As Roy Hudd dies aged 83, few knew childhood tragedy that drove him
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Roy Hudd had been around so long, he used to call himself 'the Anglo-Saxons' favourite comedian'.
The panto king, who died on Sunday aged 83, was the last link back to the music hall era.
His repertoire of gags was so ancient, some had Grade II preservation orders.
They could still leave audiences doubled over with belly laughs.
During more than 60 years in showbiz, which saw him star in , host a satirical radio sketch show for more than 20 years, and perform serious roles in serials such as Broadchurch and Ashes To Ashes, as well as working endlessly as a stage comedian, he had one constant superstition.
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Roy Hudd thrived in front of an audience.
Doing TV was no fun, he said, because he never knew if the jokes had bombed until the day after broadcast. Stage and live radio recordings were different, he said — he got an instant laugh, 'or a raspberry'
Wherever he appeared, he took a framed photo of his hero, music hall giant Dan Leno — who died in 1904.
Hudd was star-struck from his youth, when he and his beloved Gran, who brought him up, used to stand outside the stage door of the Croydon Empire when they couldn't afford tickets, just to glimpse the comics.
All his life, he could never quite believe he was rubbing shoulders with the performers he adored, such as Tommy Cooper and Ken Dodd.
The greatest moment of his career, he liked to say, came when he walked into a crowded dressing room and was greeted in front of everyone by a bloke he knew slightly . . . Hollywood superstar Cary Grant.
He always lamented that the music halls were gone.
'The only way you can learn to handle an audience is by getting out there in front of one,' he said.
'The current crop of mainstream entertainers, good as they are, often don't get the chance to learn those skills.'
This was, he added, the main reason so many stand-ups today 'are more politicians than comics'.
![]()
Roy Hudd had been around so long, he used to call himself 'the Anglo-Saxons' favourite comedian'.
The panto king, who died on Sunday aged 83, was the last link back to the music hall era
Not that Hudd objected to bovver-booted topical comedy. His weekly show on Radio Two, The News Huddlines, which ran for more than 50 series between 1975 and 2001, Фільми з українською озвучкою - https://uakino.pl/70570-pravdiva-brehnja.html battered politicians on left and right.
He and co-stars, June Whitfield, Janet Brown and Chris Emmett, were radio's equivalent of soccer hooligans in the House of Commons, he said.
He dubbed Margaret Thatcher 'the perfumed Ayatollah' and her hatchet-man Norman Tebbit 'the political equivalent of a rubber bullet'.
Sir Harold Wilson, the 'Knight of the Long Knives', was depicted as making threatening phone calls to the show from his constituency .
. . 'because he's always talking from his seat'.
In the Seventies, when the Jeremy Thorpe sex scandal was at its height, Hudd imagined the parties' election slogans.
![]()
He dubbed Margaret Thatcher 'the perfumed Ayatollah' and her hatchet-man Norman Tebbit 'the political equivalent of a rubber bullet'.
Sir Harold Wilson, the 'Knight of the Long Knives', was depicted as making threatening phone calls to the show from his constituency . . . 'because he's always talking from his seat'
The Tories' was 'Hello to a better tomorrow', Labour's was 'Hello to a stronger Britain,' and the Liberals' was, 'Hello sailor!'
Every shade of politics was fair game for comedy, he would say, as long as the gags were funny.
The News Huddlines urged listeners to send in their own jokes, and they arrived by the sackload — at least 1,000 a week.
Hudd paid for the ones he used, giving a start to writers such as David Renwick (who created One Foot In The Grave) and Andy Hamilton (Outnumbered).
Hudd thrived in front of an audience.
Doing TV was no fun, he said, because he never knew if the jokes had bombed until the day after broadcast.
Stage and live radio recordings were different, he said — he got an instant laugh, 'or a raspberry'.
His addiction to performing began when he was barely more than a toddler.
Three years old when World War II broke out in 1939, he loved showing off to his eccentric grandmother.
After a trip to the theatre to see Dick Whittington in panto, he decided he wanted to be a cat. Gran put down saucers of milk and roared with laughter when he raised a leg and tried to lick his tummy.
Harry Hudd, a carpenter, was rarely around, spending most of his time in the pubs and billiard halls of Croydon, South London.
By the time Roy was five, he had learned to do an impression of his Dad, dead drunk, that again had Gran in stitches.
![]()
His weekly show on Radio Two, The News Huddlines, which ran for more than 50 series between 1975 and 2001, battered politicians on left and right.
He and co-stars, June Whitfield, Janet Brown and Chris Emmett, were radio's equivalent of soccer hooligans in the House of Commons, he said
While Gran looked after Roy, his mother Evalina or Evie took care of baby brother Peter, sleeping with him in the front room of their semi-detached house.
Evie suffered from serious mental illness and crippling headaches, possibly (Hudd later suspected) caused by a brain tumour.
She was reluctant to leave the front room even at the height of the Blitz, until Gran bullied her into the bomb shelter in the garden.
'God will look after me and Peter,' she protested.
