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This is a question Nativity Plays

Every year the little kids at schools all over get to put on a play. Often it's christmas themed, but the key thing is that everyone gets a part, whether it's Snowflake #12 or Mary or Grendel (yes, really).

Personally I played a 'Rich Husband' who refused to buy matches from some scabby street urchin. Never did see her again...

Who or what did you get to be? And what did you have to wear?

(, Thu 26 Mar 2009, 17:45)
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This question is now closed.

Bad news, guys...

Everyone on the B3ta staff has been killed by a freak goat sex accident.. looks like we'll have this QOTW for the rest of our lives...
(, Thu 2 Apr 2009, 21:05, 10 replies)
I have a really good nativity play story...
... but I'm saving it for a QOTW about Christmassy things that's not actually nearer Easter.
(, Thu 2 Apr 2009, 20:31, Reply)
It is Thursday isn't it?
(, Thu 2 Apr 2009, 19:34, 1 reply)
Haven't they closed this QOTW yet? Well, here's my version of the Nativity.
Here's a link to a previous post of mine that's vaguely Nativity-related. Enjoy.
(, Thu 2 Apr 2009, 19:23, 2 replies)
Impatience leading to Looking Foolish
My story about when impatience lead to me looking foolish is when I got so fed up with the current QOTW that I decided to guess at what the next one might be and answer that one instead while the previous one was still in effect. Of course, I guessed completely wrong, leading to a significant egg-on-face experience. *blush*
(, Thu 2 Apr 2009, 19:01, Reply)
You know the things I hate most about Nativity Plays?
1. You don't ask for them, but they're forced on you.

2. People complain. Nobody listens.

3. Most important one here. They're shit.

4. They always drag on waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay too long.

remind you of anything?

EDIT: Is it me, or has B3ta not put it's clocks forward?...Maybe that has something to do with it?
(, Thu 2 Apr 2009, 18:37, 5 replies)
Dear Santa
Can I have a new QotW this Christmas? If I'm really good, can I have it sooner?
(, Thu 2 Apr 2009, 18:23, 2 replies)
Time for a quick one?
I was appearing as a shepherd and was ever so proud. Until I was presented with the costume. It basically consisted of a sheet and a V-neck cricket jumper.

Feeling slightly foolished, I shuffled onto stage first and pointed at the star. Only to get rapturous applause. It turned out that most of the audience were cricket lovers and regarded my pullover as the peak of fashion.

Feeling slightly flushed with pride and embarrassment, I dived off stage and re-entered, exactly as before, to even more impressive applause.

I suppose it's only to be expected for a Natty V Replay.

(, Thu 2 Apr 2009, 18:03, Reply)
Ah man I had a story all along!
Remembered this a bit late, thought I had forced this out of my mind forever!

When I was young I used to attend sunday school, and every year I ended up being forced into the Joseph role. I hated it, but no one else would do it.

In the end i took the only sensible course of action and quit religion / church (Wohoo).

A few years later , aged about 13, I went to the same church with my family as my sister was in the show.

And guess what... still no Joseph. Que a 13 year old me being forced by sunday school 'teachers' and my mum to fill the role.

Got myself a wife 7 years my junior (Yay... oh wait) and a baby (booo). I was just waiting for the police to come and arrest me, at least that would have stopped the embarrassment.

Edit- New question please, before I remember anything else!
(, Thu 2 Apr 2009, 17:04, 3 replies)
My friend Scott
was always chosen to be narrator which must have been some kind of sick joke, as he was from Kilmarnock and nodody understood a damned word he ever said.
(, Thu 2 Apr 2009, 17:02, 1 reply)
This took place November 2008
It was a nativity style musical called "Pop along to Bethlehem" where I played a Roman, an Elvis, "generic citizen" and "finale singer"

Many lols were given by me at the roman outfit which was just that little bit too small for me.

At least I have great legs.

(24 by the way, still doing nativity plays at 24)
(, Thu 2 Apr 2009, 16:59, Reply)
Right listen up!!!!!
t`was my first appearence in a nativity play at the tender age of five. I was one of the angels everything was going so well I`d remembered to sing at the right time and not pull my hearing aid out and play with it or scratch my bum!!! (the joys of being five). The angels then had to go and sit on some chairs whilst the three wise men brought the gifts for baby Jesus.
Next thing I know I am being poked and prodded and presure being applied to my head. I`d only gone and fallen asleep on my chair and cos I was the one on the end of the row I fell off the stage!!! Scarily there is a video of this still lurking in the loft at my parents house.
(, Thu 2 Apr 2009, 16:34, Reply)
We three kings
Never did Nativity but my son got to play the Australian Wise Man.

