The Night of the Camel

‘Are you all right?’ Every single member of our twenty-strong cast asked me this question after I fell off the stage, in December 2015. We were performing in a spoof western called ‘The Golden Nugget of Badcrow’, written by John, our drama tutor and director. For a few years, there has been a tradition of our amateur drama class performing an “ante panto” show in the run-up to Christmas, which, as John explained, was not mean to be something against pantos and the broad spirit of Christmas, but rather, complementing it, as an alternative.

     I had three parts: the Indian Medicine Woman (who did not speak), the front end of a Camel, and a Rat (who did). My Medicine Woman was the strong and silent type, except when “she” performed a wedding in an improvised ritual. The Rat was the most talkative of the three, trying to avoid an Indian proving his manhood by hunting me, then rescued by an unlikely pairing of a mother and daughter, apparently lost in the desert, seeking their husband and father. Helen, the young lady playing the daughter, would come to mean a lot to me. 'Rats were our friends!' shouted Rita the mother, brandishing her handbag and chasing off the Indian.

     ‘Eh, you’re lovely,’ smiled Helen in her best Yorkshire accent, stroking the back of my head.

     'A Rat could get used to this!' I said to the audience, cuddling in to her and enjoying the attention.

     ‘They do make a lovely couple, don’t they?’ sniggered John, in rehearsals. Helen looked a little discomfited. As the Rat, I wore an all-encompassing furry suit, which just about fitted. On each of the three nights of our show, quick changes from this costume to my Medicine Woman full-length dress and back again were necessary. The Camel, mercifully, only appeared in one scene.

     For this scene, I was wandering in the desert with Eric, the lost husband and father to Rita and Helen. I had pre-recorded my only line: ‘Water! Water!’ in the Eden Court cinema earlier. I changed into the thirty-year-old costume at the back of the theatre. John had hoped to find a pantomime horse, but this elderly camel was the best he could do. It was rather musty inside, requiring a mask. I also had to take off my glasses, as they steamed up. I am very short-sighted, but had managed to rehearse my parts as the Rat and the Medicine Woman without them. A dress rehearsal as the Camel had also gone smoothly.

     On the first night of our show, myself and Calum, known as “Smudge”, who brought up the rear of the Camel, changed off-stage and proceeded to march on from the left of the stage. Un-bespectacled and masked inside, I had limited vision through the first hump, and also had to hold up the Camel’s neck. We advanced towards the stage, and had almost made it when the world seemed to turn sideways. I was aware of a pain in my leg, and otherwise not sure where I was, or what had happened. “Smudge” barely had time to swear before he was forced to follow suit.

     There is a drop, measured afterwards at three and a half feet, between the front of the stage and the audience. It turned out I had clipped the edge of the stage with my right foot, narrowly, but just enough to topple us in. The neck of the camel took the brunt of the fall, and we were not badly hurt. Heather, known as “Six-Gun Sadie” for the purposes of this production, rushed up and hissed, ‘Here! Get on stage and hold the neck!’ Still wearing my Medicine Woman dress underneath, I traipsed up and did the scene with Eric as planned, holding up the neck on its own, rather than wearing the costume. Initially worried I had ruined the show, it carried on. I was indeed glad the Camel only had that one scene. The Rat took over the Camel’s duties for our remaining two nights. It has since become a memorable occasion for our group, something of an urban legend. I am just glad the show could go on.