'No one's told Hitler that,' Gran retorted, and she was right: one night, a bomb fell in Neville Road, destroying several houses and bayoneting the front room's bed with spears of glass.
Evie and the baby were safe in the shelter but three years later, after Roy had been sent away as an evacuee, he returned to find his mother gone.
His aunts refused to say where she was.
At last, aged nine, he pleaded with Gran to tell him when Evie would come home.
![]()
During more than 60 years in showbiz, which saw him star in Coronation Street, host a satirical radio sketch show for more than 20 years, and perform serious roles in crime serials such as Broadchurch and Ashes To Ashes, as well as working endlessly as a stage comedian, he had one constant superstition
'She's dead,' Gran snapped.
'And there ain't no Father Christmas neither.'
The boy later learned his mother had shut herself in her room, blocked the windows and doors, and turned on the gas.
Small wonder he lived for Tuesday nights, when Gran would take him to the Croydon Empire — skipping meals to afford the tickets.
Gran died when Hudd was 19, the same year he was called up for National Service in the RAF.
He was constantly 'on jankers' — punishment detail — for lateness and insubordination, once clocking up 35 consecutive days which he liked to claim was an air force record.
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His clowning earned him admirers as well as charges. Former Goon Michael Bentine urged him to go into showbusiness and, when he left the RAF, he went to Butlins as a redcoat. 'It was a terrific way of getting started,' he said, 'because you didn't have to be any good.'
Also on the bill at the Clacton camp was a manic Irish comedian, David O'Mahony.
Years later, Hudd saw him again, now a much calmer, more cynical act. He'd changed his name . . . to Dave Allen.
But the real undiscovered star was in the chalet next to Hudd's, a good-looking crooner called Harry Webb. He changed his name too — to Cliff Richard.
![]()
His addiction to performing began when he was barely more than a toddler.
Three years old when World War II broke out in 1939, he loved showing off to his eccentric grandmother
Hudd's first radio spot came in 1959 on Workers' Playtime. More than a decade of bit parts followed, building a reputation as a connoisseur of old jokes and a music hall historian.
He compered The Good Old Days, BBC1's music hall tribute, where the audience wore Edwardian costumes.
A less adventurous comic might have baulked at topical satire, and stuck to the old material, but when The News Huddlines began he proved himself adept at both.
That only hinted at his range.
He won plaudits in series by playwright Dennis Potter, Lipstick on Your Collar and Cold Lazarus.
He was undertaker Archie Shuttleworth on Coronation Street, co-starred with Edward Woodward in sitcom Common As Muck, and popped up in crime dramas from Sherlock Holmes to Midsomer Murders.
He wed twice, having a son, Max, with first wife Ann, then marrying Debbie in 1988, a dancer and theatre director.
Despite numerous panto roles he didn't play a dame until he was 78, in 2015.
At last, he was tempted by the chance to write and star in Mother Goose, at Wilton's music hall in the East End.
He claimed he'd never played the dame because he was afraid of getting typecast.
With a talent as multi-faceted as his, there was never any danger of that.
Roy Hudd was a one-man variety show.
The panto king, who died on Sunday aged 83, was the last link back to the music hall era.
His repertoire of gags was so ancient, some had Grade II preservation orders.
They could still leave audiences doubled over with belly laughs.
During more than 60 years in showbiz, which saw him star in , host a satirical radio sketch show for more than 20 years, and perform serious roles in serials such as Broadchurch and Ashes To Ashes, as well as working endlessly as a stage comedian, he had one constant superstition.
Doing TV was no fun, he said, because he never knew if the jokes had bombed until the day after broadcast. Stage and live radio recordings were different, he said — he got an instant laugh, 'or a raspberry'
Wherever he appeared, he took a framed photo of his hero, music hall giant Dan Leno — who died in 1904.
Hudd was star-struck from his youth, when he and his beloved Gran, who brought him up, used to stand outside the stage door of the Croydon Empire when they couldn't afford tickets, just to glimpse the comics.
All his life, he could never quite believe he was rubbing shoulders with the performers he adored, such as Tommy Cooper and Ken Dodd.
The greatest moment of his career, he liked to say, came when he walked into a crowded dressing room and was greeted in front of everyone by a bloke he knew slightly . . . Hollywood superstar Cary Grant.
He always lamented that the music halls were gone.
'The only way you can learn to handle an audience is by getting out there in front of one,' he said.
'The current crop of mainstream entertainers, good as they are, often don't get the chance to learn those skills.'
This was, he added, the main reason so many stand-ups today 'are more politicians than comics'.
The panto king, who died on Sunday aged 83, was the last link back to the music hall era
Not that Hudd objected to bovver-booted topical comedy. His weekly show on Radio Two, The News Huddlines, which ran for more than 50 series between 1975 and 2001, Фільми з українською озвучкою - https://uakino.pl/70570-pravdiva-brehnja.html battered politicians on left and right.
He and co-stars, June Whitfield, Janet Brown and Chris Emmett, were radio's equivalent of soccer hooligans in the House of Commons, he said.
He dubbed Margaret Thatcher 'the perfumed Ayatollah' and her hatchet-man Norman Tebbit 'the political equivalent of a rubber bullet'.
