A photo appeared on my Twitter feed, probably thanks to my obsessive algorithm. It was from the 1980s. Middle-aged hybrid karate toads. I clicked. Kept scrolling. His portfolio was insane — creatures, mascots, prosthetics for big names. Stage and screen. TV shows and films from my childhood. Stuff I’d grown up absorbing without knowing who made it.
I reached out.
After a bit of back and forth, it turned out he lived fairly close to me. Thirty minutes on the bus. He also knew people I’d already crossed paths with on my own journey. Eventually, he invited me to get some food near his place.
I put on one of my better floral shirts, jeans, a blazer — tried to look like someone who belonged in the industry. His building was covered in flowers. Colourful. Fresh. Stylish in that quietly curated way. On the door: a character head knocker, hanging dead centre. I used it.
He opened the door. Small, middle-aged, plump. Wearing a cap that looked like something a chimney sweep in Oliver Twist would wear. Somehow stylish. In his own logic.
We went to a pizzeria round the corner. Talked for hours. His career. My gay marionette idea. Life. I mentioned I’d taken lessons with Monty. That loosened him up. Maybe it was the Monty connection. Maybe the extra glass of wine. Maybe the gay marionette. But something shifted. He relaxed.
A few months later he invited me to his studio. A long wooden shed at the back of his garden. Inside: the physical debris of a lifetime. Puppets hanging from the ceiling. Others slumped on shelves. Fabrics in every shade and texture. Furs. Maquettes. Paintbrushes. Pots of paint. Handmade eyeballs scattered across the workbench in different colours and styles, like a crime scene for Pinocchio.
Every visit turned into long conversations. His life. His work. His career. He always had a project on the go. At the time he was sculpting a ventriloquist doll for a client.
Then one day, casually, he said he could teach me how to build an industry-standard puppet.
I couldn’t believe my luck.
I went back to work and dropped a day from the rota so I could afford to keep things ticking over. It felt like a door opening. This was it. This guy was going to help me. He understood what I wanted. He knew people. He had access. He was the bridge.
After a few more visits, patterns started to appear.
He’d stop answering the phone. Days would pass. Then he’d call to apologise and reschedule. Again. And again. Sometimes he’d say, “Let’s grab lunch.” Which usually meant pizza. Which I usually paid for. At the time I didn’t mind. I thought something was coming. Some breakthrough. Some reward for patience.
Years later, I realised what was actually happening.
I was his free therapist.
He talked about past relationships. Abuse. People he’d worked with who had died. His cat. His mum. The multiple estates he’d inherited. If he rang, I answered. First time. Every time. I showed up. I listened. I went to his 50th birthday.
I thought this was mentorship.
I thought this was how you learned.
Be patient. Stay close. Don’t complain. Something will happen.
I thought this was the industry.