Shropshire Magazine

Charlie Edwards’s fascination with ventriloquism took root at a very young age.

Charlie’s entry for the publication The Performer.

Neil Thomas hears a grand old voice of variety. Well, two voices actually . . .

They say variety is the spice of life. Well, that’s certainly been the case for 76-year-old Charlie Edwards. Charlie fell in love with variety shows as a boy, was billed as Britain’s Youngest Ventriloquist after making his public debut aged seven, and it’s fair to say that he has been performing ever since.

We spend an afternoon reminiscing at the cosy semi in Ellesmere that Charlie shares with his wife of 50 years, Olive. He talks of his love of performing and performers, of greats like Eric Morecambe, Laurel and Hardy, Norman Wisdom, George Formby and Max Miller, some of whom he watched from a privileged position in the wings while they entertained packed houses.

“I was as close to them as I am to you,” he says, as we sit next to each other at his small dining table.

“I didn’t know them, I’d never be presumptious enough to approach them, but I’ve seen them perform from very close and it was marvellous. I feel very honoured.”

Many people in Ellesmere will doubtless recall Charlie’s spell as town crier between 1988 and 1998, but that is only part of a 69-year career entertaining the public.

He caught the variety bug early in life. Charlie was born and raised in Runcorn, Cheshire, where his mother and father ran the Rose and Crown pub in Church Street, now closed.

“My mother was very fond of variety and I had an uncle on the stage, Bert Pugh. He was a plodding performer, never famous but he made a living from it. When I was very young he took me backstage at the Argyle Theatre in Birkenhead where I saw the great Arthur Prince and his dummy Jim. Well, that was it. I wasn’t interested in being anything else but a ventriloquist.”

Bought

Charlie and Tony in an early publicity shot.

His father bought him a small doll, a model of ‘Charlie McCarthy’, the doll belonging to American Oscar-winning actor Edgar Bergen, who was best known as a ventriloquist.

“After I’d practised I started entertaining in my mum and dad’s pub, quite illegal of course in those days for a seven-year-old,” he recalls laughing.

Word of the wonder kid started to spread and Charlie started entertaining at children’s parties and joined a concert party in Frodsham, Cheshire.

“I thought it was absolutely marvellous,” he says, smiling warmly as the memories flood back.

The family then moved to Saltney, near Chester, to take over the Anchor Hotel.

“I remember the unusual thing was it was right on the border and the bar was in North Wales and the living quarters in England, so, in those days, it meant we had to close on a Sunday.”

By now Britain was at war, Charlie was 11 years old and virtually a semi-professional variety performer.

“I still went to school and still got a good education but it meant I was busy outside school.”

Through The Anchor the youngster got to know the manager of the Royalty Theatre in Chester, who introduced him to the stage manager Sid Jones.

“Knowing Sid meant I could go backstage quite often and I got to see some great performers, people like Sandy Powell, Norman Wisdom and Rob Wilton.”

Now in his teens, Charlie was becoming established in the performers’ fraternity. He became a part-time member of the Variety Artists’ Federation, as well as the official northern representative of the London Ventriloquists’ Society.

During this time Charlie used to try to get to shows as often as he could, usually with his mother Clara, who loved music hall.

“The stars of the time were people like George Formby, Gracie Fields, Max Miller. Max, of course, was famous for pushing the boundaries and there was a lot of innuendo. I’m not sure he would have had any impact today because there don’t seem to be any boundaries any more. Max was banned by the BBC, but in those days there was a list of subjects you couldn’t tell jokes about and you can scarcely believe it today. Obviously there were no blue jokes, but you couldn’t mention honeymoons or tell jokes about commercial travellers.”

At 18 Charlie was to experience one of the biggest regrets of his life – and it all happened in the space of two days.

He had a phone call from an agent in Liverpool asking him if he would like to do a full season at the North Pier in Blackpool.

