Stoke-on-Trent has spent this week honouring one of its most influential cultural figures with the unveiling of a new bronze bust of Mike Lloyd at Victoria Hall. It’s a fitting tribute — solid, warm, quietly dignified — much like the man himself. The city has been sharing memories, stories and small moments that capture who Mike was beyond the public titles: the businessman, the impresario, the music man.

Seeing that sculpture appear — cast in bronze, but carried in memory — brought back a piece of writing I’ve held onto for a little while. It was originally shaped from conversations with Richard and shared in part at Mike’s memorial, but I’ve never put the full version out into the world. With the city remembering him so fondly this week, it feels like the right moment to share it. — JEB

By Richard Masters

I’ve spent most of my life in and around theatres, but every now and then you meet someone who doesn’t just work in the arts — they live and breathe them.

For me, that person was Mike Lloyd. If you’ve lived in Stoke on Trent for more than five minutes, you’ll know the name. Businessman, impresario, music promoter, one time owner of the Theatre Royal in Hanley and the man behind some well known shop chains. And if you like music at all, Mike has probably enriched your life — whether you realised it or not.

I first worked for Mike in the early 1970s, when I was a part time Stage Manager at the Theatre Royal. Even then, he had that unmistakable energy — the sense that something was always happening, or about to happen, or ought to be happening if only someone would get on with it. Mike didn’t wait for opportunities. He created them, sold them, staged them and swept up afterwards.

Years later, when the new Stoke Rep Theatre opened in 1997, we found ourselves in a bit of a pickle. Part of the funding agreement required us to operate as a community theatre and hire the place out. Now, we’d been putting on plays for seventy or eighty years, but always in our own little back street home in Shelton. Suddenly we had a modern theatre, a bigger stage, and absolutely nobody — and I mean nobody — who knew how to hire out a venue, draw up a contract, or run anything that resembled a professional booking system.

So, the late, great Ken Lowe and I did the only sensible thing: we went to see Mike. I’d worked for him, I trusted him and I knew he had the experience we lacked. We sat down in his office and asked, very simply, “Would you become Chairman of the Stoke Rep Theatre? And not get paid.” He didn’t even blink. He just said yes. That was Mike all over — decisive, generous and always ready to get stuck in.

From that moment on, he brought his vast experience to The Rep. And I do mean vast. Mike had put on shows in more venues than most of us have had hot dinners. He knew how to sell a performance, how to market it, how to price it and how to make it feel like an event. We didn’t have anyone with that kind of knowledge. Talon, for example — they sell out every time, but without Mike we wouldn’t have had the faintest idea how to get them through the door, let alone fill the seats.

He didn’t just bring shows; he brought ambition. He introduced professional performances to our programme — the Sid Lawrence Orchestra, Talon and others who raised the profile of the theatre and broadened what people thought the Rep could be. And then there were the piano recitals. Four a year, featuring some of the finest pianists in the world. Martin James Bartlett, for one — a name you’ll hear regularly on Classic FM. Mike opened a door to a whole new dimension of performance and the city responded.

But what I admired most wasn’t his business sense, impressive as it was. It was his enthusiasm. Mike never turned away from an idea. If someone came to him with a suggestion — no matter how odd, ambitious, or half baked — he’d say, “Let’s give it a go.” Things didn’t always work out, of course. That’s the nature of theatre. But he never lost heart and he never lost faith in the people around him.

And here’s the thing most people never saw. Ask anyone in Stoke if they’d heard of Mike Lloyd and they’d say, “Oh yes — the music manager, the concerts man.” Ask if they’d ever met him and they’d say no. But 90% of them had met him — they just didn’t realise it. Because Mike was the man ripping tickets at the door, selling the ice creams, pouring the tea, tidying up. He wasn’t above anything. He was in it, fully, joyfully, sleeves rolled up and ready.

He put his money where his mouth was, too. In the early days he lost out on some ventures, but he kept going, and over time it paid off — not just financially, but in the cultural life of this city. He helped shape the arts scene we have today and he did it with humour, kindness and an ever-open mind.

Mike once said, “I know I’ll die sometime, but I shall never leave the stage.” And I believe him. Because people like Mike don’t really go. They leave echoes — in theatres, in memories, in the countless lives they touched.

Mike’s contribution to the arts didn’t go unnoticed. He was awarded an OBE, honoured by Staffordshire University, made an Honorary Freeman of the City of Stoke on Trent, and immortalised in the “100 Faces” mural in Hanley — distinctions he accepted with the same mixture of pride and mischief he brought to everything else. But accolades never stopped him mucking in. One moment he’d be masterminding a concert, the next he’d be behind the counter selling snacks with the efficiency of a man who’d invented the idea. I’ve no doubt he’s already negotiating with St Peter about booking the celestial choir — and insisting that the acoustics could be improved if they just moved a few clouds around.

He was, in every sense, “The Heart Of The Arts”. And I’m proud to have known him.