Yes you read that right...the Australian Wise Man. In addition to the regular Magi the school deemed it necessary to use artistic license and provide eight culturally varied wise men including stereotypical national dress (imagine if you will a cork string hat dangling over the baby Jesus!). I couldn't work out whether the christians or the nationalities represented would be most offended but I am sure they all were a bit.
(, Thu 2 Apr 2009, 16:23, Reply)
Just before the nativity
Mr Thompson touched me in a dark wet smelly place.

Then we left the shitty old toilets with the rising damp, dodgy plumbing and bad lighting and went back to the hall. Mr Thompson apologised profusely - it was so damn easy to bump into people in those bogs on account of the dodgy strip lighting.

And then a fun time was had by all.

Though later he pulled me into a broom cupboard and raped the fuck out of my arsehole, the wanking shitbucket, until blood spurted out my ears.
(, Thu 2 Apr 2009, 15:30, 17 replies)
there was once a girl in our class called
Fanny feeler. Because at any time of the day - her hand would be rubbing away. Assembly, at her desk, in the play ground.

She was quite famous for her strange act.

Anyway, it was quite amusing when i was sifting through some old photos of me, and there in a School nativity, Stage lights shining, sitting next to me on a temporary stage in our sports hall, at the ripe age of about 6 or so, is Fanny feeler with her hand between her legs, pulling a face of extreme concentration. And me sitting next to her oblivious.
(, Thu 2 Apr 2009, 14:49, 5 replies)
I remember when i was in reception class
Our class were meant to be sweets (typical part really) in the xmas play.

Me and a few of my mates were made to be Lolipops - Our parents were told to make the costume. Mine was a body sized lolipop with a hole for a face in the lolipop head. the stick being my body.

My friend on the other hand had a slight breakdown in communication with his mum and teacher, the day arrived for the play and in came my friend with a 10ft scale lolipop. complete with wrapper. Not a costume, an actual scale model.

When it came to us being in the play we all wondered onto the stage in our costumes and he walked on carrying the 10ft monstrosity with his teacher. Not before spending 5 minutes trying to manouvre it through the stage door with some fairy tale music playing in the background.
(, Thu 2 Apr 2009, 14:42, Reply)
Wise men
What is it about nativity plays, celebrating all that is good and angelic and holy, that brings out the devil in small, and not so small, children?

They also serve to sorely try the creative skills of the parents, as they are usually expected to come up with the costumes. I don’t know about others, but in the 1970s in the West Midlands, there was a distinct lack of ready-to-wear Middle Eastern garb in handy infant sizes. There was a kid who wore sandals once, I think, but he was stoned to death (ironically very Middle Eastern) for being different. The rest of us sported sensible Clarks shoes, except for the rich kid who had animal tracks on the soles of one shoe and a compass in the heel of another, or something.

So when the nativity play rolled around, it was not so much authentic costumes as what could be adapted. Shepherds were okay, as they simply wore their dressing gowns (and who is to say that the shepherds of the Holy Land back in 0BC didn’t sport tartan smocks with a bunny peeking out of the pocket?). The only danger the girl who played Mary was exposed to was having the words ‘pure Irish linen’ transferred from the tea-towel wrapped tightly round her head, and being caught in the blast when her mum exploded with pride at the sight of her daughter up there on stage.

I was cast as ‘third wise man’. You know what that means. Myrrh. Looking to my left I could see Jimmy holding his bag of slowly melting chocolate gold coins, Mark holding a few twigs representing frankincense (who the hell knew enough to argue) and myself holding…a jar of pink bath crystals.

This passed for ‘a reddish-brown resinous material, the dried sap of a number of trees’ in a small farming village in the wild West Midlands in the 1970s. They were also shocking, Barbie pink and, as I found out to my surprise – but to the delight of the entire bastard audience of malicious adults who obviously enjoy the distress of children – made one hell of a racket when they spilled out over the stage after I made the mistake of shifting my grip on the jar from bottom to unsecured stopper.

That earned me a bollocking from the teacher afterwards, something to do with my ‘selfish naughtyness and wish to be centre of attention all the time ruining it for the rest of the children’. Mortified at the time, I now realise that if anything ruined it for the rest of the children, it was the crap sets, assorted sleepware being passed off as costumes, making eight year olds wear make-up, indifferent direction, a poor script, shoddy lighting and, most of all, Joseph shitting himself in the final act/singalong.
(, Thu 2 Apr 2009, 14:04, 3 replies)
I can trump all of these "I played a tree" or "I played a cow" stories.

In second year junior school I played . . .

A patch of darkness.

Oh yes. Myself and 4 or 5 others dressed entirely in black with black face paint on a dimly lit stage.

