The Trooping of the Colour is one of those occasions that make Great Britain great. Marking Her Majesty’s official birthday, the Queen’s annual review of her personal division is viewed by thousands in the capital and millions around the world. The entire royal family comes out to celebrate this incredible tradition.
For the hour and ten minutes or so of military display seen on that second Saturday of June each year, weeks and weeks of meticulous preparation is conducted by the lucky soldiers who find themselves performing in it. Occurring two Saturdays prior to the big day, the Major General’s Review of the Trooping the Colour is a complete full dress rehearsal for everyone except the few members of the royal family who aren’t required until the following week’s practice. The parade is so close to the real thing that they even sell tickets to the public to watch it.
Getting to work on that first Monday back after my long weekend in North Wales was, again, a shock to the system. The dates and times for every rehearsal, every horse exercise and every inspection were published for us all to look over; it made grim reading. Life was busy indeed, but before I could worry too much about it all I was pulled into the office by the troop leader.
The soldier who was currently looking after our troop leader, someone I didn’t really know as they’d always be working over in the mess, had apparently pushed his luck a little too far and was being sacked. The job was now being offered to me.
Although I’ve painted the job as quite ridiculous, it was a million times better than working in the yard with the other lads and the horses. For a start, you didn’t have to do duties – ever. No Queen’s Life Guards, no state escorts, nothing. Your sole responsibility was the officer you were charged to look after. Nothing else mattered, but if you did fail at this primary task you’d be sacked and returned to the harshness of the troops, and made to wear it somewhat due to being absent for so long. I bit his hand off. I remember him asking with a look on his face that suggested I’d be offended, but he’d barely finished his sentence before I accepted the job offer. I was to be 2 Troop leader’s orderly. The best part of the job was the fact that you had every weekend off, unless, of course, your officer was needed on duty.
The orderlies were pretty much considered the most organised soldiers within the regiment. The guys who’d completely sorted out their own lives and responsibilities would naturally be the best to sort out the officers’ lives and responsibilities in a similar fashion. As well as being wholly accountable for security, cleanliness and usability of all the relevant kit an officer needed to execute his duties, the orderlies also ran the mess in which the officers lived. The orderlies would set the dinner table, chase up officers for their dinner orders, iron the napkins and even prepare the drinks, usually wine, for the daily lunch with the commanding officer. Sometimes an important guest would be booked in for the lunch. On one occasion, Princess Anne was in for lunch after riding a Blues horse in the park. I served her lunch like I would anybody.
Every officer had his place at the dinner table. The commanding officer would sit in the centre; opposite him, the adjutant. Heading out either side of both men would be the remaining officers; the further away from the centre they were sat, the less important they were within the regiment. Stood behind everyone were a handful of orderlies dressed formally in Blues who were waiting on the lunch.
We’d stand around for an hour, clearing each course and offering wine as the business of the regiment was discussed. Orderlies were very useful to the corporals of horse who ran the troops at the other side of the barracks, where we all kept loyalties. If something quite important was overheard at the dining table, an orderly, out of respect, would pick up the phone and pass the sensitive information on accordingly; if there was going to be a surprise spot inspection, for instance. It was very beneficial being such an early-warning system at such a very junior level.
I knew I’d enjoy the pace of life in the mess but, more importantly, it offered me much more stability than I’d been used to in the troops, constantly going on Queen’s Life Guard and the like. And it was a very fortunate turn of events now that Thom was on the scene. I was able to plan my life – once I’d planned that of the officer I was now responsible for.
My first major tasking was this first rehearsal of the Trooping the Colour – the Major General’s Review. I spent the remaining days of the week preparing my officer’s kit, his boots and brasses. I found this a doddle, going through all his uniform at a good pace without the distraction of a horse to wash down or a yard to sweep. Before I knew it, the Saturday morning arrived.
As always, the regiment was formed up on the square ready for the colonel’s inspection prior to setting off down the Mall towards Horse Guards. After the colonel had walked the two lines of the regiment, he made his way to the officers, with me and the other orderlies stood to attention next to our bosses. I considered how ridiculous it was that the colonel would tell his officers off for having poor boots or something, give them quite a dressing down and then, once he’d walked off to the next, the orderly would get it in the neck from the officer. I couldn’t figure out why the colonel just didn’t address his bollocking to the orderlies in the first place.
For that first rehearsal my officer was fine. I’d turned him out to a high standard, the same standard I intended to turn him out to on the big day itself. Once the regiment departed, the other orderlies and I headed up to the bar for coffee to pass the time; we couldn’t knock off because we were needed to help the officers get undressed after the parade.