“This was my big break, to be a professional in Blackpool which was the entertainment capital of the north. Who knows where it might lead. This was the the chance of a lifetime.”

Charlie had barely time to celebrate before a letter arrived the following day – his call-up papers for National Service.

Firm

“It was to join the Air Force. I had already been to Liverpool for the medical and passed. My dad contacted the Air Ministry to ask if there was anyway my call up could be delayed to give me my chance in Blackpool. But the man at the ministry was very firm – ‘I’m sorry, he was born in 1932 and he’s got to do National Service’. Of course, I was devastated.

“The funny thing was that my first posting was to RAF Freckleton – which turned out to be just up the road from Blackpool. I couldn’t believe it,” he says, chuckling heartily.

“That was my big regret, though,” he adds pensively.

Not that his performing career came to an end; far from it. When his bosses in the RAF discovered his talent he was despatched to collect his dummy ‘Tony’ and given concert party duty. “I did well in the RAF and that dummy did National Service with me,” he recalls.

When Charlie came out of the RAF at the end of 1952, the chances of a career in variety were diminishing fast.

“Television was getting a hold and theatres were closing down all over the country. I had friends in variety that could not get work. It was dying on its feet.”

Charlie got a job selling bathroom suites in Chester and continued to perform in his spare time. At his height he was earning two guineas (£2.10) a performance which, in the 1950s, was nearly half the average weekly wage. Not bad for a ‘hobby’ job.

The family’s move to Shropshire came when his parents took over the Grove Inn at Nesscliffe, near Oswestry.

“We moved over here and the plan was that Olive and I would take over when mum and dad retired. However, that didn’t come to anything because I got a good job with North Western Farms.”

Still, at nights and weekends, he was treading the boards. For a time he did a comedy act doing quickfire gags with a straightman called Elwyn Williams, now dead.

He talks with affection of the time he saw Laurel and Hardy at Liverpool Empire.

“They were loved, absolutely loved. They came to the Granada Theatre, in Shrewsbury, as well you know. They loved meeting their fans and they did a walkabout outside the theatre in Shrewsbury. Imagine that.”

Charlie rates Ray Allen and ‘Lord Charles’, and Arthur Worsley with ‘Charlie Brown’, as two of the best ventriloquists, both appearing regularly on British television in the 1960s and 1970s.

Among the worst is one of the most famous, he says. That was Peter Brough and his dummy ‘Archie Andrews’ who, bizarrely, made his name with a radio show Educating Archie in the 1950s.

“A radio ventriloquist – you can’t quite get your head around that, can you? Any way I went to see him on stage and Peter Brough’s mouth was moving more than the dummy’s. He was not a very good ventriloquist.”

He rates his favourite act of all, though, as the legendary Crazy Gang.

So many memories from an age long ago and far away.

Charlie was told to take it easy by his doctor following two heart attacks 12 years ago. He now limits his performances, though he still does the occasional talk to WIs and comperes the annual Royal British Legion Show in Ellesmere.

Daughter Pamela showed some interest in carrying on the family performing tradition. “She was quite good,”says Charlie. However, 20-year-old grandson Christopher “shows no interest whatsoever”.

Swish

Bills advertising some of Charlie’s appearances.

There are so many more stories but I’ve run out of space. However, I can’t not mention the time that Charlie and his mum were in London to buy a swish new ventriloquist’s doll from Davenport Magic Shop in London.

“We decided to go to the Palladium to catch a show before travelling home. I left the bulk of the dummy in the cloakroom but I decided to keep the head, which had cost £45 and was by far the most valuable part, with me. I put it wrapped up in its packaging under the seat.

“When the lights went up the at the interval the woman behind started screaming. As I stood up I must have disturbed the package and the head had rolled out from under the seat. When we explained what had happened everyone who had gathered around had a good laugh about it. The woman and her husband, a couple from Leicester, were great. I asked their names and he said his was Tony; so that’s what I decided to call the dummy.”