Primary 3
I got to be Postman Pat. And my love interest at the time played Jess. I'm sure there was copyright infringement going on. I had to feed her a massive carboard fish which smelled like sick.

All this was very appropriate as my my most worn item of clothing around this time was the postman pat tanktop that my mum knitted for me. I was a fashion god.
( wefbhweiufhweiu party, Fri 27 Mar 2009, 13:50, Reply)

I've just found out
that two of the people involved in my first ever threesome are now respectable parents (it was not as a result of that night unless they had 9 year gestation periods). The tenuous link with this QOTW is that they will now have to attend nativity plays for the next few years, and how they have the face to sit through a miraculous and innocent depiction of the birth of Our Lord Jesus Christ when I know exactly what deviant filth they are capable of is beyond me.
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Fri 27 Mar 2009, 13:48, 16 replies)

Some highlights from the 1980 production of 'The Nativity' By year 3
- On being asked if there was any room at the inn, and with his only line to deliver in the play pending, Duncan Woodley lost his confidence with aplomb and micturated copiously on the stage.
One wag from the front row was heard to quip "Everybody to the Ark!"

- Neville Bennet forgot his lines and began ad-libbing. This was fine to begin with until his monologue started to talk about Aliens and the A Team. Teachers began to look at each other quizzically. When he mentioned Nudey-Prod-Games the curtain was abruptly bought down. Such was his 15 minutes of fame.

- Mary had just given birth to the baby Jesus when 'Fatty' Walker's Dad let off a low, rumbling bottom burp which rent the air in twain and left a primeval fug for 18 feet around him causing unsuspecting parents to cough and gag as they gulped down lungfuls of fetid air. Mary's moment was ruined as the wise men collapsed into hysterics.

- We were forced to sing a song in which the first line of each verse went "No Room Was There For Mary, Lullaby". Cannily the Juniors all substituted the word "Lullaby" for "Sausage Pie", which somehow took away the pathos.
(Vic Flange, Fri 27 Mar 2009, 13:45, 1 reply)

I was magical, darlings...
I got to play a cactus. A Christmas cactus. One of the three gifts given was a yoyo, too. great school, i went to.
(jameslib, Fri 27 Mar 2009, 13:43, Reply)

We did a traditional Chinese play for Chinese New Year.
Exposing and Correcting Reactionary Elements in Hunan Province.

To add audience participation I had some of the kids go into the audience and get their parents on stage, then denounce them.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Fri 27 Mar 2009, 13:24, 1 reply)

I only really "performed" once in a nativity...
While in the Sixth Form I was a member of the school’s technical team. Five of us in the team – me, my partner Hannah, her identical twin sister Kate and my mates Ian and Dave. As a part of its “Reaching out to the Community” scheme the school had, the technical team was pimped out to various local primary schools. Over a two week period the five of us ended up seeing 23 and a half nativity plays in our mini-tour, running two sets of equipment to illuminate and amplify the shrieks of the little darlings.

My average day would be:

6.45 Pick up the second and occasionally third members of the team I was working with that day
7.00 Arrive at primary school to find it locked. Caretaker has forgotten that we’re arriving. Play hopscotch in playground.

7.10 Speak to police that little old lady has called after seeing us playing hopscotch. Have a chat and a cup of tea, discuss the school and find out whose kids are performing where.

8.00 Caretaker arrives to open school. Begin unloading several thousands of pounds worth of (rented) lighting and sound and sound equipment.

8.30 Find an SUV parked in frond of our van (actually one of the Sixth Form’s minibuses) as Mrs Horrobleigh has parked in the teachers car park to discuss why little Jimmy isn’t being pushed hard enough to do his Latin GCSE in year 6. Unable to get any equipment out, so go and have a cup of tea.

9.00 SUV still parked in front of van. Attempt to locate parent.

9.15 After arguing with parent, use the powers of persuasion to point out that we’ll be lighting little brat so his home made organic hemp goat costume will outshine all the other parents feeble efforts.

9.30 Unloading finally complete. Begin setup. Attempt not to hit kids with scaffolding.

10.00 Shout at tenth child who’s running under where we’re setting up the equipment. Ponder converting one of the moving lights in to a kid-seeking taser.

