An Easter Warning

In my job as a bit-part actor I’m always getting into interesting scrapes, and have such a good time doing so that I often refuse payment from the various film school undergraduates who hire me to pose as a huge symbolic Ecstasy capsule. “Don’t be daft”, I say. “Money might be able to buy you mad luxuries like Spanish villas, a big flash sports car, underwear and a new meal for every day of the week, but it can hardly bring the kind of happiness we’ve all just shared, can it?” And they have to say no.

I had one such funny adventure on my last job, a boarding school Easter service around the turn of the millennium. The child who had been due to burst out of a specially baked hot cross bun shouting “Sunday of the Resurrection!” had dropped out after getting all clogged with dough in rehearsal, so when my agent, Dad, heard there was a role going for “a short man, with a spine limp enough to be rolled into a compact ball and stuffed in a cake”...well, without wanting to sound arrogant, I knew I’d be perfect for the part.

I felt a bit daunted on my arrival at St. Lord’s which, thanks to the carefully considered and meticulously planned axing of the science department and most teachers, could now boast of being Britain’s first gold-plated school. But after being washed by the door staff, draped in furs and undergoing some very minor cosmetic surgery on my “pauper’s jaw”, I was made to feel very welcome. The Head explained to me the importance of a neat appearance in today’s uncertain world.“Aesthetics, boy. Get the face and smell right and the rest will follow.” I agreed that I felt happier with Versace teeth. This philosophy applied to the school play in particular, as it was a great opportunity to showcase the Drama department’s excellent coliseum with wine bar facilities, and sift out those expendable students who would be unlikely ever to star on television.

My appearance in the Easter story would be brief, but crucial. As the play reached its dramatic climax with handsome Jesus back from his Dad’s, my job, like that of my failed ten-year old predecessor, was to claw a path out of the oversized pastry and exclaim the show’s title with a big smile.

I was shown to Rehearsal Room 5 (formerly Maths). The play’s lavish production values meant that I could be repeatedly baked in a hot-cross bun for every read-through of the script, a privilege I was not used to. I’ve always regarded food as unnecessary, an extravagance that no-one really needs except for artistic reasons, so the fact that my endless messing up of lines kept the entire staff of the school canteen baking replacement four-foot buns pretty much non-stop at the expense of every pupil’s lunch was a very fitting set of circumstances, I thought.

My peckish co-stars did not share this sentiment, however, and as the date of our important performance drew closer I sensed a gap widening between us, not helped by their continuous shrinking. Like me, they would one day adapt their stomachs to a dietary system based on the thrill of theatrical performance instead of outmoded nutritional sustenance, but until then their panicky starvation fears were going to make things awkward for all of us.

Finally, the big day came. I was placed in a baking tray for the last time by the dinnerladies I had grown to love like mothers, now also skeletal. In fact I made quite a decent “skeleton staff” joke as they were sliding me into the oven, which made the ones whose hearing hadn’t been dulled by hunger howl like hyenas and fall over. Then I said “Heh, you didn’t so much double over with laughter as snap in two!”, but I’m not sure they caught that one.

The bun done, I was positioned on stage and could do nothing but wait. I suddenly felt very nervous, as the huge significance of my task finally hit me – this was easily the most important moment of my entire life. It’s not as simple as it looks on TV... behind all those yeasty layers of sponge and currant, you feel lonely and very hot. A good tip is not to sweat, as this causes the “womb” to close in on you even more tightly and results in a higher risk of suffocation than you might like.

Then, lights! Music! A sea of expectant faces! I suppose what I’m trying to say here is that the show had started. But it was only moments into the opening number “We’re Glad to Have You, Mr. Christ”, when – and I don’t think any one person is to blame for this – I remembered a VERY funny line from The 11 O’Clock Show... oh, I’ve forgotten now, what was it...”Speak English, you bender!!!” ...no...”Haha, baldy!!!”...no, wasn’t that either...might’ve been the time Daisy Donovan hilariously pointed out an old man’s stutter...nope, sorry, it’s gone. Anyway, whatever it was it had me in complete stitches, and this didn’t go unnoticed by the rest of the cast. In their state of hunger and confusion, they must have taken the sound of muffled laughter from the juddering bun as some kind of invitation to “tuck in”. Before I knew what was going on, the wretched boarders had eaten away my sugared shell and were making a start on my ripe limbs and face. Luckily the headmaster was an old pro who’d dealt with this type of thing before, and bravely shot my colleagues from his balcony seat.

Although his intervention undoubtedly saved me from ending up as John DEADworth (see foot of page for clearer understanding of pun), he was sadly too slow off the mark to prevent the pupils leaving several cartoon-style “bite” indentations on my body. I mean this sort of thing...



...where bits of my arm should be. I believe these ridiculous-looking injuries are the sole reason why I have been unable to find any work at all in the past seven years. If there’s one thing I’ve taken away from the experience, it’s that life is what you make it, and that the grass is always greener.

John Steadworth has a book out. He is currently re-watching his collection of taped 11 O’Clock Shows and laughing like a drain. Do not approach John Steadworth.