In the puppetry world, Monty has a pretty good track record. He is the president of one of the longest running puppet guilds in the UK, principal puppeteer of a large orange hand puppet called Velcro (a piece of Velcro as a mouth). A puppet from a TV show Clouds that ran for 20 years on kids’ television from 1972–1992.
It was a name that would pop up in different conversations. One day I did a bit of Googling and found he was a primary puppeteer at the Little Devil Theatre. So I sent a letter to the theatre through the post. A few days later, he rang me. One thing led to another, and we arranged to meet for coffee in Covent Garden, just outside the Punch and Judy pub below the balcony.
Over coffee we discussed his past projects, my ventures and goals, and he casually mentioned that he operated marionettes. Before long, I was visiting his house for lessons. I was never really too fond of marionettes, but after watching him operate one — a small wooden faceless clothed figure dressed in his image — it stuck with me.
I was always under the impression that you would never really have the same control as you get from a rod, hand or shadow puppet. But he proved me wrong.
After the lessons we kept in contact. I would head over if I had a new character to show him or just to catch up. Most stories revolved around his latest jobs. One day he mentioned a crowdfunder where two authors were trying to get a book off the ground: Velcro and Me, about his life and career.
After it was released he got sued over a story in it. He had made an affair between two performers from the show public. The Little Devil Theatre dropped him after 50 years. Later they accepted him back.
An entire room of his Victorian house was devoted to memorabilia from Clouds. Velcro was printed on everything: stationery, lunchboxes, mugs — you name it. People would gift him things and they went straight into the room.
The longer I knew him, the clearer it became that he was guarded regarding work. Monty didn’t pull the strings — he waited for them to be handed to him. Help never quite extended to advancing my own projects. He would teach willingly, pocket a bit of cash, but always stopped just short of opening doors.
It was endearing — but also quietly sad, like watching someone chase the echo of applause long after the room has emptied.