10.13 Teacher asks when we’ll be ready. Is told at about 11.00.

10.22 Same teacher asks again. Is given same answer. Mentally adjust designs to modify taser to teacher seeking.

10.50 Teacher brings children in to the hall where we’re still hanging lanterns. Is politely asked to take them away because I don’t fancy cleaning up the blood.

11.00. Finished setup of a temporary scaffolding, holding all the required lighting and sound equipment, a curtained off control booth and some inventive wiring to power it all from 13amp sockets. Prays there are no health and safety people around.

11.20 After cajoling the children on to the stage, we turn all the lights on them at full power. Despite being told not to, they’re all looking straight at the lights. The screams of blinded children never fail to amuse.

11.23 Clean up urine puddles from above.

11.30 Start a rehearsal. Screaming fit from Mary when Joseph pulls her hair.

13.00 Lunch. Cook a couple of pizza’s on the lanterns.

14.00 Hyperactive kids come in for a “dress rehearsal”. A second screaming fit from Mary when she’s told she won’t be allowed to do a spotlight solo.

15.30 Kids go home, and we go to the pub to relax over a couple of pint of Wychwood’s finest.

18.00 Arrive back at the school to do final checks for the show.

18.30 Parents arrive with children. Explain to parent that they cannot film the play from the box.

18.40 Tell 18th parent that we will not be recording all the singing for them.

19.00 Show starts. Three children led off in tears at the start.

19.20 Baby Jesus’ head falls off. Mary cries.

19.30 Show finally over, with a big song and dance number lead by the tap dancing cows.

20.00 Finally get parents out of the hall, after several complaints that the lights were too bright for the video cameras to compensate.

22.00 Get kit packed up and in van. Home to sleep and repeat the next day.


To make up for the above, I’ll give you tale from the very last show. It was in local church and two of the primary schools had combined the forces of their year sixes to put on a big performance. This needed the whole team, as this tour de force needed set changes, so I was going to be stuck back stage instead of my usual position in the lighting desk. Hannah volunteered to help me, hiding in a small alcove at the side of the stage, ready to dash out and perform the scenery changes at the pivotal moments. Being in such close quarters made for some intense making out moment.

Come the show, she joined me in our little cubbyhole just before the show started, crouching down next to me. Once the show had started, I made my move. My hand gently brushed her thigh, stroking the fine weave of her tights and feeling the warmth of her skin beneath. Unable to make any noise, a quickening of breathing and a smile in the dim reflected light were my only indications that my attention as appreciated. My hand moved further, stroking the fleshy underside of her leg through the nylon material. Sliding gently over her buttocks as the chorus sprang in to a chorus of “O little star of Bethlehem”, an exhalation of warm breath flowed past my ear. My finger slipped through a hole in the crotch of her tights, moving aside the silk that guarded the fragrant and moist areas that lead to her little button of pleasure. A few minutes more and that song will forever remain in my head as a the warm wetness flowed over my finger.

Sadly the song ended at that point, and our first scene change was upon us. I reluctantly withdrew my probing digits, and got up to begin the change. As I moved behind the curtain, I caught a glimpse of the control desk, Hannah sitting there staring intently at the stage for her cue.

Hang on. Hannah. At the control desk. Wearing trousers. Hannah never wore skirts during shows… only Kate did. Shit. Shit shit shit. Oh holy crap. I’ve just gotten to second base with my girlfriends twin sister. In a church. Oh shit.

I’m not sure how I made it through the show, but I managed to find an excuse to be on the other side of the stage all the night. I had to be practically dragged to pub after; I felt I couldn’t show my face to either. Kate said nothing though, although she did look at me with an odd smile throughout the evening. I had to spill all after – how could I not? I asked her if she wanted to split - I wondered how our relationship could continue after this, I felt awful. As it turned out, it wasn’t a problem. A lot of twins were close, and these two were even closer. But that’s for another QOTW….
(Potty Jag har smör i min rumpspringa, Fri 27 Mar 2009, 13:16, 2 replies)

Ok - It's About School
So how many people want to re-write Chthonic's QOTW topic and correct it for punctuation and grammatical errors?

