“The tableau became unhinged. Blue angels, sprawling shepherds, wise men and even the doll’s doting parents panicked. Theatrical chaos threatened,” Gadfly columnist ROBERT MACKLIN fondly remembers when the school nativity play goes awry.

The best thing about Christmas in Australia is Christmas in Australia. 

Here we are, a multi-cultural community way down in the southern hemisphere; no snow, no sleighs, no mangers and no one knows much about the little chap whose birth didn’t really occur on the day we celebrate it.

But we all know of the visiting shepherds and three wise men said to have brought bizarre gifts to the little fellow. Oh, and there’s talk of angels being spotted in the vicinity.

Truth is, an Australian Christmas is unique. And even though we do strange things such as decorating a plastic pine tree with stars and bunting, it’s really about getting together with families and opening the presents glowing in flash wrapping paper under said plastic tree. Then having a big feed where Uncle Aubery gets pissed and slobbery, and maiden Aunt Jessica wants to play Monopoly because once in a dim distant Christmas past, she won with every property on the board (including the train stations).

But my dear wife Wendy has the best Christmas story. When we lived at Batehaven for a few years she taught at the local Bateman’s Bay school and, as a music specialist, produced the annual tableau of the birth scene in the manger. I was a mere onlooker that famous year she prevailed on a local lady farmer, to lend an actual lamb and bring a bit of verisimilitude to the scene. 

A stinking hot day it was, and the six-year-old kiddies in Year 1 were suddenly in showbiz. For some unknown reason her wardrobe mistress had clad several angels head-to-toe in blue crepe paper and by the time the curtain rose and they entered stage left the blue dye had started running down their foreheads and chubby cheeks. 

Enter the shepherds from the other side in gowns of tea towels until one waved at mummy in the audience and tripped over her gown and into the back of the boy shepherd in front. The domino effect took place. Shepherds everywhere. Angels in blue masks. The parental audience hooting. Mary and Joseph unmoved, caring for the doll in the manger. 

No gold, frankincense or myrrh were available in The Bay that year, but the wise men carrying silver sugar bowls filled with marshmallows, Smarties and Jaffas made their entrance, just as the lady farmer launched the lamb from the wings. 

Naturally, the audience applauded; and the startled lamb responded with a pee so powerful that you could hardly believe it came from such a tiny bladder.

The tableau became unhinged. Blue angels, sprawling shepherds, wise men and even the doll’s doting parents panicked. Theatrical chaos threatened. 

That’s when the chunky headmaster, the late lamented Charlie Wedd, leapt to his feet and shouted (of the lamb), “Get it off! Get it off!” And some bright spark in the audience cried: “It’s not prawn night at the club, Charlie!” 

By then the parents, visitors and supporters were clutching their sides and falling off their little chairs. Wendy rose to the occasion and saved the day with her Aussie carol composed for just such an eventuality. 

To the tune of Jingle Bells she tickled the ivories, the lady farmer rescued the lamb and the tableau recovered and sang:

Dashing through the sand, On a sunny Summer’s Day,

Surfboard in my hand, Laughing all the way

Floating on the waves, We will swim and play,

Oh what fun to ride my board, This sunny Christmas Day, Hey,

Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way

Santa Claus is coming now, surfing all the way, Hey,

Hurrah for dear old Santa Claus, Hurrah for Christmas Day! 

That’s what I call a fair dinkum Ausiralian Christmas.

robert@robertmacklin.com