"Hello, My Name is Silly Willy": Growing Up in the London Palladium of Eastwood

Hello, my name is Silly Willy…

And so began my career in amateur dramatics. It was 1988 and I was just 11 years old.

St Laurence Church Players have presented plays, shows and pantomimes for more than 70 years, and their members are still entertaining their community today. One founding player is still going strong at 91, proof that the show really does go on.

This was proper amateur dramatics: the kind where the worse things got, the more entertaining they became, and where the most recognisable voice was the prompt. St Laurence Church Players had audiences in stitches decades before The Play That Goes Wrong became a smash hit. One hilarious example during my time was a scene in which we had to pretend to be unable to blow a candle out. Half a dozen real candles were lit (the good old days!) and we had to blow through the side of our mouths while saying, in turn, “I can’t blow my candle out.” Inevitably, we all blew our candles out my mistake, but carried on shouting “I can’t blow my candle out!"

But for me and my fellow performers, St Laurence Church Hall was the London Palladium. This was showbiz.

My debut in the 1988 production of Mother Goose was a pivotal moment in my life. For a young, impressionable boy who would turn bright red at the slightest attention, it was the perfect place to emerge from my shyness and discover my voice as a performer. The tiny stage behind velvet red curtains in a community hall virtually untouched since the 1930s holds a special place in my heart - even more than the 900‑year‑old medieval church up the road. This was the hall of my youth club, my cub group, church quiz nights, parties and tea dances. Thanks to St Laurence Church Players, it became the first place I truly felt at home.

St Laurence Church Hall was unmistakable: the slightly dusty smell, always with a chill until the heaters roared into life and boiled everyone. The taste of creamy biscuits and milky tea served in dark green china teacups from before the War. Chairs scraped across the wooden floor, and somewhere in the corner a honky‑tonk piano clattered away, the very one I would eventually play in later productions. Above all, the beautiful hum of a packed, expectant audience. I was drawn to that anticipation, to the electric potential of a single unrepeatable performance.

I’d sneak a look through a crack in the moth‑eaten curtain to see the hall full to bursting. Will I remember my lines? Will they laugh? Instead of fear, I felt something intoxicating. I embraced it completely. In that moment, the world was waiting. It was pure magic.

Of course, I was not alone in my experience. I was being nurtured by my fellow players - all of whom were decades older than me. I felt special. In fact, I was thoroughly spoilt. I will forever be grateful to these trusted adults for showing me such kindness. This quirky, safe space was a beautiful blend of laughter, compassion and care.

The cast was full of quintessentially English eccentrics: those who would sing off‑tune but somehow never realise it; a lady who held a high note for 1.5 seconds after everyone else purely to prove she could; a grandma who sat in the corner of the stage knitting through entire scenes because she was too frail to move; and an elderly gentleman who always played the Chief Inspector, though his attempts to solve crimes were constantly interrupted by arguments with the prompt about the next line. “Are you sure that’s right?!”

Another leading man (or should I say woman) was my dad, the official St Laurence Pantomime Dame. Dad had been treading the boards at the hall for years before my debut as Silly Willy. I was eager to join him, and in one of our variety shows we even performed the song “Following in Father’s Footsteps". We rehearsed every Tuesday evening from 8pm-10pm. It was a late night for me, but it was our special time together, and I treasured it.

I take after my dad in so many ways, and not being afraid to make a fool of yourself is certainly one of them. Dad was so beloved as a Dame that even when the script didn’t call for one, they simply created one for him. If there was a policeman, he became the policewoman. Every Christmas he would dig out his gold lamé dress, tights and heels. It was an innocent time when we rolled about laughing at his awkward walk, his put‑on high voice, and the way he desperately tried to level out his fake bosom.

Despite a heartfelt love of music, Dad also has the worst singing voice I’ve ever heard. Standing next to him at church ruined any hymn, but it was perfect for a pantomime Dame. He was ridiculous, glorious, and utterly adored by the audiences. The atmosphere always lifted the moment he stepped on stage.

It all made for an interesting first introduction to my trained‑singer future wife too!

The band comprised Harry on the piano and Will on guitar. Harry was renowned for being able to follow the singers when they went wrong. He would skilfully skip beats, bars and entire pages of music without the audience noticing, just to cover up the performer mishaps. I learnt from Harry and became known for the same talent - something that helped me accompany children as a schoolteacher and, of course, students of The Music Man Project today. I can still picture Harry and Will blissfully playing away together, usually for far longer than intended because my dad’s zip was stuck on his dress.

There was also some undiscovered talent in the cast. The 91‑year‑old founding member was the Players’ Chairman, Colin, and he was highly influential on my career. His comedy monologues rivalled Ronnie Corbett. Forever young, Colin put you at ease and made you laugh the moment he entered a room. He gave me the same advice every time I was about to go on stage as a boy: “Give it bags of OOOOMPH!” It’s a phrase that still rings in my head today before TV appearances or big concerts with The Music Man Project.

It was Colin who first invited me up on stage at St Laurence Church Hall to help him call the raffle. I was only six years old and there to watch my dad. I got a big clap, and Colin handed me a multi‑colour ballpoint pen as a thank you, one of those magical pens with a rainbow of inks inside. Colin also gave me my first chance as a piano entertainer when he invited me to play for the Southend Stroke Club. Those early moments of trust and encouragement meant the world to me.

Before he retired, Colin was a policeman. I can’t imagine anyone causing him any trouble - he was just too kind and too funny. Colin’s daughter was Frankie, a true chip off the old block, and I found her hilarious. She was beautiful too, and I’m not afraid to admit I had a huge crush on her as a teenage boy. Her defining act was as the hapless Popsy Wopsy. She stole the show every time.

Frankie as Popsy Wopsy

So many memories, so many shows and so many lovely people who cared about me. If the makers of The Vicar of Dibley were to think of a follow‑up to their much‑loved sitcom, then The St Laurence Players would definitely fit the bill. And the most beautiful thing? The hall remains virtually in the same state as the last 100 years. St Laurence Church Players are still going strong too.

And my largest Music Man Project group rehearses there every Friday.

I wish I could go back in time and tell that 11‑year‑old boy peeking through the curtain that decades later he would stand in the same hall with global superstar Michael Ball, TV’s Mr Motivator and the Director of Music for His Majesty’s Royal Marines.

I’d say, “Give it bags of OOOOMPH!”

He would take a deep breath and shout:

Hello, my name is Silly Willy!