Cheer's
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Fri 27 Mar 2009, 13:06, 1 reply)

I was a tree.
A fucking tree.
(Merrep, Fri 27 Mar 2009, 12:56, 2 replies)

My first year at Primary school, I got to play the Lead Angel in the Nativity.
I clearly made some sort of impression, as the following year I was cast as the donkey.

Oh, how the mighty fall.
( i_yam_bucket doo wah diddy diddy wah wah diddy doo, Fri 27 Mar 2009, 12:25, Reply)

at Primary school we had to go on stage wearing big flags
of European countries (something to do with the common market I think) and I had the Union Jack one, we marched on stage, said something like "hello and welcome" in what ever language was native to the flag and moved backwards to line up.

at least that was the theory.

The girl with the French flag could not remember her lines and burst into tears running off the stage, and the bloke with the German flag walked backwards and stood on my toe, so I quite rightly gave him a swift kick in the shins (as any right minded 6 year old would do) quick as a flash, the bloke doing the announcing said "ladies and gentlemen, there we had a quick world war two re enactment"

and tapioca pudding with red sauce for afters... yum.
( TBL I posted this on, Fri 27 Mar 2009, 12:20, 1 reply)

... Nativity plays?
You're letting the B3TA people talk about kids? This is going to deteriorate rapidly into paedophilia jokes.

Why the hell didn't they choose the String QOTW? At least then there could be some puns about being too late to be first as you were bit tied up.
( uberdeity Wondered why Owen Lars knew of the term "hell" on, Fri 27 Mar 2009, 12:14, Reply)

Nativity Plays?
A QOTW about nativity plays?

In March?

FFS!
(zebby wasting irony here on, Fri 27 Mar 2009, 11:53, 4 replies)

Nativity '85
I ensured that that I was the shining star of our school orchestra's electronic keyboard section, by turning everyone elses off moments before curtain-up.
( browser still relating boring anecdotes into a void on, Fri 27 Mar 2009, 11:46, 3 replies)

I went to a Catholic school
I'm not Catholic, but I went to a Catholic school. This meant the nativity play probably got a bit more attention than it would otherwise; Protestant schools probably sing a few carols, secular schools probably replace Jesus with a tree, but the Catholic school? Oh, not the Catholic school; their principle is to find the nuttiest Irish woman they can and stick her on Nativity Duty.

So, the big date is nearing, and we all get ushered into the nursery; HQ for the big event. When you're young everything seems so much more intimidating, so much more... eventful. Looking back on it now it feels as though we were rushed in to the briefing room, to rally the troops before the big push; looking back on it again I'm sure crazy Irish lady felt the same way. It was almost as though the big A3 sheets of coloured paper covered in childish crayon scribbles were not just the creations of some confused 3 year old, but rather the intricate and detailed maps of enemy lines; the musky haze coming from the Chief of Staff not the horrendous cigarette habit of an old lady, but a strategically placed smoke-screen to hide our operations from that school across the road.

As any good leader does, the lesbian spinster laid down her plans. She briefed us on the situation. Looking sternly at each of us in only the way a god-fearing Irish lady could - and thank heavens she had faith in a god, 'cos she feared nothing else - she laid down the scenario; we were up against a hall of not just our teachers, but our mummies and daddies, and our friends' mummies and daddies, too. Winter was biting hard upon our young, tender cheeks; nativity time was arriving.
Stage two of the plan was the assigning of roles, we needed a Mary, a Joseph, the Shepherds, the Kings, the inn-keeper, and as many other unnecessary roles as possible to use up all the kids from the first to the penultimate year; year 6 was logistics. Typical of her brutal efficiency she turned to each of us in a snap, "You, Joseph; you, Mary; you t'ree, you're de Shepherds; and you and you and you, you're de t'ree kings..." Each assignment delivered with staccato force and landing sharply and firmly on our apprehensive ears.

It took a couple of minutes to register from the haze, from the adrenaline rush that takes a man over in these situations; I'd made it... I was Joseph! Suddenly a euphoric feeling flew over me, the second biggest acting role, and the first biggest that wasn't a girl; I was Joseph, I was fucking Joseph!