A soldier in the Household Division, whether he be in the cavalry like me or in one of the five Foot Guard regiments, looks forward to his first Trooping of the Colour. The Queen’s Official Birthday Parade is the highlight of any ceremonial season, unless there’s something unique planned like a jubilee or a wedding; to not be a part of it is a very tough pill to swallow. I realised on that Saturday afternoon that in a fortnight’s time the lads would be riding out of the gate to the main event, beaming with pride at being the Sovereign’s personal escort in front of the entire world. I wouldn’t be one of those lucky men. I’d missed the previous year because I was doing Escort Guards, something junior members of the regiment found themselves doing for the initial stages of their careers within the regiment. I’d shrugged it off the previous year, assuming there’d always be next year; next year had arrived and again I wasn’t sat in the saddle. Though I was disappointed, I wasn’t envious of the boys stuck right in the middle of this hectic period; their lives were simply put on hold while they prepared for the state ceremonial. Besides, I was involved, although not on the front line, and was still enjoying some normality. The chaps were quite envious of us orderly guys. Everyone wanted to be an orderly.
After the first rehearsal, the regiment returned and the dismount was carried out. Away the horses were put and the men broke down into skeleton crews before knocking it on the head for a well-earned 36-hour rest. The Blues and Royals headed out en masse to unwind in the West End and, in keeping with my recent lifestyle changes, I stayed behind and had a movie night in the barracks, alone. The nightlife just didn’t appeal to me any more after meeting Thom.
On the Sunday afternoon, after a well-deserved lie-in and roast dinner, I sat at my desk and began to write Thom a letter. I didn’t usually write letters, but it felt like a nice thing to do, so I took pen to paper and began expressing myself on the page.
I wanted to tell Thom how, in the space of a short time, he’d affected me and how it felt like he’d changed my life. I decided to write him a short story entitled ‘The Most Beautiful Boy in the World’. I wrote about a boy who had completely lost his way in the world, who had been thrown from the steadiness of the countryside into the energy and busyness of city life. I described how dark a place he’d found it to be and how he’d considered life was just going to be miserable for ever. Then, out of nowhere, he meets another country boy who helps him realise that there is something else out there. I ended it by saying that ‘although the most beautiful boy in the world would never realise it, he’d saved somebody’s life’.
It was true. Thom had saved my life. The dark nights of my appalling recent past, sooner or later, would have been the end of me, I’m sure. That was all now behind me.
The letter was well received and Thom still has it today. I noticed in the weeks and months that followed that he carried it on his person almost constantly, or had it in his bag at work.
The week leading up to the second rehearsal flew by, and Thom and I made plans for him to come and stay with me the weekend after the Trooping. He’d been to London before with his family and loved the place. I was delighted he’d be coming to stay.
The second rehearsal, the Colonel’s Review, during which the Duke of Edinburgh would give his nod of approval, went swimmingly and the regiment entered the final week leading up to the big day. Everyone was working at full steam, including us boys in the mess.
I finished the troop leader’s kit off on the Friday afternoon and spent the rest of the day relaxing before the big event. I wished I was going to experience the parade first-hand on top of Quality Street with the rest of the boys instead of watching it on television.
The excitement of riding on a state escort is immeasurable. Everyone working together to keep covered off in perfect order, the centre NCO barking commands left and right of the line telling people to either kick on or rein back. The panic in everyone’s stomach when the royal carriage speeds off and the entire regiment is forced to ride faster and faster, all while maintaining smartness and discipline. The banter between the lads in the middle of all this excitement is incredible. I remember laughing along with Faulkner as we both rode only a few dozen metres behind the Queen, with one of the other boys losing his stirrups and sliding off his saddle as the carriage opened up on the Mall. Tears literally rolling down our cheeks, we cheered as he finally gave up and accepted that he was falling off. Watching the Trooping on TV was a stressful experience in itself. I knew my whole family were watching back home and from the text messages I was getting from some relatives, news that I wasn’t on parade obviously hadn’t been passed around like I’d asked. It was a beautiful day – the second Saturdays of June usually are – and the entire regiment looked magnificent. I was jealous. Well, there was always next year, I thought.
I dismounted my troop leader from his horse and walked with him to his dressing room. He was full of adrenalin after the success of the parade and was looking forward to dinner at some venue in town. The other orderlies and I, however, weren’t able to knock off in earnest like the officers. Monday was another important day on the ceremonial calendar: the Garter Ceremony at Windsor Castle. All the officers’ kit needed to be prepared fully for the Monday afternoon ceremony. The boys in the troops were in the same position too; they had to be turned out immaculately. The celebrations were put on hold and the regiment, less its officers, carried on with endless kit cleaning. One final push!
