MY acting debut as the innkeeper in my primary school's nativity play was a disaster of biblical proportions.

Aged five and dressed from head to foot in pieces of stripey patterned curtain, I stood trembling in the wings waiting for my cue.

As the wooden donkey on wheels escorted by Joseph and Mary, with her doll, edged closer, my teacher gave me an encouraging shove onto the stage.

I took a glance at my proud parents seated in the audience, held up my paper lantern to Joseph, Mary and the Christ-child, took a deep breath and froze completely.

"Andrew, there's no room left at the inn," whispered my flushed teacher.

But despite her increasingly desperate prompts of those immortal lines I was like a rabbit caught in the audience's headlights and I burst into tears. I am still not sure who was more disappointed, my mum and dad, my primary school teacher or my Sunday School.

When I came to work at the Gazette I thought the trauma and psychological scarring of my debut performance were behind me, but oh no they weren't.

My editor summoned me to his office and told me he was looking for a volunteer to appear in a local pantomime and he thought I fitted the bill. My doomed role as the hapless innkeeper flashed before me as I fought back the urge to reply with 'oh no I'm not,' but instead I nodded weakly, 'ok.'

When I approached the Calne Players in January to beg for a small part they had already been rehearsing Red Riding Hood Plus for four months.

My memories of pantomimes from childhood were of dames with enormous bosoms, candyfloss hair and stripey stockings gallivanting with fairies, while moustachioed villains battled for the hand of a fair maiden with princes played by women dressed in tights. I wasn't disappointed.

Red Riding Hood Plus was set in a world of primary colours where the evil Squire Falsehood plots to do away with his cousin Red Riding Hood, the heir to Robin Hood's fortune.

The squire conspires with the wannabe evil demon Sheerspite to kidnap Red Riding Hood's granny, Dame Trot, and replace her with the wicked wolf Lupe. He is ordered by the squire and the demon to gobble up Red Riding Hood, thus leaving the squire and his hapless sons Hardy and Foolhardy with Hood's fortune.

Director Linda Swann, 50, said there was a part for a Prince Charming and she wanted me to play it. I glanced in the mirror and with one eyebrow raised I thought: "I can see how she came to that decision.''

"Oh and you have to sing a solo as you're wooing Cinderella at the squire's banquet," added Linda.

As my work colleagues will testify, I have a singing voice that can strip bark off trees. I tried to explain this but Linda just smiled. "Don't worry, none of us can sing either,'' she said.

My role was simple. Dressed in skin-tight gold-metallic trousers, a silver waistcoat, with lacy cuffs and wearing ludicrous amounts of lipstick and bright-blue eye shadow, I had to appear on stage and woo five ladies.

This type of mission is hard enough to achieve on a night out on the town, let alone dressed as a prancing idiot singing 'I Am 16 Going On 17' from the musical The Sound Of Music, in front of a raucous crowd.

I was dreading singing in front of the rest of the cast, let alone the audience, but after a couple weeks of non-stop practice in the shower I felt ready.

A wailing banshee would have been proud of the screeching, nails down the blackboard, horror that came out of my mouth. But far from breaking into hysterical laughter the cast clapped and went smoothly into the next scene.

It was at that point I first began to appreciate the essence of pantomime. No one expects Oscar-winning performances or the vocals of Edith Piaf. Pantomime's enduring appeal rests on its sense of fun. None of the audiences that came to John Bentley's School Hall for the four nights last week were under the illusion that the show was anything but amateur. They came to watch a bunch of people dressed in ridiculous clothes and outlandish make-up run amok in a slapstick whirlwind of escapism.

And that's why the pantomime was such a success. Bits of scenery fell down or didn't work, lines were missed, entrances were made early or late and chunks of the script were ad-libbed, but the audience roared with laughter.

Nerves were fraught before the curtains opened on the first night, but Linda calmly insisted everything would be all right. My big moment came early at the start of act two.

Now aged 25 and still dressed from head to foot in pieces of curtain held together with safety pins, I waited, trembling, in the wings for my cue.

As the curtains were pulled back and my song began, Linda gave me an encouraging shove onstage.

I took a glance at my work colleagues seated in the audience as I shuffled on stage, took a deep breath and gave it everything. Pinocchio would have given a less wooden performance, but as I came off stage Linda gave me a slap on the back.

I am not sure what was the bigger buzz, waiting to go on or the relief of coming off. But at the end of the final night I felt a sense of deflation as my moments under the spotlight began to fade. Pavarotti I wasn't, but Gareth Gates beware, the search for a recording contract is on.