Nativity Policy

12/22/2007

Following gentle pressure from our church session clerk we have once more allowed the use of The Tower of Glen Trollaigh for Nativity purposes. You may think that this is a pretty reasonable request, however let me assure you it is a nightmare and this year has been no exception. Long gone are the days when the locals would adorn their youngsters with tea towels and dressing gowns, gather in the village hall for a loose and sometimes tearful re-creation of the birth of the baby Jesus complete with Ninja Mutant Turtles whilst mothers clapped liked billy-oh and fathers passed round warming hip flasks. Funds now roll into the local arts and there are sufficient numbers of Home Counties refugees to introduce a new professionalism. The main problem is the choice of Director as their aspirations often equal those of Stephen Spielberg, and this year has been no exception with the appointment of Abdul an officer of The Lomond and Trossachs National Park and obviously not a card carrying Christian which one would normally think a prerequisite for the interpretation of the Holy Nativity. However when Abdul presented himself and his PhD he proved to be a charming chap, and he cheerfully admitted that as some of the boodle for local artistic enterprise stem from the Park Authority under a funding policy called “Fit In”, Abdul is the man for the post of Artistic Director.

I must digress on the “P” word: Policy. The more alert amongst you will have spotted that this is now the word most overused by politicos and spokespersons of every hue. Those of you who may have had the misfortune to sit through a meeting of any local authority or local health trust will have been amazed by the staggering rise of a plethora of policies, gone is any talk of the last favourite word: Community, now very old hat, but Policy is the very thing, one simply must have a policy on simply everything, the policy maker being top dog these days, only such an expert can deliver the catchy strap line RUR STRAT1, I have even heard of BAD1, followed obviously by BAD2, BAD3 and so on. Every single line being of course, complete and utter tosh.

However back to the plot, Mr Director’s first decree, being unfamiliar with the Argyll climate was that his pageant be performed out of doors, next came a requirement for the inclusion of massed local Primary School pupils and finally that “real” animals must support the cast. Surely it must be very difficult to screw up a Nativity play; however one thinks of the old saw “never work with children or animals” then weigh up the monumental risk of foul weather and it certainly looked as though The Artistic Director had got it severely wrong. The Good Lord must have been in a good mood for we have enjoyed a week of clear, freezing Alpine weather, however there the good fortune ends. I have struggled to find a simple way of describing the Pageant that finally took place last night causing considerable tearing of the Baronial tonsure, however the experience has rendered me speechless and vowing never to be involved again. All I can really do is to list some the incidents that may give a flavour of the episode. Arrival and installation of five miles of temporary roadway and fifty vehicle car park; Three lorry loads of lighting and sound equipment to surround the B&Q shed “Stable”; Three large generators; Two deer shot by Stage Hands; Head shepherd and Shepherdess interrupted In Flagrante Delicto in the byre; Police summoned to search for an Angel (in costume who wandered off in a sturdy); The Tower of Glen Trollaigh wine cellar breached by most of the audience resulting in general drunkenness; An unbelievable twenty loo rolls used by the twenty mothers and children demanding the use of “facilities”; Stage set burnt to the ground by rival Am-Dram group from Ballachulish; Joseph carted off to A&E with hand injury having been persuaded to pick up a red hot hammer head by one of the Magii (don’t ask, but it has to do with that bally Shepherdess). I take my hat off to Abdul; it was a damn good show!  Cheers, yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.