I very nearly laughed out loud in church today. Right in the middle of the dusty, hushed congregation.

For most, this would be a faux pas, but for me it would be a public disgrace. Because my laugh, as I think I have mentioned before, is not inconspicuous.

Some people have gurgling, joyful laughs, some ladies simply have a tinkly, becoming titter; mine is a loud, one-stroke, hatchet bellylaugh, with all the power a professional singer’s diaphragm can lend.

(I am not a professional singer: but I do have the diaphragm of one.)

I am not easily embarrassed, so it doesn’t worry me unduly. However, it can occasionally worry those around me, to the point where they shoot six feet in the air in shock and surprise when it explodes next to them.

So I tried extremely hard to control myself this morning, and made do with a very broad grin indeed.

I do not have a good track record with bible stories. I studied with a select group of three for my Religious Education A’ level, many moons ago. I am ashamed to say I can’t recollect a single thing about the third man, because number two was so all-consuming.

I was bad for her, and she for me. If our mothers had known about us both, they would have been marching into school to demand our separation. She was a mad-keen David Bowie fan, and those of you who are one will know what that means.

Sue was a very clever airhead, focused on everything except education. Our problem was that we shared an appreciation of the absurd.

This is particulatly unfortunate when one is dealing with the old testament. I am aware of the millennia of scholarship which have gone into translating, analysing and decoding these beautiful and ancient texts.

But we were 17, and we were very, very silly.

Anything which seemed ridiculous, we would root it out, like pigs with truffles. And then we would bray like donkeys. To the point, I fear, where we could no longer talk, nay, not even breathe.

I remember a particularly serious incident, when we read a story about somebody who was due to meet an untimely death, whether because of wickedness or some other reason I forget.

The manner of his passing was thus: he was riding along on a donkey and went under a tree branch which was just a tad too low. Rather than re-routing the donkey, and avoiding a certain and unpleasant death, he simply rode underneath the tree to meet his maker, his head got caught, and the rest is prehistory.

We read the story: and within two minutes we were helpless.

Have you, in your past, these freeze-frames, moments when you can still see what you saw on a certain day? I remember the incredulous and exasperated face of my scholarly, patient RE teacher, looking at us, weighing up what could be done in order to help us to breathe once more.

The scene came back quite vividly today, when I heard this other story from way back in the mists of time.

It concerns that grand old patriarch Moses, leader of peoples, defier of pharaohs, guardian of a wandering race.

We backtracked to the 13th century BC, when life was not easy for the people of Israel.

They had thrown off the yoke of slavery, escaped the evil Pharaoh’s greedy clutches. And then blow me, along come the tribes of Amalek to pick a fight.

So the Israelites set to with the Amalekites, going at it hammer and tongs. And Moses needs a better view, so he hikes up to the highest mountain in the area, bringing with him his right hand men Aaron, his brother, and Hur.

He holds up his hands, the great man, and behold, the Israelites are winning.

Only problem is, when his arms get tired he takes them down: and lo: the Israelites start losing.

A Pythonesque situation ensues. He gets tired, so they sit him on a big rock. And then Aaron stands on one side, holding up one arm, and Hur obliges on the other side.

They hold his arms up all through the long battle and it works like a charm. The Amalekites go home with their proverbial tails between their legs.

If only solutions were always that simple.

I stood there with this fabulous picture in my head of Moses with his closest and dearest holding his arms up for grim life, his and everybody else’s, and once I had managed to wipe the juvenile grin off my face, I  thought, hold on, he couldn’t have won that war without his two best buddies.

Without Aaron and Hur, The great man would have lost for sure, and the wandering tribes of Israel would have been slaves once more, or worse.

And this cheered me immensely. Because I am always best in a supporting role. I can hold up arms, I can cheer along, I can move mountains for someone else. But ask me to take ultimate responsibility and I freeze like a deer in headlights.

It is an illustrious position, this supporting role. In a week’s time I will be back for a week on my beloved Kent Coast, home of Hellfire Corner. There, during the second world war, one of the greatest supporting roles of all time was played by Admiral Sir Bertram Home Ramsay.

The big man with the cigar was holding the free world on his shoulders. But his words and wisdom just weren’t enough rescue hundreds of thousands of troops from the beaches of France, where they were trapped under enemy fire.

There were simply not the resources to go and rescue them, before enemy forces vanquished them absolutely.

It was Bertram Ramsey who arranged for a startling example of thinking out of the box. He sent out the order to mobilise every available civilian boat to collect the men under fire.

The operation took many days and has gone down in history and popular folklore. When all was done they managed to save 338,226 soldiers and bring them safely to Britain’s shores.

Now that’s what I call holding a blokes arms up.

So here’s to those of us who are the supporting actors: the ones who will never be the big cheese, but like to help the big cheese succeed.

They couldn’t do it without us, boys.