Dan Morris: Lambs, Gods and Lambs of God

This wonderful quote was uttered by Emma Thompson’s fan-favourite character in Richard Curtis’s 2003 festive rom-com smash, Love Actually.

While there aren’t many of us who can relate to being the PM’s sister, there are only too many parents across the land who I’m sure have been there with regards to ridiculous nativity costume prep. And, of course, ‘tis currently the season.

At only three years old, my little ‘un is yet to partake in the annual joy of telling the tale of the birth of Christ in the cutest possible fashion, yet, with school now not a million miles away, the door will soon be opened for her to tread the boards.

As a prospective parent, there were a couple of things that I was particularly looking forward to: bedtime stories (I do a mean Gruffalo) and nativity plays.

Though I‘ve often rightly been accused of having a bit of a heart of stone, I find nativities to be the most heart-warming thing on the planet - children getting the chance to perform when at their most innocent (before any pretentiousness whatsoever can have set in), and never failing to deliver some of the funniest moments in the world.

Since being a parent, sharing bedtime stories with my sproglet has brought all the joy I expected and more, so now I’m positively itching to experience her first Bethlehem bout in a couple of years’ time.

Naturally, this excitement has bled over into reminiscence about my own nativity career - a short three-year period that saw me start from nature’s humblest beginnings, yet ascend to, I have have to say, pretty stratospheric heights.

A bright-eyed and bushy tailed Reception pupil, I remember the day that roles for my first ever school Christmas play were announced. As was standard practice at the time (and perhaps still is), the cast of my school’s nativity was to be comprised of kids from Reception to Year 2 - meaning it was expected that the slightly older kids would fill the starring roles of Mary, Joseph, the Angel Gabriel and the like.

This year was no exception, and though our expectations of lead parts had been delicately managed, even us littlest of the little were full of beans at the prospect of just being a part of the fun. And hey, even though Joseph was undoubtedly off the cards, there was still the shot at a shepherd or one of the three kings (I’ve always looked good in a crown).

Sadly, even these moderate heights were not to be part of my Reception destiny. While the shepherds and the magi were promptly cast, there was still the need for bodies to fill the role of their charges, hence why my best pal and I were foretellingly shoehorned into the part of sheep.

As my mum pointed out, it could have been worse - she herself had played a tree. And in a world where the story hadn’t yet evolved to feature Emma Thompson’s daughter’s iconic ‘First Lobster’ or Martine McCutcheon’s brother’s octopus (“eight is a lot of legs, David”), being cast as a faithful member of the shepherds’ flock wasn’t a bad result. 

An early believer in the notion of method acting, I took my supine role very seriously, reportedly, in the days leading up to the play, insisting on eating all of my meals from the comfort of the floor.

When the fateful first performance arrived, I was in the zone, and proudly sheeped the sheep out of being a sheep. I wasn’t, admittedly, as comfortable in the role as my aforementioned mate. He was so relaxed in his part that he fell asleep on stage before the first act was done.

When the following year came round, things got, well, sweeter. Rather than opting for a conventional nativity, when I was in Year 1, my school chose to stage a production of The Nutcracker. Was I to be cast as said straight-backed, uniform-attired, wondrous aperitif appliance? Heavens no. Yours truly ended up as a dolly mixture, as did my supine cohort from the previous year. There were no cheeky sleeps this time, but a lot of licking each other followed by disgruntled grunts when the realisation that we weren’t real sweets finally set in.

Anyway, as the saying goes, good things come to those who wait…

By the time I was a proud seven-year-old, strutting my veritable Year 2 stuff, my voice had already lowered to its now pseudo-legendary baritone. With this, our new drama director saw fit to place me in the only role said commanding James Earl Jones-esque vocal deserved. Joseph? Meh! Gabriel? Do me a favour. In a promotion the likes of the world hadn’t heard of until Donald Trump went from Brooklyn barrow boy to President of the United States, I went from chewing the cud as a sheep to flexing my pecs as God himself.

The lesson is simple, and it's one that all the little sheep out there need to hear: keep smiling, keep chewing, and look after your sleepy mates; your day is coming, and it's going to be brilliant.