Away in a Manger

31 years ago I was a mere 10 years old. However, even by 1984 the fickle nature of fame had meant that my celebrity status was already on the wane. I’d already featured in at least two school nativity plays, once as a shepherd and then on to the dizzy heights of Joseph himself. Having said that, Joseph does very little throughout the nativity, it’s the opening speech on the way to Bethlehem that maketh the man.

However time had moved on, I was becoming middle aged in school years and smaller, cuter children had arrived, which meant that casting directors (in this case, the music teacher, Mrs Roberts) were quick to dump us old timers on the scrapheap and put the youthful faces up front.

Like all mature actors, I had to resort to character parts and so I was lumbered with the small role of the Innkeeper. Now he (I called him Isaac) has even less to do than that gullible sap, Joseph, but in the words of the famous theatre practitioner Konstantin Stanislavski, “There are no small parts, only small actors”, so I was determined that I would not go unnoticed.

Suffice to say that dear old Isaac was the most belligerent, petty, and loud-mouthed 10-year-old Innkeeper in all of Bethlehem. He wasn’t keen at all on this beardy weirdy and his pregnant concubine on their tatty, smelly donkey staying at his luxury Inn (4 out of 5 on Trip Advisor) as they’d totally spoil the ambience, but it was Christmas (yes, I know) and there was money to be made. Therefore he was happy for them to stay in his manky old cow shed out the back, although he sold it to them as a unique bijou property with a rustic feel so as to get a fair price. To be fair to Isaac, there are some Londoners who dream of such magnificent floor space at such a reasonable price.

Needless to say Isaac was incensed when he checked on his latest visitors some hours later to find that not only had the woman gone and given birth to a screaming brat but they’d also been joined by three farmers and some other gentleman who he could only presume from their gaudy clothes and obvious ill-gotten wealth were drug dealers.

Therefore Isaac made one last appearance at the end of the nativity and with no lines on the page he still managed to convey to the entire school hall his abject horror at the situation. It really is a mystery how I never ended up as a professional actor.

However, Old Isaac’s temperament towards visitors is one that I share. Some would call me anti-social, some would say I’m introvert, but those who know me well would probably disagree with both assessments. People are much more complex than that.

You see, as I’ve got older I’ve realised that I don’t need constant company, even if I like the company. In fact, I think that I actually tire of it more quickly than others. If I found myself trapped in a confined space with people for a long period of time I would actually go quite insane.

I’m suspecting that this comes from my childhood. For the first 12 years of my life we always seemed to live in houses that were miles away from civilisation. Whilst in the summer months that was no problem as I could get on my trusty Raleigh Strika and seek out friends, during the inclement months I spent many long hours on my own, in an age before mobile phones, all-day children’s TV channels, games consoles or the internet. Heaven only knows what I used to do but it would have involved using my imagination. If nothing else it left me with a degree of creativity and an independent streak, which is no bad thing.

So, these days when we have visitors I’m always keen to know when they’re going to be leaving. Sounds terrible doesn’t it? That doesn’t mean that as soon as they arrive I greet them with “Welcome, good to see you, when will you be going?” I’m not that socially inept. Well, not quite.

What I mean is I have boundaries (as do we all) but whereas normal functioning British people grit their teeth and smile through, I seem to find that a little more difficult.

You see, a one or two night stay by friends is just fine. That’s manageable. I’m pleased to see them, we have a good time, I can be the perfect mein host. A three night stay raises my eyebrows (“have they not got homes to go to?”) and my host-like qualities subside on the run up to that third night to help acclimatise our guests to the cold, hard reality that they will soon be turfed out and have to fend for themselves again.

Anything beyond a three-night stay therefore is when I’ve decided that enough is enough and that really by now our visitors should be paying rent. I withdraw all congenial host qualities and curl up in a foetal ball in the corner of a room and play dead in the hope that they will get bored and go home.

If the visitors don’t leave after a fourth night, then I book a hotel and bugger off to Sheffield. Don’t think I’m joking, this has happened.

The same applies to when I visit friends. As I’ve reached middle age I realise that I don’t really enjoy staying at other people’s houses for more than a night or two. After that, I’m done. I can’t leave quickly enough. My preference if I’m visiting people at all is to book into a hotel as I can go out, be as sociable as the next party animal, but then I can go and close the hotel room door and just chill, without the need to communicate to anyone.

So now I probably seem to you just like Isaac, a belligerent, socially bereft ignoramus, but I assure you I’m not. I like people visiting, I welcome them into my home with open beers, but I also enjoy waving them off whilst I still have the energy.

Having said that, visitors are more than welcome to stay in my cow shed. There are no cows in it but there is a lawn mower and a barbecue. £20 a night per person. It’s a bargain.

No farmers, new born babies or drug dealers allowed.