The real Bill Owen

Jul 20 1999

On the day when Bill Owen was being buried in a private ceremony in Holmfirth VAL JAVIN went public on the man who was more than just Compo and in real life far removed in character and dress sense from his most famous role, the one that he played non-stop since 1973.

HE WAS the best of lunch companions. Courteous and attentive and with just that hint of a twinkle in his eye.

In an impeccable grey suit, his silver hair gleaming, he looked distinguished, relaxed. As we waited for our meal to arrive, he sipped a gin and tonic.

For those used to seeing him in a woolly hat and wellies, his trousers anchored by a piece of string, the reality that was Bill Owen could come as something of a shock.

I'd made that mistake years earlier when I'd arrived at the Grand Theatre in Leeds to interview the actor best known to many as Compo, the geriatric with a little boy lost look and a sartorial style held together more by prayers than buttons.

An empty dressing-room sent a harassed company manager off searching.

He didn't know where Bill was or where to look. The answer was simple. In the shower.

A familiar figure wandered down the corridor, all apologies, giving that shock of silver hair a final brisk once-over with a towel.

Cosy in a red towelling bath-robe he grinned and said: ''Now you'll be able to tell them all in Holmfirth, you've seen Bill Owen lookingreally unglamorous.''

And that from a man who had been taken to many a Yorkshire heart for his antics as Compo, so much so that they'd stand next to Bill in the bank and not turn a hair if he was wearing those trademark wellies but would turn out in their hundreds if he donned a lounge suit. Who dare I tell about the cigarette holder?

It should have come as no surprise that the actor who created one of the nation's favourite comic characters was a gifted and in some ways, sophisticated, man. And that those gifts spread far beyond the confines of acting.

Bill Owen, actor, clearly had a way with words. So did Bill Owen the lyricist, playwright and in early times, writer of social and political revues.

The son of a London bus driver, his official biography says his career began in 1938 when he worked as a stooge to a comic. But in reality, Bill said he could not remember when he did not act.

Visits to Sunday School were followed by an impromptu sermon at home. He'd don his grandmother's black skirt, his father's shirt - back to front naturally - and with his family as his congregation, deliver the words of wisdom he'd heard in church.

Monday nights were spent at the Chiswick Empire. The 7d given him by his mum paid for his ticket, sweets to eat during the performance and chips on the way home.

He took his first stab at writing at the Unity Theatre in London where he ultimately became artistic director. The Left-wing political theatre of the Unity in the Thirties must have been heady stuff for a young man who remained politically active into later life.

But the writing that began out of necessity at the Unity - no writer, no show - became a lifelong passion. And though he adapted novels and short stories both for stage and screen and produced a wealth of youth theatre pieces through his long association with the National Association of Boys' Clubs, his talent for writing lyrics seemed to give him a particular thrill.

Harry Secombe, Matt Monroe, Pat Boone, Nana Mouskouri. They all sang Owen lyrics. Ken Dodd adopted Bill's words as one of his theme tunes.

With such gifts at his finger-tips, it seems extraordinary that the man who has brought pleasure to millions in Last Of The Summer Wine, once contemplated swopping acting for a role as a teacher.

''Nothing was happening and I was a comparatively young man. I've always said that this job would never give me up. I would give it up.''

And he almost did. He'd given a couple of lectures at a speech and drama college and began to wonder if that's where his future lay.

''I suggested to the principal that maybe there might be an opening for me. He said he couldn't guarantee one but could give me a couple of lectures a week which would bring me in about 30 a week.''

The telephone rang in time. Director Lindsay Anderson wanted to see him and what followed was a rewarding relationship between the two plus the writer David Storey.

Bill appeared in Storey's Celebration which was later made into a film. Later, his appearance in a Royal National Theatre production of Storey's play, Jubilee took him on tour - and gave me a lunch-date to remember.

Soon after Celebration though, a script landed on his doormat which was to make him into Yorkshire's best-loved adopted son.

''I read this script and thought this is gold. I'd never read anything like it. It was so new, so fresh.''

It was the beginning of a comedy series which was to make TV history and the start of Bill's enduring love affair with Holmfirth.

He took quiet delight in the way in which the people of the town accepted him as one of their own. And he made no bones about his pride in his membership of the Yorkshire Society. Though I pointed out that his real name could just see that Tyke passport withdrawn.

The name Rowbotham has distinct Lancashire connections. Bill was wise enough on occasion to keep it to himself.

''There's a branch of the Yorkshire Society in London. I suggested a very famous person as chairman and someone said: 'Oh no, he's from Lancashire.' So I thought I'd better keep quiet.''

And it was said with that twinkle, that hint of mischief that made Bill Owen such a favourite and gave him the heart to create an enduring scamp called Compo.