THE LAST TRUMP

As assiduous followers of the KNOB* will know, the European brass community's four-yearly annual jamboree has been advertised for many years as EUROTRUMP.  The last one I attended as a participant was in 2015, in Paris, before the ascension of The Unspeakable Orange Tantrum to the presidency of the United States.  Ever since 2016 the word "Trump" has become a loaded term.  Literally, it can mean a winning card, or the noise made by air forced through a narrow opening.  The Powers That Be formed a committee and eventually came up with the new name:   BRAS.  I tried to tell them, but they were adamant that it conveyed a modern take on BRASS.  Oh well, don't say I didn't try to warn you. 

Don Spartini

Last year I was dusting off my triangle for my last appearance in a dirndl before retirement, when disaster struck.  Don Spartini, our esteemed and much loved capo di tutti capi, decreed that we should all turn out for a demo on 26 April.  Now I am not a fan of demos, they play havoc with my kitten heels and I hate all that shouting.  I usually just tag along at the back for 100 metres or so, rattle my pearls and take a shortcut back to the office.  However, this sounded a bit more like an order, and nobody likes to wake up with a horse's head in their bed, so I reluctantly got an Uber to place Luxembourg where the demo was starting.

Once the signal was given, the tete de cortege moved off at a dignified pace, in the direction of the Commission.  I and my Spartettes followed, sporting an assortment of windcheaters in red or green, the colours of the two main Spart organisations.  I have to say neither is really my colour, and all the windcheaters had been bagged so it was a red bin bag or nothing.  I just prayed I would not bump into anyone I knew and especially not la Comtesse Fifi de la Foufounette. I tried to remember how to fashion it into an Umbogwan head-tie adorned with some fruit I was going to have for my lunch, and tweaked it artfully to show my diversity credentials.  Together with my gay umbrella, I felt I was sending out the right message.  You can't be too careful at Spart Towers.

Millie Tant

Gonzo from Spain was in the crowd, and waved a cheery "Ola!" from up ahead.  I put my best foot forward to attempt to catch up with him, but kitten heels and Brussels cobblestones conspired together in my downfall, and after a short sensation of being airborne I found myself flat on my face, fruit tumbling every which way and gay umbrella scattered to the winds.  The worst thing was, nobody seemed to notice for about 30 seconds!  They just kept marching around me, engrossed in The Cause.  Luckily my Spartettes saw my involuntary and very short-haul flight and came rushing to help.  

I am stoic by nature and was more concerned about the damage to my fruity hat.  My gels gathered around to preserve my dignity but more people saw the unfortunate incident than I would have liked.  Scruffito came rushing over, and gallantly carried me over to the side of the road.  Someone said an ambulance had been called, but couldn't get through because of the demo.  I brushed it off as a mere sprain, and waited for the pain to pass.  It didn't.  In the end I got my gels to help me to the end of the road where I could call a taxi.   Like the old trooper I am, I didn't go straight to Casualty but went home and rested up on the sofa.  By the evening I was in agony, and Gorbals had to take me to the hospital.  

It was broken.  And not a hairline fracture, either.  The doc said he would operate the next morning, and I would have to stay in overnight.  I immediately sent Gorbals home to fetch my best Prada nightie and bedjacket and matching fruity hat.  He came back with a piece of cheese and some back copies of Private Eye.  He means well, dear boy.  I was duly operated on and confined to a wheelchair for six weeks, from which I directed operations with the help of crutches.  I am pleased to say I am back on my feet now, sporting a matching pair of mended ankles (see previous posts about Portugal for the other one) and taking calcium supplements for me old bones.  Not getting any younger, you know.

  

And so it was that I did not attend the Vienna gathering of BRAS2019.  Probably just as well, just the name Vienna adds inches to my waistline. Cake, cake with whipped cream, hot chocolate and more cake.  And of course the famed Sachertorte, probably the best chocolate cake in the world.  Not to mention Mozart, Strauss and The Sound of Music.    The KNOB wanted to go as the Von Trapp family but then found that almost every other delegation had had the same idea, and anyway, without me they had no Maria.    Dieter was particularly concerned about my incapacitation.  "Aber Daphne, who is going to tuck us ins bett und ein lullaby to us sing?"  he fretted.  I promised to make him a mixed tape of my greatest hits to take with him. 

And so EUROTRUMP is no more.  Would that the same applied to the reason they had to change the name.  I have hung up my triangle for good.  So long Spart Towers, farewell the KNOB*, auf wiedersehen the triangle, goodbye ...  

* Kurt Nachtnebel Oompah Band