“It takes a big heart to help shape young minds” – Unknown

David Proudlock certainly had a big heart and he undoubtedly shaped countless young minds through the medium of Drama, both at Mill Hill and in his previous teaching roles. To his pupils, David was a legend; to his colleagues, he was a warm, kind-hearted and consummate professional with a wicked sense of humour.

In February we came together to remember David, the contribution he made to Drama at Mill Hill and, above all, the wonderful teacher, friend, colleague and person he was. Old Millhillians, staff and past parents gathered in the Octagon to share stories of the influence he had on our lives and our school. We were delighted to see so many familiar faces and to welcome back those who were visiting the school for the first time since leaving - that felt very special. You can view the tribute to David that was distributed on the evening, here. 

Below is the memorial speech read by Anna Murphy:

We are all here today to remember David Proudlock—an extraordinary teacher, a fierce friend, and a man with a talent for sarcasm so sharp it could cut through a poorly delivered monologue at 50 paces. If he were here now, he’d be standing at the back, arms folded, looking deeply embarrassed but secretly overjoyed to see the number of people who have come to pay their respects.

David was, quite simply, the teacher. The one who changed lives. The one people remember decades later. The one who didn’t just teach drama but lived and breathed it. He believed in the power of theatre, in the magic of storytelling, and, most of all, in the pupils who passed through his department. He made them believe in themselves too—especially the ones who were struggling elsewhere in the school.

His “Wall of Fame” in the drama office was legendary—a shrine to former students who had made it big in theatre, TV, or film. Getting your photo on that wall was the highest honour a student could achieve. They desperately wanted to be up there, and David, ever the gatekeeper, would not be rushed into awarding the privilege. He followed ex pupils careers with enormous pride, and they all remained loyal to him well into adulthood. He spoke about them with the same pride a parent would, and all of us who were taught by David remain grateful.

David didn’t just inspire pupils; he inspired colleagues. He was an unwavering support to those of us lucky enough to work alongside him. I should know—he decided I had potential based entirely on overhearing me tell a class of fourth formers to “pack it in.” That was enough for him. From that moment on, I was part of his department, and there was no getting away.

He led from the front—not in a grand, self-important way, but in a getting-it-done way. It was completely normal to find him re-rigging the theatre on a Sunday afternoon or locking up after a house drama rehearsal at 9 p.m. five nights a week. He gave endless hours of his time, not because he had to, but because it mattered. And, more importantly, because he trusted very few others would do it properly!  (That said woe-betide a timetabler that messed about with his Wednesday afternoons- you might have been on a sports pitch, but to David, Wednesday afternoon was nap time!)

David also had a gift for cutting through nonsense with a perfectly placed expletive. One of his mantras—one I still quote to my team to this day—was, “It’s only a f-ing GCSE.” It was his way of reminding us all to keep things in perspective, to work hard but not take ourselves too seriously.  A paradox, he gave his life to the job, but he wanted us, his team to retain perspective and balance. He took the job seriously, but never himself.

He was also fearless when it came to standing up for his staff. I’ll never forget when I was temporarily teaching a bit of geography (yes, really), and a concerned parent asked why their child’s Geography teacher was suddenly also teaching drama. David, without missing a beat, shot back, “I think a better question is why they’re being taught geography by the drama teacher.” That was David—quick, sharp, and entirely uninterested in nonsense.

David directed countless school plays and musicals, each one a testament to his passion, vision, and sheer determination to create something extraordinary. During my time working with him, I had the privilege of seeing his genius firsthand in productions like Oh, What a Lovely War, Cabaret, Bugsy Malone, and Our Country’s Good. These weren’t just school shows—they were high quality productions, crafted with the same intensity and dedication as anything on the professional stage. David had an uncanny ability to bring out the best in his companies, pushing them beyond what they thought they were capable of, all while making them laugh, swear a little, and fall utterly in love with theatre. He poured his heart into every production, spending endless hours perfecting every detail—often doing the less glamorous jobs himself, from rigging lights to sourcing obscure props. His productions weren’t just performances; they were experiences, life-changing moments for the young people involved. And, of course, for those of us lucky enough to work alongside him, they were a masterclass in how to be a truly great drama teacher.

And, of course, David loved a theatre trip, ideally one involving a bottle of Montepulciano. People look at me in wide eyed amazement when I tell them that yes, actually I did once go to the Book of Mormon on a school trip. From cutting edge comedy, to serious drama, to one too many performances of Blood Brothers or Billy Elliot he made going to the theatre an integral function of school life for so many (just don’t be late for the coach, or you will have to follow behind)!

His emails were the stuff of legend—his finest, arguably, being about a “Crow in his bedroom”—and if you were lucky enough to receive one, you won’t have forgotten. It was always important to remember that a reply that begins ‘I hope you are well’ would be treated with abject derision.

David Proudlock wasn’t just a great teacher. He was the teacher. The one who made you better, whether you were a pupil or a colleague. He was my mentor, my friend, and someone I quote almost daily. His legacy will live on—not just in his ex students who go out into the world with his ideas and lessons in their minds, but also in every drama department I have the privilege to lead. He will always be the Late, Great David Proudlock.

So, rest well, my friend. I hope wherever you are, the tech is working, the cues are being called properly, and no one is ahem whispering in the wings.
Thank you.