There are some things that we in this country will never do well, like being able to big ourselves up all the time as our Yankee cousins do, or win anything at a major football championships. (Come on, people, you know I'm right. As always). However, there are also some things that we do incredibly well, and pomp and pagentry is one of them. (Or should that be two?) Whether it's the Changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace pulling in the tourists or the solemn splendour of Remembrance Day; the pomp and circumstance of the Last Night of the Proms or the dignified reception the people of Wooton Basset give to our returning war dead, we Brits are bloody good at the required pagentry.
The reason I've been thinking about this today is because I've just watched the Edinburgh Royal Military Tattoo, always guaranteed to be an absolute showstopper and to bring a lump to the throat and a tear to the eye. Whenever I see something like this, the brave men and women of our Armed Forces parading in some form or another, I always feel incredibly humbled and very, very proud (even of you, Rob, despite the fact that you pick on me terribly!) But something like the Tattoo, in particular, also makes me feel very un-English.
I know, shocking admission, right? But while I can get all fired up for "Land of Hope and Glory" and "Rule Britannia" at the Proms, Jerusalem leaves me cold. Play me something Celtic-based, however; something Scottish or Irish; an air on the bagpipes, the passionate love letter of "Scotland the Brave" or the mournful beauty of "The Fields of Athenry" and the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, my skin prickles with goosebumps, tears start to my eyes and the lump forms in my throat. I am more moved on sporting occasions by "Ireland's Call", "The Soldier's Song" or "Flower of Scotland" than by "God Save the Queen" (and I an ardent Royalist!)
One possible explanation for this is, of course, the ancient Celtic blood that flows through my veins; another is the mysterious Irishman who haunts the family legends yet remains infuriatingly untraceable through the records. The third option, however, and one that is no less plausible, is that I was either Scottish or Irish (or both) in a past life. It would explain why for so many years I had a desperate, burning longing to visit Dublin, despite never having been there or knowing anyone who had been there, and why I felt so at home when I finally arrived; or why my spirit soared and my heart felt free when I set foot in the Highlands of Scotland.
Whatever the reason, though, it doesn't detract from the power of the Massed Bands of the Pipes and Drums, or from the dignity and courage of the service men and women of Britain's military. We may have thoroughly inept and crooked politicians who send them into illegal wars with limited equipment, but their bravery and sacrifice makes me fiercely patriotic and incredibly proud to be a Brit. As do the grand parades and military events such as Trooping the Colour or the Edinburgh Tattoo, that we do better than any other country in the world...
The reason I've been thinking about this today is because I've just watched the Edinburgh Royal Military Tattoo, always guaranteed to be an absolute showstopper and to bring a lump to the throat and a tear to the eye. Whenever I see something like this, the brave men and women of our Armed Forces parading in some form or another, I always feel incredibly humbled and very, very proud (even of you, Rob, despite the fact that you pick on me terribly!) But something like the Tattoo, in particular, also makes me feel very un-English.
I know, shocking admission, right? But while I can get all fired up for "Land of Hope and Glory" and "Rule Britannia" at the Proms, Jerusalem leaves me cold. Play me something Celtic-based, however; something Scottish or Irish; an air on the bagpipes, the passionate love letter of "Scotland the Brave" or the mournful beauty of "The Fields of Athenry" and the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, my skin prickles with goosebumps, tears start to my eyes and the lump forms in my throat. I am more moved on sporting occasions by "Ireland's Call", "The Soldier's Song" or "Flower of Scotland" than by "God Save the Queen" (and I an ardent Royalist!)
One possible explanation for this is, of course, the ancient Celtic blood that flows through my veins; another is the mysterious Irishman who haunts the family legends yet remains infuriatingly untraceable through the records. The third option, however, and one that is no less plausible, is that I was either Scottish or Irish (or both) in a past life. It would explain why for so many years I had a desperate, burning longing to visit Dublin, despite never having been there or knowing anyone who had been there, and why I felt so at home when I finally arrived; or why my spirit soared and my heart felt free when I set foot in the Highlands of Scotland.
Whatever the reason, though, it doesn't detract from the power of the Massed Bands of the Pipes and Drums, or from the dignity and courage of the service men and women of Britain's military. We may have thoroughly inept and crooked politicians who send them into illegal wars with limited equipment, but their bravery and sacrifice makes me fiercely patriotic and incredibly proud to be a Brit. As do the grand parades and military events such as Trooping the Colour or the Edinburgh Tattoo, that we do better than any other country in the world...
No comments:
Post a Comment