great moments in bathos

It was the dulcet Autumn of 1978.
Gentle sunshine splayed across the grounds of Kilcullen Boys National School.
In the yellow prefab, Mr Locks was asking the boys of Sixth Class what name they wished to take for their confirmation.
Confirmation is a Catholic ceremony where children of twelve and thirteen take an extra name, representing their acceptance of the promises of faith made by parents and guardians on their behalf at baptism.
Many children take the name of their favourite saint.
Mr Locks was at the head of the class.
As he pointed to a child, the child would say a name, and Mr Locks would write it down.
I could feel a buzz of anticipation growing in the room as he got closer to me.
For some reason, my gentle school mates believed I would say something funny.
Mr Locks nodded in my direction.
"Joseph," I said simply.
There was an audible sigh of disappointment from my class mates.
Even Mr Locks looked a little let down.
Discrete whispers ran through the room as the news spread among those who hadn't heard properly or didn't believe their ears:
"Joseph."
"Really? Just Joseph?"
"What did he pick?"
"He picked Joseph."
"Oh."
Mr Locks moved swiftly on.
He nodded to the kid sitting beside me, Mugs Martin.
Mugs intoned with sacred seriousness: "Colmcille."
There was a brief and unholy howl of laughter from the assembled youngsters.
Their guffaws and chuckles seemed tinged with relief that the day wasn't going to be a total write off.
Robin Williams may have failed to perform but here was Seinfeld.
And who would have guessed Seinfeld could be so funny.
I for my part felt an immediate stab of envious disappointment that I'd let my own moment in the spotlight pass so uneventfully.
Who knows, I might never get a chance to say anything funny again.
Childhood is full of such tragedies.
At least mine was.
As the laughter continued Mugs looked around with mildly ruffled dignity. The name had not been a joke.
Mr Locks silenced the general mirth with a roar.
"What's wrong with you?" he thundered at the rollicking classroom. "Colmcille is a holy Irish saint. There's nothing funny about him."
Order was restored.
Mr Locks noted the name Colmcille and pointed to the next boy.
The next boy was Sean Bates.
He had a mild special needs condition.
Sean took a deep breath and with great deliberateness pronounced: "Kunte Kinte."
It was the name of the slave in the Roots television series.
The explosion of laughter that rose this time from the serried ranks of children would brook no limitation.
Some of them even applauded.
Mr Locks found himself laughing too.
I was the only one who didn't join in.
Too grieved by my missed opportunity and stolen crown.
The laughter died down eventually.
The good performer knows it always does.
Only then did Sean Bates, with perfect showmanship and no little aplomb, announce the real name he intended taking.
I can't for the life of me remember what it was.