I don't think the headmaster liked me.
(, Thu 2 Apr 2009, 13:58, 3 replies)
The future of the Nativity…

I think we’re all agreed that in general, Nativities suck the mung sweat from a clap-ridden donkey’s putrid dung funnel.

The story in itself is worthwhile…we just need to modernise.

I hereby propose that the educational board should insist that for the final six years of every school child’s life, the ‘end of year produciton’ should be…

Star Wars. All 6 episodes. One year at a time.

I mean, I’m not Enzyme, but ethically I can see certain comparisons that can be made between the birth of Christ and the adventures of Anakin Skywalker.

Consider the evidence:

'Immaculate' conception from humble beginnings (and from virgin mother)

A child - destined for greatness.

Possessing of incredible power.

The eventual triumph of good over Evil.

…with assorted people having ‘bad feelings about this’…

So the similarities are there…albeit in a more exciting way, with lots of ‘peeeeyyow’ laser noises, kicking off with lightsabres…and explosions.

Not to mention the final year...with Princess Leia in a gold bikini – to be played by the young substitue teacher…if she’s a woman…and attractive.

I for one then wouldn’t have to be dragged kicking and screaming to the bloody school every year if this was what I was going to see.

I wish someone had thought of this years ago...I would've made a kickass Han Solo.
(, Thu 2 Apr 2009, 13:11, 6 replies)
Russian in Where Angels Fear to Tread
Many years ago in the deepest, darkest wilds of Essex, there lived a small boy. He was blonde of hair, blue of eye, and short of sight. He liked to read books, and run around the playground at school pretending he was an aeroplane. He wanted to be Freddy Mercury, and he wanted to be a pilot or a spaceman or a racing driver or a tree or a shoe or whatever took his fancy on that particular day.

He was, in short, me.

Being, as I mentioned last week, something of a fan of the Jesus when I was a child, I waited with baited breath for the nativity. I knew, even in my formative years, that I was no Joseph and that I was too big to be Baby Jee, but I wanted a part and I wanted it hard.

Our teacher at the time was great man. He had taught me that which I found impossible (or adding 2 and 2 if you want the simple truth). He made learning fun. And, as it turned out, he had a burning desire inside him to be a theatre impresario. He was directing The Nativity.

But this wouldn’t be just a simple telling of Jesus’ birth. Oh no. This was going to be a theatrical and cultural event. There would be groups of people that represented all the continents of the earth there, in their own special way, to celebrate the birth of Our Lord and Saviour.

There was one particular group who were getting to wear bearskin hats, big fur boots and who got to dance the Kalinka in celebration of the coming of the Lord. Oh, how I wanted to be a Russian. Oh, how I wanted to do the weird dance and clap my hands and shout ‘Hey!’ a lot. But oh no. I wasn’t bleeding Slavic enough for Mister-soon-to-be-locked-up-for-perving-over-children Richardson. In a feat of stereotypical casting, he cast me as a Scandinavian, who would bring gifts of pickled herring and Lego and open sandwiches.

Did I take this news with grace and common decency, and commit to my role? Did I hell as like.

We were handed the list of what our parents would need to get for our costumes. I cast my Nordic requests aside, and informed my parents that I would need some kind of fur hat, some fur boots, a tartan shirt, some jeans and some braces, for I was to be a Russian.

Come the performance, my parents were sat in the front row, waiting for my time to shine. The Russians came on, and my Mum raised the camera. Flustered, she put it down again. Her son, her pride and joy, was nowhere to be seen.

Meanwhile, back stage, I was throwing the mother of all tantrums.

“But I have to be a Russian!” I cried “I am dressed up like one and everything” – indicating my boots and hat.

Minutes later, the audience were treated to three gloriously happy Scandinavians celebrating the birth of He who is called I Am, and me. Standing at the wings, crying, and yelling six-year-old obscenities at my teacher.

My parents were so very, very proud.
(, Thu 2 Apr 2009, 12:18, Reply)
Mix tapes...(or 'I shudder to think what would have happened if it had been 'super-8')...

Last Christmas, I was asked to do prepare for the inevitable ‘you’ve been framed’ moments of the local primary school Nativity by handling the recording of the ‘event’ on the school video camera.

I arrived on the night and was confronted by this monstrous behemoth of a ‘camcorder’. What a piece of archaic shite! – it was about three feet across, weighed a quarter of a tonne, and I’m convinced it was partly crafted from stone, iron and wood by some Olde Worlde blacksmith in the 17th century.

Worst of all, it required Betamax tapes…and as we all know, the world completely run out of stock of those bad boys…in 1982. I was fucked.