Thom and I continued our daily chats over the phone, and excitement began to build between us over his impending visit to London. The three weeks were flying past. I was to finish work on the Friday and have the entire weekend off and spend it exclusively with my boyfriend.
In mid-2006 a rule had been introduced in Knightsbridge that allowed soldiers to have their partners stay over at the weekend, as long as permission had been granted from the squadron leader. Simply, you had to submit a form and a decision would be made by the major commanding the Blues and Royals. He’d sign the piece of paper and it would then be held in the guard room so that the regiment would know exactly who was in the barracks over the weekend. It wasn’t that long since the front-page scandals of 2005, so the hierarchy was quite particular about the process and the boys were made to follow the rule to the letter.
I gained a form from the squadron office and filled it in with the dates of the forthcoming weekend and Thom’s details. It was all straightforward but very personal. It asked the name of the guest and the guest’s relation to the host soldier. I had no problem filling it in accurately, but considered whether it would be met further up the chain of command with ignorance.
About a day later I was called into the clerk’s office to pick up the consent form and was horrified to see that it had been rejected. I asked the clerk why and he simply said they didn’t give a reason. They didn’t need to. I considered for a moment storming into the squadron leader’s office and demanding an explanation, but what was the point? The squadron leader might not have known anything about it. The form might have been rejected further down the chain before landing on his desk. Anyway, imagine a trooper pushing his way into a major’s office. I’d have been in serious trouble.
Quite simply, the army just wasn’t ready for a gay soldier to have his partner stay over on base yet. I felt let down but didn’t know who to turn to. Where on earth would we stay? Fortunately a civilian pal offered us his place while he was out of town, but it didn’t remove the sting from the army’s blatant unfairness.
I was given a tasking for the remaining days of that week after the Garter Service at Royal Ascot. The officers of the Household Division have their own enclosure at the upmarket event, run by the orderlies who work in the mess. I was to drive there on the Tuesday morning and set up a wine bar for the officers of the regiment to enjoy before they headed into the main enclosure for the afternoon’s racing. It sounded like a brilliant little job after the fairly mundane ordeal of cleaning kit for parades. My line manager accompanied me on the first day to ensure I was doing the job properly; a senior NCO, he spent the day wandering around the many different enclosures of Royal Ascot, dropping in on me to check if I was OK. Once the officers had gone off to enjoy the racing, he approached me with a bizarre request.
The enclosure we’d been placed in to look after our officers was being shared with another corporate hospitality group. You’d never think it possible that another group of individuals at Royal Ascot could outdo the Household Cavalry in terms of extravagance, but they did. The group who were rubbing shoulders with our lot had much fancier silver on their tables and even a premium brand of champagne, as opposed to our fairly average sparkling wine. The boss had been eyeing them up all afternoon.
It turned out he’d had his eye on the silver champagne buckets that our co-hosts had littered around their tables. He wanted one or two to take home and the task was handed to me to execute.
‘I’ll give you a day off for every bucket you get me.’
A day off! Days off were few and very far between. This offer was quite an incentive. The following day I watched the movements of the champagne buckets very closely, noting where they were being kept, when they were being replenished with ice and where the actual source of the ice was. By the end of the second day, I’d drawn up a plan and had managed to bag myself two buckets. I informed my boss of my progress and asked him when I’d be entitled to my two days off. He told me it was completely up to me, so I told him I intended to take the Friday and Monday flanking my weekend with Thom off, just two days away.
I very much enjoyed my extra two days off with Thom that weekend. I could achieve results if the correct incentives were placed in front of me, it appeared.
Thom and I spent the weekend acting like a pair of tourists visiting London for the first time. Incredibly, I’d visited very little of the renowned sights the city has to offer, and that weekend many an hour was passed by in a gallery or museum. It almost felt like a mini-holiday. I loved every minute of it. Thom wanted to visit Soho and the bars he’d only read about on the internet or in the gay press. I desperately wanted to keep him away from the place. All I associated with those streets and bars was depression and pain. I didn’t want to expose him to that. I wanted him the way he was.
But I gave in to his wishes and took him to a few of the bars, and I introduced him to some of my friends. I constantly noticed other men eyeing up my pretty boyfriend. Some were like vultures circling some unsuspecting prey. He headed away from London after his stay feeling revitalised. Our relationship was going from strength to strength.
