To the Editor

The death, some three years ago, of the well-loved pianist and entertainer, Peter "Poppy" Monroe at an age tragically early [74], considering the immensity of his talent and his still unfulfilled potential [Unfulfilled perhaps because, in the last analysis, unfulfillable as all the undertakings of genius in this imperfect and imperfectible world inevitably are] received in my opinion and in that of Poppy's undying circle of admirers, a most beggarly obituary ["Opium Poppy" - anonymous, shamefully] in your newspaper at that time. The omission has hardly been remedied since. Can I ask you, then, in the name of decency, to allow me some few column inches of your organ [An 'in-joke', this- much in the Poppy style, I fancy!] to redress the balance, now that a major retrospective ["Poppy Can Wait"] of Poppy's career is being planned for Channel 4?

As a flamboyant pianist-entertainer in the tradition of Liberace [in point of fact, Poppy always claimed historical if not popular precedence over the well-known American (' as derivative as she is risible') often recounting an uncorroborable tale, varying as to geography and chronology, in which Liberace publicly and tearfully acknowledges his debt to the Great Briton] Poppy made his mark in the provincial theatres of the 1950s and then stormed, unforgettably, onto our TV screens in the late 1960's with his colurful [One always recalls Poppy's shows as being saturated in colour; though of course, given the era, they were broadcast exclusively in black-and-white. Such is the uncanny way with Art!] and eye-opening Saturday evening show, 'What's up Pop?' A few brief -all too brief- years at the pinnacle of his profession were followed by the inevitable decline from that summit into a respectable semi-obscurity, as the general public likes to term it, from which an occasional emergence to open a supermarket or contribute a little show-biz razzamatazz to a birthday celebration at one or other of the nursing homes not too inconveniently placed from his Clerkenwell flat, were sufficient to reassure his friends and fans that the Poppy magic was undimished, though hid under a bushell. Poppy himself was generously philosophical on all questions of fame. "I made a packet and blew just as much on trade and spangles as kept me happy for twenty years: time for some youngster to try his luck, poor bastard" was one of his memorable sayings when our tavern conversation turned to the snows of yesteryear.

Poppy the private man was still more lovable than his stage and TV persona. He was unfailingly and incomparably kind to the fresh blood of the profession, and had an open mind to a hard luck story. Rumours naturally abounded, but scandal miraculously skirted Poppy- just- all the days of his life. The closest he came to an embarrassment- and it really was a close call, given the mores of the day- was in the mid-fifties (the old Century's, not his) when he became involved with a dubious character called Billy Bridgefield. Though he later disparaged the connection ("the man with the name of a travelling circus") and labelled Bridgefield, not inaccurately, as 'rough trade' and 'an experimental homosexualist', at the time Poppy was clearly and desperately infatuated. Fortunately for the history of Light Entertainment the Circus Strongman was engaged in a simultaneous liaison with a much wealthier man than Poppy, the Devonshire tycoon, Miles Harcourt. Harcourt's preference, in which he was indulged oftener than was medically advisable for a man of his lifestyle and physique, was to engage Bridgefield in absurdly unequal boxing matches, where both men were clad only in satin shorts (Harcourt's yellow, Bridgefield's black) [West Country Law Report, November 1956] and Harcourt's hands were tied behind his back, so as to render the blows that battered and bludgeoned his slight frame all the more delightfully unpreventable. The outcome was predictable. Poppy's consequent appearance in the criminal court as a defence witness in the case of R v Bridgefield did little material damage to a career just beginning to take flight - but it could so easily have done, and Poppy drew the moral as thoroughly as his friends could have wished.

At about this period, Poppy commenced that infatuation with the sights, legends, aromas and peoples of the North African lands that was so marvellously to sustain his spirits in the years succeeding. A fascination with Cleopatra developed; and in the course of a guided tour of Pharaonic Egypt in 1961 he met that Mohammed, soon and fondly dubbed the Wily Snake of the Nile, who was destined to provide companionship in a conspicuous manner through many a subsequent season in Africa. Alas, Fate ordained that the Dark Continent, his late-found love, was also to be his Nemesis. I was privileged to be of the party which Poppy assembled in 1997 for another desert trek in search of the oases of youth. Five days into the wilderness, Poppy was stung on the leg by a large insect whose aggression had been aroused by Poppy's absent-minded swatting. Within hours, the leg swelled to an alarming degree and at such a distance from medical assistance no hope of survival could be entertained by any of us. We passed the time before the inevitable by speculating on the magnitude Poppy's star would assume in the firmament of Light Entertainment after a year- or five years- or fifty. In his brief intervals of lucidity, punctuating the ever-encroaching night, Poppy too contributed to our debate in his best style. We hardly noticed his passing, when it came.

Poppy's testament, when it came to be read, was in parts a surprise to all and sundry. Bequests to Mohammed and to Bridgefield'schildren were anticipated, if resented by certain parties who presumed that a later attachment would displace and remove any outstanding obligation to an earlier. But the residue of Poppy's fortune went to Mrs Emily Monroe, Poppy's widow. The marriage had been a closely guarded secret in Poppy's most intimate circle. I knew of it, but of its circumstances I learned only that Poppy had contracted it during one of his early Egyptian seasons, the lady in question being a fellow guest on the Nile steamer, Poppy being in his cups, and Mohammed happening to be out of favour at the time.

Poppy's earthly remains were cremated, according to his wishes, with the exception of his heart, which was removed, embalmed, and laid finally on top of the ashes within the urn, which therefore acquired something of the character of a Canopic Jar or reliquary. His hands, too, escaped the flames- those famous hands that once danced across the keyboard, across the TV screen, acoss the nation's heart. By explicit instruction, Poppy's hands were preserved and dispatched to an admirer who some years previously had requested, and paid for, a cast in silver of those talented digits. Sadly, my own enquiries with the lady in question have disclosed that the glass containing the hands in formaldehyde was soon after receipt overturned and smashed by a dog, the household pet, and the hands carried off by the said animal to a location unknown. Thus the hands of Poppy Monroe disappeared from the world of men. But to those who knew and loved the man and his work, those fingers can never fall silent. They are always in our ears.