With little options or hope, I trudged despondently to the local Blockbusters and asked if they knew of anywhere I could purchase any new tapes. As the tillmonkey shook his head in despair I was then approached by a wizened old gent with a big beard, who had previously been sat in the shop doorway, busying himself by smoking a long pipe and smelling of piss.

“Yeee-arrrrrghhhh, so it’s Betamax tapes ye’s be after it be?” he spluttered menacingly.

Not really understanding, but nodding nervously, I was then taken to one side and informed that if I wanted such outdated media, then I would have to go to a special, hitherto unheard of place in the rough end of town, that was managed by a strange, witchlike woman who went by the name of ‘Natalie Everitt’ (didn’t sound much like a witch to me).

She ran a shop that specialised in antique video tapes. Then, to my utter amazement, He whispered to me that for ‘Betamax’, I’d have to go round the back of the shop, out by the bins, to an area where they keep the Betamax tapes fresh by running them through a process of colour-washing called ‘grey-testing’...(this apparently removes the grey interference that happens to such old useless shite). Following this process, the tapes are locked in a cargo area, and sealed for tax purposes. It wasn't going to be cheap.

It was all so mysterious, I felt like a cross between Indiana Jones, Fox Mulder, and one of the Sopranos doing a dodgy deal in the back streets.

Quietly excited, but realising that this was my one chance of success, I asked for the exact name of the place and location – The old man looked up at me and said:

"It’s called the ‘Nat E, ‘VT’ place…the grey-test store rear vat-hold".

I then proceeded to punch the old cunt to the ground and set fire to his donkey jacket while he was unconcious.

And with that, the QotW finally disappeared up it’s own arse.
(, Thu 2 Apr 2009, 11:59, 6 replies)
Never use plastic sword props in nativity plays
All the boys will demand to be soldiers (with the swords) and refuse to play any other part.

good old school memoeries.
(, Thu 2 Apr 2009, 11:55, Reply)
What's with the Nativity anyway?
It's a crap story - Three guys bring gifts to a baby born in a barn, with abnormal numbers of shepherds and livestock at such a obscure time of night, not to mention an arbitrary story of a couple failing to get a hotel room.

Seriously, why remake this play every year? it's not like this 'God' fella was J.B. Priestley.

*Starts petition to have all five year olds perform 'An Inspector Calls' at christmas time instead*
(, Thu 2 Apr 2009, 11:34, Reply)
and another one...
hmmm... I forget...
(, Thu 2 Apr 2009, 10:53, Reply)
The worst thing I did with a penis
is acting like one when I posted a story a week late...

(, Thu 2 Apr 2009, 10:19, Reply)
Glittery Christmas
Once, I had to sing "I'm the leader of the gang" by none other than the one and only, Paul Francis 'Thai-Toucher' Gadd, AKA Gary Glitter.

The reason this was actually part of a nativity play beggars belief, but I assure you it's a true story. I had to be Gary Glitter. In front of the whole school, the respective parents, and at the top of my (at the time) breaking voice.

Beat that
(, Thu 2 Apr 2009, 10:02, Reply)

I was never in a nativity play when I was little which is why there's no story from me this week.

Then I read CHCB's wonderful script for the B3ta Nativity and the first thing that went through me mind was:

"They have to cast me. I'm a veritable QOTW icon. I've been posting here for over 5 fucking years!"

Guess what? No part for Legless even though I'm probably the most qualified person, ever, to not appear in a nativity play. Consider the evidence.

My father is called Joesph.
My mother is called Mary.
I was named after my father (anyone spot a biblical connection here?)
My username is Legless so I should have been a shoo-in for the inkeepers part.
I'm a country boy and used to work on a farm but do I get the part of a Shepherd? Or even a sheep? Do I fuck as like. It goes to some city cunts who've proably never even *seen* a sheep (never mind caught one and put it in someones tent.)

Bastards. Even fucking Apeloverage got a part and he's a cunt.

So you can stick the usual "cheers" up your arse. I'm off to the pub.....

Edit. My mum and dad really are called Mary and Joseph.

To get...
(, Thu 2 Apr 2009, 6:51, 45 replies)

Now that I have that out of the way, allow me to say that I have never been anywhere close to a Nativity play, being Jewish and all...

Although, I did get to hold the ceremonial lemon and palm leaf during the Festival of Being Stuck in The Desert.

That is all.

Length? Dunno, how long is the average palm branch?
(, Thu 2 Apr 2009, 3:12, Reply)
Alistair McGowan
He of TV fame played the Pharaoh in my school's production of Joseph's technicolor dreamcoat.

I got the much more glamorous part of the rear end of a camel.

What a tool.

My sister fancied him.
(, Thu 2 Apr 2009, 0:58, Reply)

This question is now closed.

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