Before summer leave was finally on our doorstep, the regiment went off to Norfolk for its annual three-week jolly in the countryside, and the majority of the horses went along too. It was a great time of the year for everyone to unwind after the business of the harsh ceremonial season. In all my time at the ceremonial regiment I never heard anyone say a bad word about the three-week break in the east of England.
Later starts, earlier knock-offs, plenty of chance to have a bit of fun away from the greyness of London, and with it all, one thing: drinking. Every troop went out nightly, usually en masse, to either Norwich, Ipswich, King’s Lynn or simply the nearby small town of Watton. The local economy must rocket every July when the Household Cavalry circus turns up – as must the local crime figures.
Earlier in the year, Loaded magazine had ranked the Blues and Royals squadron as the No. 1 bad lads of Britain, topping a list that included the Russian mafia, the Triads in Chinatown and the elusive gangsters of the East End. Her Majesty’s personal guard was not to be fucked with, it reported.
Within three days of being at summer camp that year, the entire regiment was gated and barred from leaving the perimeter of the small camp of Bodney, our home every July. There had been two car accidents, one involving a drunk driver; numerous violent clashes with locals at one of the larger towns in the region; and a thief was doing the rounds of the lads’ belongings, mostly while everyone was out having a good time. It happens every year: the boys go out and cause trouble, the local police boss rocks up at camp demanding to talk to the colonel and, the next thing you know, everyone is imprisoned on camp. You could almost set your watch by it.
Since finding Dad drunk on the side of the street, I’d been making more of an effort to check up on him. The only way I could really do that was to call him every few days and make small talk over the phone, assessing what state he was in by how conversational he was. Since leaving for summer camp and arriving in Norfolk, I’d tried dialling him a handful of times, but was getting nowhere. After the third or fourth time over the course of three days I conceded that he must have lost his phone in some drunken state. I was sure if something had happened to him someone would have phoned my sister or even Mum. The village of Gwersyllt is a very small place.
Today, I wish I’d made more of an effort to reach him.
While working in the mess at summer camp, cleaning my officer’s riding boots, I was distracted by my phone ringing. When I looked I saw it was Liza and, before I’d even answered the call, I knew something was wrong and that it was something to do with Dad.
He’d been found unconscious in his flat by the landlady of the local pub. Worried after not seeing him for days, she’d sent a few of his drinking buddies the short distance to where he lived and they’d broken the door down to find him face down on the living room floor. He wasn’t dead but, from what Liza was telling me, he was as good as.
I didn’t cry. That’s the main thing I remember. To this day I don’t know why, but right then I just knew I was needed back home to sort him out and maybe even arrange a funeral. The lack of tears didn’t mean I wasn’t upset. I was mortified. How had we failed him? Why hadn’t we forced him through treatment?
The regiment sent me back to London in a car straight away. If there’s one thing the army does well, it’s welfare. Within an hour I was shooting down the motorway, London bound. The regiment bought me a train ticket and promised to call me every day to check I was OK. I felt very supported by my army family.
I spoke with Mum while travelling home on the train and she told me to prepare to turn Dad’s machine off. This was just too much stress for one person to deal with. I wanted to pass it all on to my sister. She was ten years older than me, a mother and far more settled in life. She was far more equipped to deal with crisis; but I couldn’t do it. I was Dad’s only legal next-of-kin. Nineteen years old, I was suddenly faced with making big decisions.
Thom, who wasn’t expecting to see me for some weeks, was very concerned, but I guess he must have seen it coming after the whole situation on the street. I know on reflection I did. To just have someone to talk to about Dad’s situation was brilliant. Of course I had Mum and Liza, but Thom and I were at a stage where we were opening up to each other. His support really helped me through such a difficult time.
I got to the hospital where Liza and some people I didn’t know were waiting. I struggled to think straight in all the commotion. There was no way I’d be able to think clearly and make life-changing decisions on my dad’s behalf in the state I was in.
When I saw him for the first time, the tears finally arrived. Liza and I were left alone in privacy with him. The man who was once the life and soul of the party, a pillar in the community, someone everyone knew, all of a sudden looked very old and unwell. I cried with Liza for what seemed like for ever. Liza told me that she thought Dad was going to die, and I think she was more upset for me than she was for herself.
Dad had not been conscious for four days. He was in a coma. At that point he was being kept alive by what seemed like hundreds of machines, all doing some crucial job to keep him with us. Looking at him and thinking about the journey from here on, I considered whether or not the machines should just be turned off now to save him from a wretched existence and everybody else the pain of seeing him like this for what could be for ever.