I already began making plans, the brown dressing gown, the tea-towel for my head, the lines scribbled down in B2 pencil in my finest non-joined up handwriting. The weeks neared, I'd learned my lines, I'd prepared my costume, I'd even planned in conduction with the Greek kid who was to be Mary. With go-time fast approaching we were hustled into the hall for our last non-dress rehearsal; this was it.
The old Irish lady looked at us, "You, Joseph; you, Mary; you, de t'ree Shepherds..." Hang on, something was wrong here. Our orders must've become confused in the Fog of Nativity; she pointed at someone else on the first call; no, that's not right! I was Joseph, I'd learned the lines, I had the costume, I'd even practiced with Mary. I wasn't a Shepherd, I was Joseph, I was Joseph, I wasn't a fucking Shepherd!

I stepped forward to lodge my protest; but the smarmy cunt jumped ahead and took his unrightful place next to the increasingly confused Greek Mary.

I was robbed - forced to go on stage a lowly Shepherd - I'll never forget the day they stole Joseph from me.
(Frozen_Banana Shaved against the grain; thoroughly unrewarding., Fri 27 Mar 2009, 11:35, 2 replies)

A pearoast, and not even about a Nativity Play
But there's a recession on, so it'll have to do.


I was 11 years old and one of Baden Powell's finest female recruits. I was starring in The Gang Show...

I had my very first period on stage in front of 500 people whilst singing 'Bare Necessities' from the Jungle Book dressed as a cave girl.

My therapy bill is astronomical.
(Rakky (forgot her password) The muffin maverick, Fri 27 Mar 2009, 11:34, 4 replies)

We were 14 and put on a production of Aladdin
I played "Chinese Commoner #3" but pre-show I had the job of using my bare hands to smear green body paint all over the mostly naked body of the big lad who played the genie.

"Are you sure you need to put so much paint on me?"
"Yes, seriously, we should cover as much as possible, just in case. Yes, this far up the leg."

Which completed my first erotic experience also.
( Dixipoos Bye Bye Blackbird, Fri 27 Mar 2009, 11:20, 1 reply)

Brought to vomit
I played one of the shepherds in our musical nativity at junior school - standard shepherding smock and head dress. I got to sing a solo: a dreary little dirge about "What a state the world is in, full of sorrow, full of sin." No wonder I'm such a grump twenty years on.

During the dress rehearsal, performed in front of the neighbouring infant school, one of the audience was sick during the middle of my solo. The teacher congratulated me for going on with the show - what a pro, singing in the face of adversity, undaunted by the distractions of the audience.

Truth is I didn't really notice the kerfuffle, possibly due to the fact that shepherds weren't allowed to wear glasses - they hadn't been invented yet, see?
( divy, Fri 27 Mar 2009, 11:15, Reply)

I obviously went to an odd school.
The Nativity Play was a traditional affair with a predetermined number of parts, for which auditions were held. My mother informs me that I once played Joseph. I do not remember this.

I do recall that in subsequent years, I was variously a shepherd with a stuffed sheep (two, in fact; the first contained a bell and was switched for another when I was unable to hold the damned thing perfectly still to stop it sounding) and a choir person; I'd wanted to be in the play proper but was held back for singing on the grounds that I could. In tune, and everything.

In the same years, I played assorted biblical figures in assemblies (for 'twas a Christian school) and then promptly failed to participate in any theatrical undertaking until University, whereupon I did a Sondheim musical. What fun.

My sincerest apologies for the lack of anything interesting or amusing in the above. My only hope is to pad this out with extra tripe just to waste a little bit more of your working day and get you closer to home time.
(ThomsonsPier consumes, Fri 27 Mar 2009, 11:11, Reply)

Idle threats...
In my final year of primary school, I was due to be one of the three kings. I rehearsed where to stand and where to put the gold (I had no lines), I was fitted for a crown (I have a big head) and cape, I practices liioking at The Little Baby Jesus with suitable reverence - the whole nine yards.

