Wow, the Royal funeral was a crazy display of Britain’s nutty military hattery.
These dudes’ left the Melbourne Cup’s wacky hat day for dead.
But we adored them. Last week the United Tartans Marching Club decided our plaid bonnets were too plain and spinstery.
A majority of 26-3 marchers voted to buy two dozen bearskins as worn by the Coldstream Guards. Does Uncle Norm know the price and where we get them?
Flora McPhee,
United Tartans
This will cost each girl about $1350. Yes, there are $30 polyester substitutes, but they are as ratty as Elvis wigs.
Making bearskin hats is finicky. The military hatsmith starts with the entire pelt of one large Canadian black bear. However its armpit fur, the crotch, and white belly flashes must be discarded, as are female pelts. (Black bears are into rough sex.)
The Brits ripped off the bearskin hat idea from Napoleon’s elite Imperial Guard. The emperor’s rationale was a 15-inch-tall bearskin would make his Imperials look 12 inches more fearsome.
Napoleon famously claimed an army marches on its belly. He’d have realised each capacious bearskin had enough storage space for a cucumber sandwich, apple and packet of crisps.
Still, I counsel you against changing to bearskin hats. You should know that animal rights campaigners aren’t merely against the mink or sable coat. They also get stroppy with people who march beneath dead bears.
They cheered the vegetarian fashion designer Stella McCartney, when she created faux bearskins for the Royal Guards. But these failed their first wet parade test. They dripped and sagged, turning a smart Guards’ parade into a row of men in hairy bathing caps.
Dear Uncle Norm,
I, too, am in awe of the royal funeral’s military hats. I was especially struck by the silver, white-plumed helmets worn by the Household Cavalry Life Guards.
I’m proposing the Arrowtown Fire Brigade switch to them. They’d make us less likely to get run over by bicycles when attending emergencies.
How can I contact the designer?
Fireperson Fred
This may prove difficult. The Life Guards wear the "Albert Helmet", as designed by Queen Victoria’s husband, Prince Albert of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha. (Albert died in 1861.)
His helmet features twin protective peaks that defend both nose and neck. It is topped by a nasty spike that weaponises a Liverpool kiss. The 18-inch flounce of white horse-hair cascades from this spike.
Albert was a keen designer of military paraphernalia, and it was hard to say ‘‘no’’ when a Prince Consort arrived at regimental HQ carrying his latest bright idea.
Still, the "Albert" was well received by the ranks. Their United Service Gazette declared it was "light, fits well to the head . . . and offers the best kind of protection against a bullet or sword cut."
But suspicious dates surround the Albert helmet.
In January, 1842, Prussia’s King Frederick William IV pronounced Albert a member of his ‘‘royals-only’’ Knights of the Black Eagle. Soon after, Frederick created a schmick new helmet he christened the Pickelhaube.
This Pickelhaube looks almost identical to the Albert — which was also created in 1842. Hmmm. So, who stole whose royal ideas? Or was this a blue blood collaboration? Besides, how many gherkins are there in a Pickelhaube?
A twee reproduction Albert costs about $600, but real ones are around $2500 each. This may eat up the proceeds of too many brigade BBQs?
Dear Sir,
I’m in awe of your encyclopaedic knowledge. Today, Uncle Norm not only explained how to skin a black bear but knew the design features of the Albert and the Pickelhaube.
Do you ever make mistakes?
Norm Fan
Put it this way — I take my eggs poached, but on the odd occasion they get scrambled.
While writing for The Australian, I was invited on a flash junket for a hotel launch in Canberra. We fearlessly ate and drank through their finest.
Next morning your correspondent scraped himself from the starched sheets feeling about two out of ten. I sat down to breakfast with their CEO and PR Knob, who’d laid the morning paper in front of me, kindly opened to my column.
"Nice idea to name your pubs after Aussie bush poets. We’ve given your Henry Lawson a decent run." I remarked while peering reluctantly at their breakfast menu. The type was blurry and gave no hints of Henry Lawson. In fact, it seemed to state: "Welcome to the Banjo Paterson."
Banjo/Henry? It wasn’t my fault — management was to blame. This stuff wouldn’t happen if the suits stuck with the rules they post on the bar.
"Inebriated guests will be ejected."
- John Lapsley is an Arrowtown writer.