Liza and I spent about an hour alone with him, not really talking, not really doing anything. Then some people came to talk to us, a doctor and two women from what turned out to be social services. I looked at Liza to see if she was going to sort out whatever it was they needed, but she couldn’t. He was my dad and they’d come to talk to me.
The doctor told me the prognosis was bleak. He said that Dad, if he did wake up, would have brain damage of some sort. It was too early to know to what extent exactly but his life was going to be very different from now on.
The woman from social services had some forms for me to fill in, mostly to do with Dad’s background and other personal data. The other lady asked me if I had right of attorney over my dad, to which I responded with a very blank expression. I’d never heard those words before.
The process seemed endless and after about an hour talking through what exactly had happened to Dad, the three left Liza and me in a state of shock.
When my boss rang the following morning for an update on me and Dad, they told me that I had as much time as I needed. They didn’t need me back at summer camp and again they underlined their support. How many jobs offer backing like that?
Not a lot happened with Dad for about a week but the doctors stressed that it was excellent news that he hadn’t deteriorated at all while in his coma. His organs were improving constantly and slowly the colour started to reappear in his face.
Thom had offered to come and sit with me in hospital with Dad, but I didn’t want him to. Dad didn’t know who Thom was; he didn’t even know I was gay. To be sat there with my boyfriend that he’d had no clue about just seemed wrong. We had our first row that week.
I spoke with work and told them what was going on. They suggested I might want to return to work in London for a little while to try and get my life back to some sort of normality. I agreed and, after the following weekend, I left Thom and my family in North Wales and returned to the capital for a week.
Liza called me every few hours to see how I was coping and to tell me about Dad’s progress; quite simply there wasn’t any. The week dragged and I put little, if any, effort into the menial tasks I was given in camp. They’d put me on barrack guard as the regiment was still away in Norfolk. I just sat in the guard room looking at CCTV cameras for twelve hours a day, thinking of nothing other than Dad. I was still battling a huge guilt that I felt about the situation. I was sure I’d failed my own father.
Back in North Wales, out of nowhere, Dad woke up. Liza was there at the time and she called me within minutes. I was zooming home on a train within an hour.
In the 1990s, Dad was involved in a pretty horrific incident. While busy on his window-cleaning round in the village, he noticed a husband and his wife arguing in their bedroom while he was cleaning their windows. He interrupted them briefly to collect his fee and carried on up the street with his round. Later that evening, as we were all settled in front of the TV, there was a loud knock at the door. Dad looked out of the window and was alarmed to see two police officers waiting. They needed to talk to Dad.
The woman he’d seen arguing with her husband earlier in the day had ended up dead. Dad had been seen cleaning the windows of her home before she’d come to her end and was therefore needed by the police.
I can’t imagine how he must have felt being taken to the police station that night. We thought Dad might be a murderer.
The whole thing was cleared up in a matter of days. The husband was found and confessed to strangling the woman after rowing with her all morning. It’s the most infamous thing that’s ever happened in my home village to date.
When Dad woke up in his hospital bed after being in a coma for a week-and-a-half, ten years of his life had disappeared. His memory was wiped and he’d woken up in a panic over being accused of murdering this poor woman.
I thought he’d gone bonkers and it wasn’t until Mum reminded me about that traumatic night that everything made sense.
He had no idea who I was. He looked at me with some familiarity and kept calling me Graham. Maybe he did know I was gay after all. He still calls me Graham by accident sometimes.
We had a starting point. His brain had taken quite a bashing and it was obvious that we had a long way to go before the more familiar Dad of the past was back with us.
As it would turn out, the Dad of the past would never rejoin us. Dad was diagnosed with something called Korsakoff’s psychosis and has never been himself since. The improvement he has made is quite spectacular but today he lives with a very short-term memory in a care home that does incredible work keeping him busy and constantly improving his health.
The only positive to take out of it all is that I now have a dad in some context, which, if I’m honest, is more than I had before that July in 2006.
It was some time before I went back to work. The regiment had gone on three weeks’ summer leave and no one was needed back in London until the beginning of September, when preparations for the winter ceremonial season would begin at once.
During this break from work I had a phone call from the squadron corporal major informing me that my time on ceremonial duties was coming to an end. I was to return to Knightsbridge after leave, but to pack up and move to the operational side of the regiment in Windsor. Almost two years to the day since I’d started my ceremonial training, I was to say my goodbyes to Faulkner and the boys and begin my new role as an armoured soldier.
The words Afghanistan and Iraq were mentioned often on my last day and the realism of leaving the sanctuary and relative safety of ceremonial duties sank in. What was waiting around the corner? Soon, I’d be off to war.