I'm watching the Edinburgh Military Tattoo, being held in Australia. It's kind of a cross between a mardi gras, a proper military band ceremony and that elusive something else that I can’t quite put my finger on. But let’s not to be so quick to label it the X Factor.
Proceed, proceedings:
Oh good. Straight off the bat is a lady I can’t understand. These people are from Shetland. A whole island of people whose accent is completely incomprehensible to the average western ear. Where are the damn subtitles. All these ladies who are saying sentences I can’t understand are fiddlers from the isle of Shetland. They call themselves The Shetland Fiddlers. Makes sense. Darn it, I can’t dis them because they are quite clever and play catchy tunes. The crowd goes wild.
Ooh a toaster ad or something, which reminds me that I don’t need one of those. Another ad for a guy who pins a donut against a pole with a bow an arrow. What fresh hell parallel advertising universe have we entered.
Next up is the Highland Dancers. A whole lot of girls dressed in kilts and long socks fashioned out of six different coloured types of tartan tea towels. I’m sure one of them just did a blue steel down the camera.
The South Australian Police Band. They walk in all sorts of patterns while playing some cliched but great Australian classics. Locomotion. When my baby goes to Rio. I come from the land Down Under. I’m liking it.
Damn it. I’m liking the bloody Military Tattoo.
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