On the day of the performance, I dared to ask my bitch of a teacher a question without putting my hand up, she shouted at me until I cried, then told me I couldn't be in the Nativity play anymore. Gotta love that Christian attitude.

This really upset me. I had rehearsed, my parents were coming and so on. And the bitch let me believe all day that I wasn't going to be in the play. She even kept telling me, smiling at every tear she extracted.

So when 4 o'clock rolled around (the play was due to start at 4:30) the fucker said "I've decided that I should allow you to be in the nativity, so you don't ruin it to everyone".

Relief washed through me, my parents journey to see me wouldn't be wasted.

So, full of gratitude, I said to my teacher: "no".

She looked stunned for a moment and said "what?"

So again I said "no"

She said "what? What do you mean "no"?"

I told her how I felt "Why should I? You've been mean and horrible and everything to me all day! Why should I?"

I got hauled up in front of the headmaster, who told me that I would go to hell should I continue down this path. But still I dug my heels in. He then told me (for the second time, it has to be said) that I was a waste of space and I would never, ever amount to anything and that I should be grateful that I am allowed to appear in his Nativity play.

Can you imagine? A grown man, in such a position of responsibilty, telling a 10-year-old that he would never amount to anything.

I laughed.

The nativity had two kings that year.
(ScousersPet, Fri 27 Mar 2009, 11:07, 5 replies)

Grass skirt....
I was at primary school in the 1950s, when nativity plays were traditional, but the only time I can remember appearing in a nativity play I was playing a Hawaiian girl and wearing a swimsuit and a grass skirt. So if there's anyone out there who went to John Selden Primary School in Durrington, West Sussex in the 1950s, can they please tell me what I was doing (assuming it isn't a weird acid flashback).
(fuchsiaperfect, Fri 27 Mar 2009, 11:01, 1 reply)

Multiculturalism in 1980s Kent
My nursery school teacher was by all accounts (well according to my Dad) very nice but a few chicken wings short of a bucket.

At the time it never occurred to me that this was anything but normal. It's only with the benefit of hindsight and old video footage that I've really appreciated what a raving loon she actually was.

Our nursery was quite multicultural for the time and place (rural Kent in the late 80s) and in a way she was quite ahead of her time. Rather than do a traditional nativity she always put on a play so that no-one would feel left out. As with other teachers mentioned in these pages she also fancied herself as the new Andrew Lloyd Webber.

For instance, in my final year I was playing the part of the Big Bad Wolf in a musical version of Little Red Riding Hood. Not so odd you might think but then the multiculturalism kicked in. Instead of the woodcutter hacking me to death Mary and Joseph rocked up presumably having got lost on the way to Bethlehem. They were swiftly followed by shepherds, the three kings, and various representatives of Hannukah, Chinese New Year and Ramadam (one of the three Muslim kids explaining why he wasn't able to have Christmas dinner with us - and yes I know it's in September, I said it didn't make sense). Then with everyone gathered round Baby Jesus suddenly appeared. Getting a 4 yr old girl to simulate giving birth was presumably considered a step too far.

We then all sang a couple of original songs, no carols obviously, and sat down for Christmas dinner. However the grand finale was still to come as Santa complete with reindeer and elves burst in to wish everyone a Happy Christmas and Happy Holidays.

Absolutely barking. My Dad always said it was his favourite evening of the whole holiday.
(Milo Minderbinder, Fri 27 Mar 2009, 10:46, Reply)

POLITICS, PLAYS AND PORKPIES
When I was seven I landed the part of the clown in Lyncrest Lower School, Northampton's, ground breaking epic - The Nativity.

It was a cast of literally thousands, well, hundereds, well, about thirty.

My job as clown was simple. I had to help the donkey (played by my erstwhile mates Terry and Dave), on and off the stage. The donkey was blind. The eye slits were so fucking small Terry couldn't see where he was going.

So, on stage comes Mary and Joseph, followed by me, the clown leading the donkey.

It was awe inspiring.

It was the round the time that those big clunky video cameras first came out. We bathed under the bright hot glow of literally ten-or-eleven hand held cameras, the spotlight on us.

