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.
(Macnabbs may contain traces of exaggeration on, Thu 2 Apr 2009, 14:04, 3 replies)

What the hell...?

Where have all these funny last minute posts sprouted from?

I was about to crawl under my bedclothes and wait for the change of QotW...now I've gotta stay on the lookout.

fucksockety

*late clicks*
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Thu 2 Apr 2009, 14:18, closed)

I think that it took a while for people to dredge up
the memories of horrible nativity plays that were suppressed in their subconscious for so many years.

See, b3ta is not only fun, it is good therapy allowing people to express their innermost fears and free themselves of past misery!
(MichaelS wasn't picked again, Thu 2 Apr 2009, 14:46, closed)

Such emotional repression...
...will give you an ulcer. Have a click instead.
(powervator and NONE SHALL PASS, Thu 2 Apr 2009, 16:52, closed)