As I’m sure was the case in any catholic primary school, the annual Easter play was the pinnacle of every kids christian calender. For those allowed to participate (years 4 to 5) the classroom quickly became a battle ground. Boys fought over the role of Jesus, girls fought over the role of Mary Magdalene and teachers probably fought over who had to choreograph the dance routines. If anyone has starred in or witnessed a nativity performance, imagine this monumental event with infinitely more proud mothers and inexplicably more nervous children. You see, unlike the standard nativity, children starring in the Easter play are bestowed with soulful solos and meaty monologues devised purely to bring every grandmother to tears. Ultimately, the children in the Easter play either shine in the spotlight or fade into the background. Being a member of the Brown family, of course, the latter proposal was never an option for myself or my brother. No, just last week, I witnessed my brother take the stage and truly make the most of that one line he had. I found myself feeling unmistakably proud. Too proud. I now need to talk about myself with everyone just to reconfirm that I’m still the better child. In fact, if anyone in my family can recall, I got way more lines than my brother and he didn’t even get a solo song. So, ner.
Although there is 10 years between myself and my brother, I still find myself arguing with him over who farted and who ate the most crisps. At the age of 19, I have accepted that sibling squabbles will never mature and, seriously, they will never cease to be a source of entertainment. Last week, however, the deed of jibing the smallest family member couldn’t be executed. I scrutinised my brother’s body language and I could see that the little boy-man was silently nervous. It would have been heartless to wind him up and, quite honestly, I was too hungry. Watching him check his props fervently made me reminisce on how I felt before my Easter show. Understandably, at the ripe age of 9, performing in a tiny church chapel feels more like performing at Wembley Arena. Psychologically, that small audience of 50 magnifies to 300 and you start to wonder whether the crying is coming from you or that baby in the audience. My brother, of course, wasn’t to know that old people are easily impressed and every parent only watches their own child anyway; so there really was no need to worry. Unfortunately, no one but me and my mum saw him pick his nose and it is highly unlikely anyone but us will remember his performance in general. The solo singers usually steal the show and, sadly, he didn’t get a solo. Sorry lad; Polly wins again. Queue, celebratory bunny dance and token easter photo.
My solo was fantastically dramatic. It came after the Crucifixion and it was to the tune of ‘The Snowman’. This is not to say that my brother’s performance was mediocre. No, his performance was extremely riveting and, impressively, believable. The role he was awarded was the role of a trader in the temple. In this scene, the traders are all selling their merchandise and Jesus arrives to throw them all out. Jesus picks up various objects and throws them around shouting “This is my father’s house!” or something of that essence. My brother’s line was “Oh no! My precious money!” before frantically picking up all his coins that had been scattered in the carnage. In all truth, my brother was the only child to actually recite his line with emotion and, essentially, act. When he exclaimed “Oh no!”, I truly felt the agony and anger he possessed at having to pick up all his coins. You could argue that I am partially biased, but I can assure you it would have made me equally happy to see him forget that line. Predictably, the cast members were all extremely cute, however, I couldn’t help but inwardly groan at the robotic pace most of them spoke. Remembering lines is a hard process I know, but come on, grandma was getting on. I also had a pepperoni pizza cooking in the oven.
Despite the slow pace, the play itself took no more than half an hour. The chirpy Easter songs, however, remained present until early this week. I can still remember a massive proportion of the songs sung in my Easter play and that was 11 years ago. The ability to devise songs about Jesus, that are both memorable and funky, is an impressive one. This is a bittersweet ability, however, because although singing about Jesus is gooder than good it’s also pretty pious and exceptionally annoying for those around you. Getting one line of a song you do not know stuck in your head is an aggravation if ever there was one. It’s incredibly hard to find on youtube. Especially if you’re typing in ‘E-A-S-T-E-R Easter’.
Although annoyingly catchy songs is an aspect of Easter productions that will never change, I noticed that the class names had. “This is Eucalyptus’s annual show; please enjoy”. What? Year 5 was never called Eucalyptus when I was at school. Apparently reception is called ‘Apple Class’. Seriously, this need to rename everything to seem more progressive is beyond me. In my opinion it’s just confusing and incredibly pretentious, if not belittling. Which parent can be bothered to remember the actual name of the class that their child is in, it’s hard enough remembering when non-uniform day is. My dad once took me to school when it was teaching training day. Needless to say that school newsletters get lost in school bags and class names are lost on me. Besides this less than subtle change, everything about my old primary school has stayed the same, including the teachers and the priest. I like this because it feels like a time warp and often gives me and my brother something to talk about besides Disney films.Thrilling conversations all round. Talking to your old teachers never gets less awkward.
Although the school play was an enjoyable family outing, it unfortunately came to a sad end. Here, I don’t mean Jesus dying or even coming home. Apparently that ten minutes talking to fellow parents and classmates was ten minutes too long because the sad ending to which I refer to is returning home to a burnt pepperoni pizza. “Oh no! My precious pizza!”. See, I’m clearly the better child. I even executed that one line better than my brother, not just because of the raw emotion but because…
…everything is better with pizza.
Just Polly Problems... 