Women In The Military

 

You know the argument and I've heard it many times too, chicks in uniform lower physical standards, feminize their units, emasculate the men, make them pathetically unwarworthy and are generally disastrous, like trannies but maybe less so. OK, point, but leaving aside Soviet snipers, what about Princess Louise Victoria? What about her?

Are you trying to tell me that HRH Victoria shouldn't wear the uniform of the Death's Head Hussars? Surely not. If the tunic fits. But maybe you think Princess Cecille is pickelhaube too much? Go right ahead and think that, here she is, on right:

The evidence mounts, I'd argue, that women should be part of the armed forces, albeit of noble degree, and you'll note Melania's the Hon. COL of the DLC. More seriously, World War I wrecked a civilization at its high point. What an utter disaster. Save what you can while the going's good, see London Clubs.

Arma virumque cano,

LSP

Clubbing

 

So what do you do in central London? Many things, but I like to go clubbing, this time 'round the good old National Liberal Club, No. 1 Whitehall. So, pull on a blazer, straighten your tie, wrestle with annoying but cool miniature shotgun shell cufflinks, give those loafers a brush and head off, it's not far.

Pass through Russell Square and admire the British Museum without going in, then take a left on Museum Street and go south, myriad memories. Then, as if by instinct, perhaps it is, muscle memory, you find yourself on the Strand.

Cut down Villiers Street and rushing masses of people getting off work. They're heading for home via Charing Cross, going to a pub or some kind of restaurant or all three, but you're going to the club. That in mind, take a right on the Embankment and stroll far from the madding crowd to Gladstone's 1882 setup overlooking the Thames and Embankment Gardens.

Walk through that storied portico and there you are. "Good evening," says someone at the door and you offer a sunny hello as you head to the bar. And there it is and there they are, the Nat Libs, having fun in a stunningly beautiful Victorian interior, some say the best in London, right there in the heart of the city.

The bar's congenial, the Terrace is great and the dining room's lovely. The Smoking Room's perfect too, except for the annoying fact that you're not allowed to smoke in it, but you can smoke on the Terrace, so all's not lost.

After a few drinks at the bar, head across the room for dinner. It's not bad and the club's proud of their chef, though I thought it a bit fixy. More trad club staples, please, and less Frenchifying. Still, a minor complaint and the company was good. A retired Colonel, a shooting salesman, several entertaining people from Ireland, think Parnell, and a retired civil servant with an interest in late antiquity. Far out, we talked Theodoric, Belisarius, #2A, Ireland and Army. Nice.

Eclectic and you can imagine the conversation at the table, also imagine that I was on my very best behavior. Well, it's hard not to be when you're sitting under life sized portraits of Gladstone. Dinner over, retire to the bar, chat with friends and then head home to Mecklenbugh Square, a good time had by all.

What a lot of fun and yet again haunted by ghosts and memories. Of my Father, who was a member, Gladstone himself and the Empire on which the sun never set. Today, this club's mostly for socializing and finding a place to relax in the midst of the rush of the city, but it was once a political powerhouse. And that's just it, was once.

Go there if you can, it has great reciprocal rights.

By Gladstone's Axe,

LSP