I'd done my bit, leading the donkey on stage, so I went and stood in my place, fished into my big clown pocket, and pulled out a porkpie my mum had given me for lunch. Now, this wasn't scripted, but Dave in the arse-end of the donkey scoped my pie and wanted a bit.

So as Joseph and Mary are getting a bit of hassle from some cunt of an innkeeper, in the background a clown and a donkey's arse are slapping each other about over a fine bit of reconstituted pig, some gelatine, and some flaky pastry.

The videos seemed to focus on us and completely leave the main actors to their own innkeeping woes.

"Spanky!" I heard a loud hiss, it was my mum, sitting in the second or third row. "Spanky! Stoppit!!!"

I pulled myself away from tugging at Dave's ears and noticed my mum. She looked well pissed off. Oh, shit. I'm gonna be in trouble after this. But I knew something that would win back her affections, a dead-fucking-cert. I'd heard my mum talk about this nice old man who'd been locked away and shouldn't be. She told me he was a great man of peace.

I munched on my porkpie,contemplating, Dave having wrestled part of the pastry off me - he seemed happy with that.

I tried to remember what my mum said, over and over and over again. The man's name was hard to remember.

But just as Mary and Joseph secure a lovely little place in a stable and are being led off to bed down for the night, a clown pushes past them, takes centre stage, raises his chubby little seven year old fist and squeaks:



"FREE NELSON MANDELLA!!!"



Strange thing was, that actually got me into even more trouble once the gig had finished...
( SpankyHanky, Fri 27 Mar 2009, 10:41, 7 replies)

Let me entertain you…

Talk about timing!

My 8 year old Flakelet’s seat of learning has adopted the school play equivalent of a broadband ‘Fair usage policy’, whereby every single class from every single year in his gargantuan cunting school gets to perform a nativity play (to full politically correct and non-threatening multi cultural standards of course) in an attempt to ensure that everybody is given a chance to embarrass themselves and twat about on a badly constructed stage. (obviously TRL didn’t apply his set-building skills to this place)

As you can imagine, this non-stop nativity marathon has been going on for what seems like fucking donkey’s years…it’s going to last until early June apparently…then afterwards they’ll start rehearsals for next year’s effort, which as you can imagine I’m looking forward to like a hole in the scrotum, administered by a blind psychopath with a rusty knitting needle.

However, in keeping with last week’s QotW, the Gods of timing have been kind to me, because it was only last night that it was the turn of my Flakelet’s nativity. What are the odds?

So…after a hard day’s work and with a million things still to do, I am forced to put my new suit on, then trek blistering miles to pretend to enjoy fucking amateur hour whilst watching my boy stutter through one fucking line of crappy, half-arsed, badly delivered dialogue.

The Flakelet has been banging on nauseatingly about this for months. “It’s the most important line in the whole play!” he squealed excitedly. “I’m one of the kings!...I have to stand in front of the whole audience at the very end and shout proudly: ‘Holy Lord, praise us all on this wonderful day!’…it’s gonna be brill!”

“Hmm” I think to myself…my hopes are not high.

Eventually, we assemble in the dimly lit, draughty school hall with the climbing apparatus bolted securely to the walls and a load of old bedsheets fastened by drawing pins (which by some incredible stretch of the imagination is meant to depict night-time Jerusalem – I weep for the future of education).

As my arse cheeks flop over the sides of the undersized, flimsy plastic seats I mutter “All this for one cunting line?” despondently to the present Mrs Pooflake, whose heartfelt beam of motherly pride is radiating around the room like one of those plug-in air fresheners.

“Shut the fuck up!” she snarls at me stealithy, whilst utilising her long practiced talent of delivering a well-aimed slap round my mush without anybody noticing.

After what seems like a cursed eternity, the lights slowly go up and I am slapped again…

(She had noticed that through boredom, my eyes had wandered and were now distracted by the rather hot looking assistant teacher who always dresses on the ‘slightly wrong side of appropriate’ on these occasions – all the fathers in the room were sharing a discerning ‘nod’ to each other in recognition and collective admiration of the gelatinous globe action bursting out from her low cut top.)

