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@womanofwestminster @hellyescharlesedwards @cestpasfaux24601 @yverocher

Thought you all might like this. It’s a report form CBS News in America about COVID-19 having shut the theatres and how very shortly they will go bankrupt. Features Charles E at The Globe, link below.

#savetheartsuk #SaveOurTheatres CharlesEdwards

All 83 characters in This House. From designer Rae Smith to writer James Grahamin 2012.

@cestpasfaux24601 @womanofwestminster @hellyescharlesedwards #NationalTheatre #ThisHouse #’Art’GiveMeSomeBloodyArt!#Freelances #Theatre #HopeTheatreWillSurvive

Source:

“The Prince of Wales today toured the James Bond set at @PinewoodStudios, the home of the new film #Bond25. Actors Daniel Craig and Ralph F

“Liam Neeson & Ralph Fiennes attended tonight the UK Premiere of 'The White Crow' at The Curzon Mayfair For more coverage of 📸 #Th

“Congratulations to RADA graduate Sophie Okonedo who received her CBE for services to drama yesterday!”

hellyescharlesedwards

One Second of (Almost) Everything Charles Edwards Has Ever Appeared In

Jumping on the “One Second of Every Episode” bandwagon, here’s Charlie in pretty much everything he’s ever done from 1992 to 2018. I’ve also sneaked in some archival interviews and behind the scenes clips to pad out the run time, hope you don’t mind.

simonnricketts

Banging out

When I was about 11 years old, I was excited to go on trip to London with my family. In particular, my grandfather, Samuel. He had worked at the Daily Telegraph as what they called a ‘revise’ and he’d done it for more than 40 years, with only the pesky Second World War getting in the way.

So we went to see him retire from the esteemed newspaper. To quite literally pick up his carriage clock. That day I spent at the Telegraph I was mesmerised. Mainly because, almost constantly, small torpedoes of plastic would scoot through pipes in the ceilings and walls and arrive with a hurried hiss in the revise room where I was stood.

Inside each little torpedo - I discovered - was a short paragraph of newspaper copy, needing to be checked for grammar, sense and accuracy. My grandad (and colleagues) would open one of those little squat cylinders, studiously pause, read the copy, mark the corrections as they saw fit and then send the little missives back into the pipes. Onto the next part of its journey. Which was mainly straight on to the pages of the newspaper to be perused over the next day’s boiled eggs and soldiers. Of course, as an 11-year-old boy, I was easily as entranced by the whooshing, hissing network of mystery as I was to what the point of it all was. All day, I was allowed to load up - and empty - those little pellets. (Grandad had long been whisked off to the pub). I was in heaven.

But I also grew gradually intrigued by the process of making a newspaper. The studied brows, the shouts back and forth, the inky smell and the clashing cacophony of type, metal and people that seemed to make the whole building resonate, to hum, to breathe.

The spoken language in the room was ripe, ribald and loud. But the written language on the scraps of paper in there - that was crafted. Meant. Deliberate. It was spelling meeting spartans. By the time Grandad rolled back from the pub like a matelot on his first day of shore leave, it was time for us all to go home. What happened next is where the die was cast.

We trooped through the building. Memory tells me that we went down into the bowels of the edifice. Wherever we were, it was getting noisier. A distant. rhythmic banging became a nearer, rhythmic banging. A nearer, rhythmic banging became a VERY CLOSE rhythmic banging. Then, we were going through a very warm, very loud room full of men clanging chunks of hot metal against any surface they could find. CLANG, CLANG, CLANG as Grandad shook some hands unsteadily, emotionally, and carried on his way. Claps on his back augmented the rhythm as we went. I found it all a bit overwhelming and, I fear, spent much of the walk with my hands over my ears, frowning in disdain at the din. Soon, we plopped out on to the pavement and into a waiting taxi. That was 'banging out’. That was Grandad being given the traditional print/newspaper farewell. It’s a raw, simple, noisy, almost brutal show of comradeship and affection that has stuck with me ever since. A banging out still moves me greatly. Even though they now happen in metal-free newsrooms, the smell more likely to be that of artisan coffee than ink, there is still something primal about them. A gathering of noise and energy. They make me think of the traditions of journalism, those that went before, the truth tellers, or at least the truth seekers. The late night shouts, the breaking information, the truly historic stories, the presses being stopped in a hurry, then started again with more urgency.

They make me think of Grandad, of course. And how, all those years back, the seeds of my love affair with news and newspapers were planted during that trip.

They also make me realise how grateful I am to this fantastically flawed industry for keeping me in beer and sandwiches all this time. But now my time has come to an end and I will be departing. Not just the newsroom, I’m sorry to say. My illness means I am leaving for good. This terminal cancer has lived up to its name and will be seeing me off very soon.

I will be leaving the building but I won’t have the carriage clock.

That’s something I can’t be happy about. What I can be happy about - what I can hope is – at some near time in some near place, even if it is inside your minds, some of you will have a little 'banging out’ ceremony for me. I’d like that. I’d really like that. If you do, then make it loud. Keep the noise up. Just for a little bit.