The Lightbulb Moment

How ten minutes of your life as a child can have a huge effect on the rest of it.

When did the penny drop for you? At what point did you decide what you wanted to do as a career? Not to age myself too much, but my moment happened in a church hall about 30–35 years ago.

Every actor has been asked what got them into performing. For me, it was seeing my sister perform in a local youth drama group performing a revue of comedy, movement and musical sketches. When I had been previously told she was going to drama lessons, my thoughts were of how boring that sounded. For a precocious young boy like me, the word drama made me think of the boring shows my parents would watch in the evening when it was time for bed.

But seeing this show only made me jealous at how much fun they all seemed to be having. So, I asked if I could join the group and off I went. After the first few months of weekly lessons, I too got to perform in a revue. My character in the vet sketch bringing along their hamster in need of a brain transplant got a laugh from the audience, so I was very content. Along came more shows, some local pantomimes and musicals and I was generally having a good time.

I say generally as I was never really satisfied in my position. Despite being so young, I relished the idea of having a real part in the shows. Someone that had a few lines at the very least. I managed to scratch that itch as I got the part of Augustus Gloop in an adaptation of Charlie & The Chocolate Factory, put on by the dame drama group. I’m fairly sure I was the age of 9 or 10 when this came along, but I was extremely excited. The film starring Gene Wilder was one of my favourites and most regularly watched, so I could do a decent job of the Gloop family accent through imitation.

However, despite doing a good job, it wasn’t until another part came along that I really felt that acting was something I could do when I was older. Bizarrely, that came about through my local Cub group. I admit I may be blurring the timeline here, as this may actually have happened before the previous paragraph. But my attempt to get an “entertainment” badge provided me some interesting perspective.

I wasn’t the most adventurous of Cubs, which for those that don’t know, is a group of boys just slightly too young to be in the Scouts. Under the leadership of our Akela, we had weekly meetings at our local church hall in Rayleigh to build up skills in various activities. We were also encouraged to join regular activity weekends camping. Singing round the bonfire? Yep, we did that. Share tents with other boys you weren’t necessarily friends with? Yep, we did that. Take part in the obstacle course? Well, nearly everyone did that. Except me. As I said, I wasn’t the most adventurous of Cubs. Physical activities involving climbing was not something I took to as a young lad, so suffice it to say I didn’t get my badge for that. In fact, my main memory of the camping weekends involves having a saucepan of rice pudding being tipped over me, so it’s not something look back on fondly.

I believe I acquired a grand total of three badges over my time as a Cub (not the best average). One was for hobbies (aviation), another was for knots (I think) and the other was for entertainment, which I acquired through a short play performed at the aforementioned church hall. I and three other Cubs rehearsed a short play called Crossed Wires. Directed by our deputy Akela (much like me as a Cub never quite ascending to Scout level, I don’t think he ever made it to lead Akela), the play involved one character (myself) calling a hospital to enquire about his wife’s operation, whilst another character called a car mechanic to ask about the state of his vehicle. The lines get crossed, I get into a conversation with the car mechanic without realising he’s not talking about my wife — hilarious results occur.

The performance took place in front of a packed audience, mostly parents. Our scene was only ten minutes long at most, and what the rest of the show was made up of completely escapes me. But our time to shine was now, and I was nervous but excited. I was dressed in the most “man” looking coat I had at the time and I strutted onstage confidently picking up the phone for my first line. As I bellowed out my first line whilst stood downstage right, cheekily looking into the audience to see if I could see my mum and dad, the scene started as well as it could.

But then came the part we were dreading — the crossed wires moment. At a certain point, the four of us were meant to speak at the same time, showing that we couldn’t quite hear each other and that the phone lines were going wrong, before I would give out a gusty HELLO to bring things back to normal and carry on the scene. In rehearsals running up to the performance, all of us were worried as none of us were confident enough to start the simultaneous speaking. When it came to the actual performance, the cue line had been given…and the nightmarish moment happened — none of us spoke. Anything. At all.

We’ve all seen those moments in TV and movies, when a few seconds of nervousness seems like an eternity, with everything playing in slow motion. We all looked at each other, trying to see if anyone was going to say anything, then looked out into the audience. Time stood still.

Almost all at once, the collective began chatting with one another, seemingly unsurprised that this bunch of kids weren’t able to do this performance. At this point, I gave out a gusty HELLO as rehearsed, the audience quietened down and we carried on to the end.

It probably seems strange to you, dear reader, that I am able to recall this event some 30–35 years later. But this short scene, never repeated after this, stays strong in my mind as it is this moment that made me think it could be something I would do when I was all grown up. The moment of restoring an audience’s faith in what they were watching was something huge for me, even if I didn’t know it at the time. We had the crowd in the palm of our hands from this point, with the funny dialogue describing the confusing situation getting laughs, as did my facial expressions reacting to what I was being told by who my character thought was a doctor (this was relayed to me by my very proud parents, who naturally thought I stole the scene). As a kid who always thought they were funny without getting much reaction to be certain of this, this was a revelatory feeling.

I truly felt I had earned my third and final Cub badge and I wore it on my sleeve proudly. While my experience in the Cubs didn’t exactly set me up as much of an obstacle course enthusiast, it did help me realise that I was good in more niche areas. It made me want to get that kind of audience reaction again and again, which I’m happy to say I’ve been able to ever since.

I can also tie a pretty good knot.