Chris Owen: for you, love, from all of us to all of you

Remembering Chris Owen at The Old White Lion, East Finchley, London on Sunday 25 October 2026

Thank you all for being here, and for coming together to remember Chris, to be with Joy, Tom and Ella and to share some of his stories. Chris was, of course, many things to you all here: a husband, a father, an uncle, a friend, a colleague. Someone we loved, someone we shall miss, and someone whose voice I suspect many of us can still hear quite clearly.

As his nephew, I’ve been looking back through his emails, his writing and his long and remarkably varied career.  After a lot of research, I’ve come across what appear to be the rehearsal notes for Chris from Philip Hedley, the Artistic Director of the Theatre Royal, Stratford East for a 1987 production of Beauty and the Beast in which Chris played the Dame.

Now, Chris was very good at giving notes himself: perceptive, direct and economical especially when advising somebody else to be economical. So, Chris, today it’s your turn. These notes are for you, love, from all of us, to all of you.

NOTES FOR CHRIS OWEN

Chris. Love. Can we have you back for a moment? Yes, I know you thought you’d finished. There are notes. There are always notes.

Now, first note. The entrance. We need to see the woman before we see the actor wondering whether this will affect his chances of playing Chekhov. Commit, love. You’re the Dame. You can be complicated at the bus stop afterwards. And do remember this is a company production. You cannot play Beauty, the Beast and the entire enchanted household.

Although, looking at your career, I can see why you might feel qualified. Goodness. Callan. War and Peace. Minder. Sharpe’s Honour. Chris, some of us have been watching television for years without realising we were attending your retrospective. And in Minder — an episode called A Fridge Too Far.

Lovely title. One spends years learning to breathe, stand, speak and understand the human condition. Then the telephone rings.

“Chris? Are you free for A Fridge Too Far?”

“Certainly, love. What time?”

That’s the profession for you.

Now, the vicars. We must discuss the vicars. You were the Reverend Whistler in Sharpe’s Honour. You also played a Flying Vicar at Chichester. A flying one. Apparently the ordinary, earthbound clergy had ceased to offer sufficient artistic challenge.

Next note. The scripts. I understand you’ve been writing your own. Stories. Poems. Plays.

A Parson’s Tale toured to more than a hundred venues, including the Gulf States. A clergyman whose fellow performers fail to arrive. An economical approach to casting, Chris. I’ll give you that. Then A Wilde Affair. Miss Prism and Canon Chasuble explaining that Oscar Wilde had got them wrong. Apparently Wilde required some further work. You gave him notes. And songs. The rest of us were hardly going to escape, were we?

“Want it straight?”

Well, Chris, that was always a slightly alarming opening. There was very little one could say.

“No, love. Lie to me. Tell me the first act is a triumph.”

But you would read the thing properly. You would think about it. And you would tell us.

“I like less words. Perhaps could be pruned.”

Excellent advice. Economy clearly ran in the family. When promoting your book, America Awaits Us My Lovely, you told a radio interviewer on Radio Merseyside that the Sunday cake was sliced so thin you could read the Liverpool Echo through it. That explains a great deal, Chris. Even the cake was subject to cuts. And then, just when the recipient was contemplating putting the whole manuscript in the bin, you’d add:

“Keep the flag flying.”

Which made a difference because you understood the business of making things. The hope involved. The work. The sheer bloody graft. The absurdity of sending something out into the world and waiting to discover whether anybody wanted it. You could see where it needed pruning. But you wanted it to grow.

And you paid attention. In the story, Ellen, in America Awaits Us My Lovely, you looked at a photograph of four women cleaning the streets of Liverpool, and you wondered about their lives. Who they loved. What they’d lost. What they went home to. You understood that everyone in the scene had a life, whether or not they’d been given any lines.”

Next note, your retirement scene. Unconvincing.

“I have formally ceased trading as an actor — hurrah!”

But the writing continued. More stories. More plays. More publications. Chris, that isn’t retirement. You’ve simply gone round to the stage door and come back in carrying a different bag. And writing right to the end. Still something to finish, still something to send, still something you wanted us to read.

Now we come to the scenes away from the theatre.  The emails. The gossip. The lunches. The walks. The choir. Tea and cake. News of what everybody’s doing.

And Joy, Ella and Tom. There’s a whole life there which we cannot possibly fit into these notes. Nor should we try. Just allow us to see the companionship. The shared days. The things which don’t need explaining because the others already know.

And as your body became more troublesome, you didn’t suddenly change the style of the piece. There was still news. Still humour. Still an interest in what other people were doing. The practical business of carrying on. Very good, Chris. Leave that exactly as it is.

Now. One personal note. This ending. I have a problem with it. You leave. We’re still here.

There are things we haven’t said, and questions we meant to ask, and at least one person who has only just discovered you were a pantomime Dame. They’re going to want details. And you’ve made yourself extremely difficult to contact. It’s inconsiderate, Chris. That’s my principal note.  We would have liked more time. Another lunch. Another email. Another story. Another of those remarks which sounds perfectly innocent until one notices the little blade tucked inside it. And another chance to tell you how much we enjoyed having you here.

But we did enjoy it. We enjoyed you. Your wit. Your curiosity. Your work. Your readiness to have a go. The pleasure you took in words, and people, and the extraordinary things people do with words. And the affection which came through, even when you were being quite firm about the number of words we ought to remove.

So we’ll take your note. We’ll tell our stories. We’ll remember yours. And I suspect you’ll continue to get a laugh in this family for quite a long time. Someone will begin, “Do you remember when Chris…?” And there you’ll be. With an entrance you haven’t cleared with the director.

Right. Thank you, Chris. Good show, love. Very good show.

You can take the costume off now. Unless, of course, you’ve grown attached to it.

And yes. We’ll keep the flag flying.

Christopher Owen

27. November 1936 – 26. September 2026