I must say that today was a rather interesting
insight into British culture. I seem to have cracked the power system buried
within their traditions and cultural collections. The silly hat rules all.
For instance, here is a meagre officer within the
Silly Hat Brigade, Mounted Division.
What you don’t know is that he had just been
promoted to a field commander of the Silly Hat Brigade, but his position is so
incredibly serious that he couldn’t even let the faintest hint of a smile break
through that veneer of utter dedication. Not one slip. With such an
incredulously important position, the smallest sign of vulnerability or mercy
could spell death on the front lines of London’s tourist sidewalks.
We were told to stick around, given it was almost
11:00 and that’s when a true spectacle begins in the palace courtyard. So we paused
a few minutes until the bells of Westminster all broke the serenity that is
central London with their synchronous chimes. A dozen mounted men clopped into
the courtyard of St. James Palace like wound clockwork on the hour, lining
themselves along one side of the large ring that was cordoned off in the
centre.
And they stood there. Fairly still, surely, but
nothing overbearing on our cognitive load. Just…standing. After a while I was
worried The Silly Hat Brigade had let me down, but just at that point another
dozen mounted men clomped in from the opposite side of the courtyard, their
hats even more ridiculous and extravagant. I could only assume these were the
grandmasters of the Silly Hat Brigade, as the regular Inane Bonnet Contingent
members were showing them only the utmost of sincere respect.
The Grand Helmets lined themselves opposite the
mere lower officers of the SHB, and began glaring them down in what I can only
assume was such a historically terrific representation of what a group of
virginal cavalry mounted ponces would do were it 200 years ago.
Though, after another
significant amount of time passed, I was wondering if there wasn’t something
else at work. Perhaps the gold topknots that had just entered were in fact a
neighbouring posse, dissing all over the red topknots turf? What if we had just
haphazardly stumbled upon the simmering pot of an ancient gang war, in the vein
of Crips vs. Bloods, Montague vs. Capulet?
If it was, I’m glad for it, given that they had
obviously previously decided that it was a conflict best decided by a group
staring contest between the two parties, making for the tamest of mob battles
in recent history. Nonetheless, we decided that it was probably in our best
interests if we moved on. A woman cautioned us that there was a second chime to
come, when the display would begin in proper, though we were sure it would be
of equal utter insignificance and so made our way.
Keeping with the traditional tourist theme of the
day, we got on a bus tour of London which was hopeless. It was a live tour,
which would have been absolutely lovely if the speaker had used a microphone. He
was only on the top level of the double-decker bus, leaving all the passengers
stuck below left well out of the loop despite the drivers bellowing calls of
reconcile. No, it’s not fine. I paid you 6 times the going rate for a bus ride
to hear nothing but the muffled yells of a man being completely drowned out by
a poorly maintained double decker bus.
Adjourning ourselves from the grumbling mess of a
machine, we found ourselves on Oxford Street; the bustling shopping district of
London. Well, at least for the tourists. Every second shop was an extravaganza
of cheaply made semi-London related souvenirs probably made by foreign
industries to satiate the bare demand of ugly travellers. Every store that
wasn’t spruiking the latest in diamond coated iPhone cases sporting a sparkly
Union Jack seemed to be cheap department stores, the worst being Mark’s and
Spencer’s.
We quickly decided to depart the tourist metropolis
that was Oxford Street and wound our way through the backstreets of the City of
Westminster. Suddenly, all my cynicism over the day previous washed away with
every fantastically English shop corner. I understood what this city was about,
the winding alleyways and small back streets. Dining at a local Indian
Restaurant for an early lunch left me with a suddenly renewed way of thinking,
and we spurred ourselves forth into more of London’s great icons.
Which, after rushing past Westminster Abbey,
Parliament House, London Bridge and Tower Bridge, really only left the Tower of
London. It’s fascinating that what is basically a huge castle can co-exist
right next to bustling metropolis such as London. Equally fascinating, though, was
the complete validation in my theory of Silly Hats and their role to play in
British hierarchy.
Beefeaters are quite possibly the most ridiculous
looking chaps ever to walk the earth. I’m sure they are highly trained, well deserving
of their position that seems to be revered in the community…but seriously, just
look at this one.
I mean, who could possibly feel intimidated by
that? It’s ridiculous. It’s like putting Daffy Duck in a position of Authority.
I did have a conclusion to
put here, but trust me it would make less sense than the rest of this entry
given how incredibly exhausted I’m feeling at the moment. Jetlag is weighing
down on me at the moment like two Volkswagens being tied to my earlobes. I’ll
keep in touch.
Josh