After a badly played piano intro, a gaggle of kids troop onto the stage, tripping over their brown hessian sack outfits and waving enthusiastically as the teatowels slip from their heads. There is a simultaneous ‘Awwwww’ breathed amongst the throngs of parents which manages to successfully suppress my cries of “Get the fuck on with it!”. However, I am soon sniggering to myself as they start singing, and I fondly remember the rude version of ‘When shepherds watch their flocks by night’

As I scan the stage, I can’t even see my Flakelet. “What the cock?” I ask.

“Shhhh, here he is now” TPMPF whispers as lo and behold, my mini-me ambles onto the stage wearing a spankgly skirt, bacofoil waiscoat and a dislodged crown that looks as if it has just been wrenched from a Tesco Value cracker and plonked on his bewildered barnet…

I have to admit he looked quite cute…

Right up to the point where he idles up towards the back amongst the sheep, leans against ‘the night sky’, pulls his fucking PHONE out of his pocket and starts pressing buttons frantically!

“MMmmppfff?” I wheeze as people start to 'tut' at this disobedient brat…I then desperately start gesturing futile attempts at sign language in his general direction whilst mouthing the words ‘Put your fucking phone away!’ in the vain hope of him even looking out to see if we were there. He just carried on oblivious.

The play dragged mercilessly on, and the boy hardly looked up from his phone the whole time, surfing the net as if his life depended on it…

(I know, I know…. it’s a bit ‘over-the-top’ to give a full internet-ready 3G smartphone to an 8 year old, but hey, I’m a techie, so leave off)

After endless songs, crude acting and a bizarre ‘incident with the Myrrh’ we reach 5:45pm, the nightmare play is finally coming to an end and it’s time for the big line. All the kids part like the veritable Red sea and someone nudges my Flakelet. He barely glances up, refusing to tear his gaze from his phone where he is pressing one button constantly with a look of intense frustration on his face. He then groans a little, and he walks towards the front of the stage. Parents are starting to whine in unison about ‘bad parenting’ and how he ‘was ruining everything’…

As he stands there at the front, it is time to deliver the big line and he is still looking at his bloody phone…One of the teachers then ‘coughs’ loudly to distract him…and suddenly his whole face falls like he’d been whacked with a 2 tonne mallet of depression.


…


He drops his phone, looks blankly at the audience and starts to speak…:

”Erm…Holy…….Holy……..”

The crowd gasp. Has he forgotten his one line? What the flowery fluorescent fuck was going on?

As the teacher tries to prompt, he continues to stutter: “Holy…….Holy?”…he then stares at the floor with a strained expression of severe disbelief

We all wait, breathlessly glistening with anticipation.

Finally, after a long, dramatic pause…he clears his throat then angrily bellows: “Holy….fucking cuntflaps! – what a shite Question of the Week!”

I didn’t even know he read B3ta.
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Fri 27 Mar 2009, 10:28, 14 replies)

Early signs of logic
I was perhaps only 3 or 4 years old. My nan came to pick me up from play school and was informed I had cried the whole day and they didn't know why.
Completely inconsolable, my dear nan took me to one side to try and find out what was wrong with me.

"They want me to be a shepherd" I balled.
"Well, what's wrong with that?" nan replied.
"They put shepherds in pies!"

Genius. I ended up playing a drum instead.
( Devon Dan without geometry, there would be no point, Fri 27 Mar 2009, 10:24, 1 reply)

Pied Piper
Our music teacher fancied herself as a bit of an Andrew Lloyd Webber. So she did away with that whole old-and-busted Nativity Play thing and made us do a musical she had written herself for the Christmas concert.

It was the Pied Piper of Hamelin, meaning that the 95% of pupils who couldn't sing or dance could be dressed up as a rat and flung into the river, thus ensuring the presence of every single ticket-buying parent for the big night.

I was (and still am) a rat.

The part meant running about and squeaking for the main part, but the evil old bat wasn't letting us go lightly, and gave us a song.

Stage fright? Not much. I was terrified, and demonstrated this by singing my line about cheese theft at the wrong time and being told to "Shut up, you spastic" by Judith who was playing the Baker's wife and had a voice like a foghorn. This got the second biggest laugh of the night.