Sir Harold Wilson, the 'Knight of the Long Knives', was depicted as making threatening phone calls to the show from his constituency .
. . 'because he's always talking from his seat'.
In the Seventies, when the Jeremy Thorpe sex scandal was at its height, Hudd imagined the parties' election slogans.
Sir Harold Wilson, the 'Knight of the Long Knives', was depicted as making threatening phone calls to the show from his constituency . . . 'because he's always talking from his seat'
The Tories' was 'Hello to a better tomorrow', Labour's was 'Hello to a stronger Britain,' and the Liberals' was, 'Hello sailor!'
Every shade of politics was fair game for comedy, he would say, as long as the gags were funny.
The News Huddlines urged listeners to send in their own jokes, and they arrived by the sackload — at least 1,000 a week.
Hudd paid for the ones he used, giving a start to writers such as David Renwick (who created One Foot In The Grave) and Andy Hamilton (Outnumbered).
Hudd thrived in front of an audience.
Doing TV was no fun, he said, because he never knew if the jokes had bombed until the day after broadcast.
Stage and live radio recordings were different, he said — he got an instant laugh, 'or a raspberry'.
His addiction to performing began when he was barely more than a toddler.
Three years old when World War II broke out in 1939, he loved showing off to his eccentric grandmother.
After a trip to the theatre to see Dick Whittington in panto, he decided he wanted to be a cat. Gran put down saucers of milk and roared with laughter when he raised a leg and tried to lick his tummy.
Harry Hudd, a carpenter, was rarely around, spending most of his time in the pubs and billiard halls of Croydon, South London.
By the time Roy was five, he had learned to do an impression of his Dad, dead drunk, that again had Gran in stitches.
He and co-stars, June Whitfield, Janet Brown and Chris Emmett, were radio's equivalent of soccer hooligans in the House of Commons, he said
While Gran looked after Roy, his mother Evalina or Evie took care of baby brother Peter, sleeping with him in the front room of their semi-detached house.
Evie suffered from serious mental illness and crippling headaches, possibly (Hudd later suspected) caused by a brain tumour.
She was reluctant to leave the front room even at the height of the Blitz, until Gran bullied her into the bomb shelter in the garden.
'God will look after me and Peter,' she protested.
'No one's told Hitler that,' Gran retorted, and she was right: one night, a bomb fell in Neville Road, destroying several houses and bayoneting the front room's bed with spears of glass.
Evie and the baby were safe in the shelter but three years later, after Roy had been sent away as an evacuee, he returned to find his mother gone.
His aunts refused to say where she was.
At last, aged nine, he pleaded with Gran to tell him when Evie would come home.
'She's dead,' Gran snapped.
'And there ain't no Father Christmas neither.'
The boy later learned his mother had shut herself in her room, blocked the windows and doors, and turned on the gas.
Small wonder he lived for Tuesday nights, when Gran would take him to the Croydon Empire — skipping meals to afford the tickets.
Gran died when Hudd was 19, the same year he was called up for National Service in the RAF.
He was constantly 'on jankers' — punishment detail — for lateness and insubordination, once clocking up 35 consecutive days which he liked to claim was an air force record.
RELATED ARTICLES
Share this article
Share
His clowning earned him admirers as well as charges. Former Goon Michael Bentine urged him to go into showbusiness and, when he left the RAF, he went to Butlins as a redcoat. 'It was a terrific way of getting started,' he said, 'because you didn't have to be any good.'
Also on the bill at the Clacton camp was a manic Irish comedian, David O'Mahony.
Years later, Hudd saw him again, now a much calmer, more cynical act. He'd changed his name . . . to Dave Allen.
But the real undiscovered star was in the chalet next to Hudd's, a good-looking crooner called Harry Webb. He changed his name too — to Cliff Richard.
Three years old when World War II broke out in 1939, he loved showing off to his eccentric grandmother
Hudd's first radio spot came in 1959 on Workers' Playtime. More than a decade of bit parts followed, building a reputation as a connoisseur of old jokes and a music hall historian.
He compered The Good Old Days, BBC1's music hall tribute, where the audience wore Edwardian costumes.
A less adventurous comic might have baulked at topical satire, and stuck to the old material, but when The News Huddlines began he proved himself adept at both.
That only hinted at his range.
He won plaudits in series by playwright Dennis Potter, Lipstick on Your Collar and Cold Lazarus.
He was undertaker Archie Shuttleworth on Coronation Street, co-starred with Edward Woodward in sitcom Common As Muck, and popped up in crime dramas from Sherlock Holmes to Midsomer Murders.
He wed twice, having a son, Max, with first wife Ann, then marrying Debbie in 1988, a dancer and theatre director.
Despite numerous panto roles he didn't play a dame until he was 78, in 2015.
At last, he was tempted by the chance to write and star in Mother Goose, at Wilton's music hall in the East End.
He claimed he'd never played the dame because he was afraid of getting typecast.
With a talent as multi-faceted as his, there was never any danger of that.Roy Hudd was a one-man variety show.
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