was one house I always looked forward to visiting.

Behind the front door lived a quiet, modest gentleman called Ray Harryhausen.

To film fans, Ray was a legend. He was the man whose incredible stop-motion animation inspired generations of filmmakers, bringing creatures such as the skeleton army from Jason and the Argonauts, Medusa from Clash of the Titans, and the fantastical creations from the Sinbad films to life. Directors including Steven Spielberg, George Lucas and Peter Jackson have all spoken of the influence Ray had on their own careers.

To me, though, he was simply Ray – another valued customer on my fish round.

For well over ten years I had the pleasure of delivering fish to his home. Like many of my customers, what began as a business relationship gradually became a friendship. We would chat every week, and I soon discovered we shared a love of model making. Ray took a genuine interest in my own model railway, while I was fascinated by the miniature worlds he had created for the silver screen.

One day he invited me upstairs and showed me something very few people ever get to see.

Lined around the room were the original armatures and models from some of cinema's greatest fantasy films. Standing in front of the skeleton warriors, Medusa, Pegasus, Tik-Tok and characters from the Sinbad adventures was like stepping back into my childhood. These weren't museum replicas; they were the originals, created by Ray's own hands.

Then I noticed something sitting quietly on a sideboard.

An Oscar.

Trying not to sound too excited, I asked,

"Ray... is that an Oscar?"

"Yes," he replied.

"Can I pick it up?"

"Sure, go ahead."

There I was, an ordinary fishmonger from Grimsby, standing in Ray Harryhausen's home, holding a real Academy Award in my hands.

I remember thinking, "My God... I've actually got an Oscar. A real-life Oscar. This is unreal."

Ray looked across at me with a smile and asked,

"Haven't you seen one before?"

Without missing a beat I laughed and replied,

"Oh yes... everyone's got one of these in Grimsby."

Of course they hadn't, and neither had I.

After carefully placing the Oscar back where it belonged, I picked up Ray's BAFTA award. I'd often seen BAFTAs presented on television, but I'd never examined one close up. The front was beautifully finished, but the back surprised me. It looked much rougher than I expected. Having spent years building models, I understood exactly why. Like many castings, there's often a side that people never normally see.

Smiling, I said to Ray,

"It's not as nice as the Oscar, is it?"

I certainly wasn't talking about the achievement. I simply meant that, as an object, it didn't have the same beautifully finished appearance as the Oscar itself.

Around us were countless other awards recognising a lifetime of extraordinary achievement. I remember simply standing there, taking them all in, wondering how many stories each one represented.

Naturally, I asked if I could have a photograph holding the Oscar. Ray apologised and explained that the Academy has strict rules regarding publicity photographs involving the award, so unfortunately that wasn't possible. I did, however, take a photograph of the Oscar sitting on the sideboard amongst Ray's many awards, and that's the photograph you can see here.

Another treasured possession is one of Ray's books. Ray kindly signed it for me, but there's another signature inside that makes it even more special.

Tony Dalton was one of Ray Harryhausen's closest friends, his biographer and long-time collaborator. He dedicated many years to documenting Ray's remarkable career and helping preserve his legacy. Tony also served as a Governor of BAFTA.

When I asked Tony if he would sign the book as well, he looked genuinely surprised.

"What... me? I don't usually get to sign these."

I laughed and replied,

"Why not? You're the author."

He smiled, signed the book, then held it for a moment before handing it back.

"That's the only one that exists."

It became one of my most treasured possessions.

Some time later, Helen and I were invited to Tony's home on the Isle of Wight. Like Ray, he was warm, welcoming and generous with his time. We spent a lovely afternoon together.

When Ray sadly passed away, Helen and I were honoured to be invited by his daughter, Vanessa, to his memorial service at St Paul's Church in Covent Garden. Afterwards everyone walked to the London Film Museum where a reception was held.

As we chatted with people, the inevitable question kept coming.

"So... how did you know Ray?"

"I sold him fish."

Most expected another filmmaker, actor or producer. Instead they found an ordinary fishmonger from Grimsby who had become a friend.

Perhaps the funniest moment of the day came as we left St Paul's Church. A line of photographers stood waiting outside. As Helen and I walked through the doors, several cameras immediately swung in our direction. For a brief moment we wondered if we'd somehow become celebrities ourselves.

Then they realised who we were.

The cameras slowly lowered again.

Not one single camera clicked.

It told you everything you needed to know.

Helen and I simply looked at each other and laughed.

Looking back now, I don't remember Ray Harryhausen as the legendary filmmaker whose work changed cinema forever. I remember him as a kind, humble and generous gentleman who welcomed an ordinary fishmonger from Grimsby into his home and, for a little while, made me feel part of an extraordinary world.

If there's one thing this fish round has taught me, it's that you never know who might answer the door. Sometimes it turns out to be a Hollywood legend.

More importantly, sometimes it turns into a friendship.