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.
( Devil_In_Tights the *real* DiT!, Thu 2 Apr 2009, 12:18, Reply)