Peter Quinn writes

When I’m not behind the microphone at the radio station, spinning classic tunes and chatting about the good old days, you’ll likely find me enjoying the sea air of Brighton with my dog, Mabel. She’s a sprightly companion and a patient listener, especially when I’m working out new routines in my head. But Mabel isn’t the only one who shares my life off-air.

Meet Charles.

Charles is a ventriloquist’s dummy—or as he prefers, a “performance partner.” We’ve been working together for the past 18 months, but his story stretches back much further. Charles was made in 1960 by a renowned figure maker named Herbert Brighton. Oddly enough, after he was completed, Charles was packed away in an attic where he remained untouched for 65 years. No dust, no damage—just decades of silence.

You might say Charles is in remarkably good condition. Some audiences whisper about Botox or skincare routines. I assure them: it’s not vanity, it’s preservation.

Charles and I have found a second life on stage at local comedy clubs around Sussex. I stay silent during our act—it’s Charles who does all the talking. He’s sharp-tongued, dry-humoured, and alarmingly opinionated for someone with no internal organs. He likes to think he’s the star, and honestly, I let him believe it. If you’ve ever been to one of our shows, you’ll know he doesn’t hold back.

Interestingly, our roles reverse when I’m back on the radio. The microphone is mine, and Charles is forbidden from uttering a word. Not that it stops him from trying—he’s usually sitting beside me in the studio, nodding along to the music (he’s partial to the sounds of the ‘60s—big surprise). He insists that The Kinks were Britain’s greatest band, and he’ll argue that point with anyone who’ll listen. Which is odd, considering he technically doesn’t have ears.

What I love most about this curious double life is the contrast. On air, it’s about connection—stories, music, and memories that reach out across the airwaves. On stage, it’s about laughter and surprise, the kind that bubbles up unexpectedly.

There’s something magical about being able to make people laugh and reminisce in equal measure. Whether it’s through the crackle of a radio or the hush before a punchline lands, I feel very lucky to keep doing what I love—talking, not talking, and occasionally being upstaged by a wooden gentleman in an evening suite.

So next time you’re listening in and hear a slight creak from the background, don’t worry—it’s just Charles, trying to get a word in.

Peter

Hear Peter Quinn hosting the Vintage Charts on Sundays at noon - two hours, two charts!