This week has been a sad one. Monday, I was sitting at home after a long day at work when a text came through. Sorry, it said, and a link to the Guardian. I clicked it.
Monty Le Chew. Died. 79.
I was stunned. I hadn't known he was ill, and neither had most of the puppetry community. I googled his name and every corner of the British press had already picked it up.
His son had got into his social media and posted a short message alongside a beautiful photo. Alf here. Dad had some health issues recently and sadly passed this morning. He was an amazing guy. He will be missed.
The comments underneath came from all round the world — people saying how loved he was, what a legacy he'd left behind, posting photos and videos of their own encounters with him at events up and down the country. Even the Little Devil Theatre put up a dedication. The same venue that turned him away after fifty-odd years of loyal performance, the moment he released his book, found the words to say he'd be missed.
The next day I made a few calls. Turns out he hadn't been well and had been taken into care within the past week. No funeral date yet.
He'd been president of one of the longest-running puppetry guilds in the country. They posted a full dedication to their late president.
Monty — if it wasn't for you, I wouldn't have started performing with marionettes. Your skill and your talent are what I still aspire to.
RIP.
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