Not as terrified, however, as one of the other members of the rat chorus who lost control of his bladder as we sung, and stood in an ever-growing circle of his own urine at the back of the stage.

Alas, nobody else noticed until the end of the rats' chorus song, when we were supposed to got "Eek Eek!" and run off, stage right.

The first rat slipped in the pool of piss, and everybody else, their vision restricted by their rat masks, went over like so many skittles. Tearful piss-soaked kids, juvenile swearing, and Mrs Callaghan with her head in her hands as her attempt at West End stardom turned to so much dust. The biggest laugh of the night.

Sadly, this was an age before video cameras and You've Been Framed, so I reckon I'm £250 down on the whole deal.

Then I was sick inna hedge.
( Scaryduck LIKES EGG, Fri 27 Mar 2009, 10:13, 5 replies)

I played Pinnochio
I remember that my nose was made out of the corrugated cardboard bit out of a packet of Bourbon biscuits, which meant that I could smell chocolate all the way through. That's torture to a six year-old.
( emvee cruor deo cruoris, Fri 27 Mar 2009, 10:09, 1 reply)

we're doing a traditional nativity play this year,
written by Fred Phelps. It's called Every Last One of You Is Damned.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Fri 27 Mar 2009, 10:01, Reply)

Stiletto Bonobo
Yes, my kids have been in nativity plays, but as this contains no lulz, i simply must relate to you the story of the male p.a in my work.

Lets call him Monkey Boy......

The guy looks like the evil baby Gerald out of The Simpson. Think, mono-browed simian. He has a disconcerting habit of walking on his tip-toes, at all times.
I have spied the heels of his shoes and they look completely brand new. Twinkletoes, is another moniker.

One night while having a conversation with my wife, she mentioned the fact that a woman in her work who has worn high heels all her life and now has difficulty
walking in flat shoes as her ligaments have distorted over time.

Quick as a flash i surmised that this is what Monkey Boy suffers from. We started a scenario whereby he got home every night and slipped himself into a pair of stiletto's
and proceeded to mince about wearing them. Funny, if you could see this walking foetus.

Fast forward many months, and the janitor guy at work is fixing something that is a foot or two out of reach above him. Along comes twinkletoes and the janitor asks
him if he could help. Monkey boy, without missing a beat, and without any prompting, says...

"i would have to have my heels on the reach that....hahaha"

Cue me snapping in two with concealed laughter. It was the way he said it, so off handed. Confident in the extra height that his 'heels' bestow upon him. This was the
final confirmation, if i needed any...

I didn't know that Mengele was alive and well, and still conducting his award winning embryo experiments. But he must be, as Monkey Boy somehow got his girlfriend pregnant.
Now, most people bring their new babies in some weeks or months after they are born. Not monkey boy, he had brought his baby chimp in a day or two after it had been spat
into the world.

If you have ever seen the Johnny Morris program where the female gorilla is passing the baby to him in an act of cross-genetic trust, well, this is what Monkey Boy
was like with his mewling bundle of stubble and shit. He was grinning like a wanking chimp as he passed the cross-species experiment to all and sundry...i swear i heard him grunt a few times.

Now, as part of his many undisclosed duties, he also fetches and grovels for the CEO.

Every morning, the CEO arrives and sits at his desk. Moments later Monkey Boy appears with toast, or a filled roll and coffee.

The look of pure pleasure on his face as he performs this menial task is unashamed. He is oblivious to the scathing commentary of the plebs all around him.

If he had a tail, he would be wagging it, furiously.


To sum up, the guy is a mutation. A gorilla with high heels. A stone in the eye of evolution. A warning to us all.



I just wonder how many bananas a year he gets paid...
(Cancer Joy was short lived, Fri 27 Mar 2009, 10:01, 3 replies)

Not even fit to be in the play
I was a "scene shifter" because I obviously was too crap to be in the actual play. In the breaks our job was to move the scenery around for the next part in the play.
We were dressed as elves.
in tights...
the shame....
(toadrunner, Fri 27 Mar 2009, 9:53, Reply)