14-06-2014, 08:06 PM
Marching the Troopers.
Today, by a stroke of great fortune, I watched the annual trooping of the flag on the Beeb. This was, in fact, by accident as I just happened to switch from golf to world cup football and caught the repeat programme of bands marching in perfect stride in mid-stride. Normally I would get the usual heads up from the Palace who would grant me my usual perch outside The Queens Head. But some postal glitch meant that the usual invitation to Her Majesty's counterfeit birthday and massed concerto playing and group marching up and down the square, didn't arrive in time.
But even so, today's Trooping the Lessening Flag was a truly pissparational event. Her Majesty was resplendent in a natty light blue skirted lightweight cotton uniform that I didn't recognize. Probably one of the new Scottish independent highland regiments, quite possibly the newly commissioned Gay Gordon Designers Cushion and Fabric Troupe.
Her Royal LIz., sat in perfect control of her comfy chair in the usual side saddle pose, which I understand from a Lady- in-Waiting I sometimes know, goes a long way to helping stop her lips from trembling. I think that was what she said anyway, but frankly I don't understand girly things that much - although an adequate administration of a good measure of Gordon's does help somewhat.
During the programme, it was highly gratifying to listen to a senior officer speak in the most sublime Queen's English as he explained that the discipline of Marching the Banner is militarily vital as it hones the world best troops for rear line action. I could see that the Sarn't Major next to him agreed hole heartily, at least if my lip-reading skills have not diminished beyond a measure or two.
And, clearly, it is true. Everyone knows that Afghans and Iraqui's are colour blind and can't afford eye aids, so attacking them in the red and gold splendour of the Coldstream Guards, sporting their A uniform plus their black bearskins and highly polished boots is a sure way to seriously snooker the kaftan enemy and catch them unawares. Or, as the Sarn't Major whispered to his officer, "you'll have the fuckers rolling helpless on the ground clutching their sides. Sir."
But the real clincher for me - the secret weapon if you will - was the massed bands playing first class and excellent marching sounds. I'm particularly fond of The British MGrenadiers. Truly wonderful on a Summer's afternoon. But I have to say that my favourite is My Boy Willie - with the Royal Army Chaplain's Department Trumpet Voluntary coming a fond third. If one has any energy left that is.
Roused from my reflections with one the the navy's best numbers, Hard as Oak, I thought have at those "Ghanies" all you trombone, drum and xylophone players. They don't like brass or even bigger instruments of melodic destruction up them, I say.
Anyway, I've written this brief report for inclusion in the ground-breaking bi-monthly international news report for the Rutland Free Radio show "Imaginary Watch With Queen Mum", broadcast from the reed-beds of luxury Winnebago's of PDSA bird sanctuary Minsmere, Suffolk.
You know where to send the cheque Tooth...
Today, by a stroke of great fortune, I watched the annual trooping of the flag on the Beeb. This was, in fact, by accident as I just happened to switch from golf to world cup football and caught the repeat programme of bands marching in perfect stride in mid-stride. Normally I would get the usual heads up from the Palace who would grant me my usual perch outside The Queens Head. But some postal glitch meant that the usual invitation to Her Majesty's counterfeit birthday and massed concerto playing and group marching up and down the square, didn't arrive in time.
But even so, today's Trooping the Lessening Flag was a truly pissparational event. Her Majesty was resplendent in a natty light blue skirted lightweight cotton uniform that I didn't recognize. Probably one of the new Scottish independent highland regiments, quite possibly the newly commissioned Gay Gordon Designers Cushion and Fabric Troupe.
Her Royal LIz., sat in perfect control of her comfy chair in the usual side saddle pose, which I understand from a Lady- in-Waiting I sometimes know, goes a long way to helping stop her lips from trembling. I think that was what she said anyway, but frankly I don't understand girly things that much - although an adequate administration of a good measure of Gordon's does help somewhat.
During the programme, it was highly gratifying to listen to a senior officer speak in the most sublime Queen's English as he explained that the discipline of Marching the Banner is militarily vital as it hones the world best troops for rear line action. I could see that the Sarn't Major next to him agreed hole heartily, at least if my lip-reading skills have not diminished beyond a measure or two.
And, clearly, it is true. Everyone knows that Afghans and Iraqui's are colour blind and can't afford eye aids, so attacking them in the red and gold splendour of the Coldstream Guards, sporting their A uniform plus their black bearskins and highly polished boots is a sure way to seriously snooker the kaftan enemy and catch them unawares. Or, as the Sarn't Major whispered to his officer, "you'll have the fuckers rolling helpless on the ground clutching their sides. Sir."
But the real clincher for me - the secret weapon if you will - was the massed bands playing first class and excellent marching sounds. I'm particularly fond of The British MGrenadiers. Truly wonderful on a Summer's afternoon. But I have to say that my favourite is My Boy Willie - with the Royal Army Chaplain's Department Trumpet Voluntary coming a fond third. If one has any energy left that is.
Roused from my reflections with one the the navy's best numbers, Hard as Oak, I thought have at those "Ghanies" all you trombone, drum and xylophone players. They don't like brass or even bigger instruments of melodic destruction up them, I say.
Anyway, I've written this brief report for inclusion in the ground-breaking bi-monthly international news report for the Rutland Free Radio show "Imaginary Watch With Queen Mum", broadcast from the reed-beds of luxury Winnebago's of PDSA bird sanctuary Minsmere, Suffolk.
You know where to send the cheque Tooth...
The shadow is a moral problem that challenges the whole ego-personality, for no one can become conscious of the shadow without considerable moral effort. To become conscious of it involves recognizing the dark aspects of the personality as present and real. This act is the essential condition for any kind of self-knowledge.
Carl Jung - Aion (1951). CW 9, Part II: P.14