You are going to listen to a British actor, Michael Crawford, describing his first stage appearance in a school play at Brixton Town Hall in the 1950s. It was Mr passey who saw I could also act. He gave me the chance to prove it in our school production of Benjamin Britten's Let's Make an Opera. Mr passey was the director, but even before we opened, he told my parents he was beginning to have last-minute doubts. 'Lately,' he said, 'the boy ..... he hasn't put much effort into his performance ... I don't know what he's going to be like.' It was only after I stepped on stage that first night that both he and I found out what I was about as an actor. I heard the laughter for the first time; I could see and feel that living organism that is an audience, and my love affair with it began at that instant. We did a week at school with a cast made up of pupils and teachers. It was such a success that two month later the headmaster agreed that we would do a performance on a proper stage in South London, at the Town Hall, Brixton. The public was invited, and it was a proud night for the school. There was coverage in the South London press. The second half of Let's Make an Opera is a rather dark and Dickensian tale telling the story of one of the children who were forced by sweeps in Victorian England to climb up to clean the narrow chimney passages. I was Sam, the young sweep boy and the opera's hero, who is rescued from is terrible fate, brought into a loving home and turned into a gentleman. In the first scene of the opera little Sammy is pushed out to the stage while everyone sings 'up the chimney, up you go ...'. In response, Sammy pleads 'please don't send me up again...' and the company keeps singing, pushing their brushes, 'up the chimney, up you go ....!' At the end of the first verse the two villainous sweeps (played with relish by Mr Livingston, the headmaster, and Mr Anderson, our French master) come along and rip off poor little Sammy's shirt. At the end of the second verse they rip off his raggedy pants and he is left standing in his tattered shorts, a miserable tyke with soot all over his pathetic frame. Then they push the poor boy up the chimney. On opening night, the hall was filled to capacity with parents, teachers and pupils; Mum and Dad were in the audience, and Nan as well. The night was in aid of the Church of England Children's Society, and everybody was there, representatives of the Church, local dignitaries and, top of the list, The Mayor of Lambeth. Behind the curtains, I was maniac with stage fright. I can scarcely remember getting ready for the performance. At last the moment came, the curtains opened and the opera began. 'up the chimney, up you go!' They ripped my shirt off. 'up the chimney, up you go!' But this time I grabbed my trousers and absolutely refused to let go. Little Sammy stood firm, grasping is drawers with an iron grip. Mr Livingston was convinced I was overacting and decided to take matters into his own hands. 'Ah-ha,' he ad-libbed, lunging across the stage at me. 'Little Sam doesn't want to go up the chimney!' He cuffed me on the head and pulled off my tattered trousers. I was so nervous beforehand, I had simply forgotten to put on my shorts. So I stood there, stark naked, in full view of the audience, and the Mayor completely surrounded by chaos. There was anarchy in the stalls, as pupils started cheering, the girls whistled and pennies were thrown on the stage. Mr Livingston was livid, of course, and using his bare hands he pulled the curtains across on the performance. The noise from the audience died down, and for the next few minutes the only audible sounds in Brixton Town Hall signified that the mother of all beatings was being administered to my backside.