T HROUGHOUT Tynedale, and indeed the rest of the land, tea towels, stripy dressing gowns and cardboard crowns reduced grown men and women to tears as schools celebrated the Nativity in the way they have done since I was a lad.

While some schools have gone for modern performances with a more inclusive message, it’s still the shepherds, kings and unpleasant innkeepers who win the day every time.

Children may sing out of tune, forget their lines, wet their pants and wave happily at their grandma when they should be listening to the Archangel Gabriel imparting tidings of great joy, but there’s still something magical about the whole thing.

As parents of four and grandparents of six, Mrs Hextol and I have produced an entire tableau of figures for the Nativity, with a couple of Marys, the odd Joseph, many shepherds and wise men plus the odd sheep and stable cat, but the attraction of the age-old story has never waned.

It’s perhaps because my one and only speaking role in a play was the key role in the Nativity which took place at Broken Cross County Primary School in December 1960.

It may be well over half a century ago, but every word I had to intone is still imprinted on my brain.

I thought I might have been chosen to be Herod, or perhaps Joseph, as I was always good at English, but instead, I had to be the Roman soldier who cleared the Nazareth rabble in readiness for the proclamation of the census in Bethlehem.

It may have only been five words long , but my “Stand back , make way there”, accompanied by a brandishing of my specially- made golden wooden sword, was well received, especially by family members crammed into the school hall, although their prolonged applause and whistling was perhaps a little over robust.

All I had to do after that was to look fierce and wave my golden sword, but I was in transports of delight that I had managed to put in the one night only performance.

My record in school plays prior to that had not been good, for while I had previously been cast in various productions, I had never actually made it on to the stage.

The first time would be around 1956, when we were performing a tasteful little ditty which would rightly never get past the censors now.

The rollickingly racist Rhyme That Cannot be Named involved the demise of 10 unfortunates by various means, so that by the end there were none left.

One of the poor victims came to grief after being stung by a bumble bee – and I was chosen to be that bee.

I had to wear a black and yellow stripy jumper, with a pair of feelers fashioned from a wire coat hanger and a pair of wings from one of the previous year’s angels, and I thought I looked the buzzy business.

When we reached the line “A bumble bee stung one, and then there were eight” the teacher, Mrs Smalley, told me to flutter up to the victim and give them a prod with my coathanger antennae.

Even at six, I was appalled at her lack of basic entomological knowledge, and told her so in no uncertain terms.

“Bees don’t sting with their feelers, Miss, they use their bums, like this.”

My bottom thrust was perhaps a little more vigorous than I intended, sending the unlucky Graham Leatherbarrow flying off the stage in floods of tears, but I still think Mrs Smalley over-reacted, clouting me round the ear so soundly for my cheek that my antennae were bent hopelessly out of shape, and I was replaced in the show by one of the Backward Lads who did not know a bee from a butterfly.

It took a whole year for me to be forgiven, but the next year I was allowed back on to the stage, this time to take part in a rock and roll show featuring the Lonnie Donegan hit Putting on the Style.

It contained the line “Young man in a hot rod car, driving like he’s mad in a pair of yellow gloves he borrowed from his dad”.

I had the hot rod car – a pram wheel bogie – and a pair of yellow mittens belonging to my sister, and even stole some of my dad’s Brylcreem to slick down my hair.

The big day dawned and I was itching with excitement – but sadly, it was chickenpox rather than excitement, and I missed out again.