UNTIL 30 or so years ago, the Zetland was Richmond's cinema. Last Saturday evening, they had their longest queues since Gone With the Wind. It was the Royal British Legion Festival of Remembrance - "Richmond's answer to the Royal Albert Hall," someone said - and if that's not strictly At Your Service, then remember also that the following day Shildon were at Notts County in the FA Cup and that that was a day of obligation, too.

For much the same reason, the Roman Catholics introduced Vigil Mass on Saturday evenings, a sort of biretta and braces job.

Save for the absence of someone selling drinks on a stick, the cinema seems little changed. The old seats still tip up on request, the flouncing stage curtains remain withdrawn, the stalls still encircled from above.

Principally, it is now home to one of the evangelical "new" churches - newish, anyway - but on Saturday, it overflowed with people of all denominations, and probably of none.

There was the Normandy Band of the Queen's Division, the Richmond Town Pipe Band, the Richmond Methodist Choir, the 2040 Squadron of the Air Training Corps and many more. For Sunday Night at the London Palladium, read Saturday night at the Zetland Centre.

There were boots and best bib, dress and undress, even in a chap in jeans and T-shirt which - since the T-shirt wore a poppy - was deemed acceptable, too.

Bob White, president of the organising Richmond Meet committee and compere for the evening, announced that they'd only had time for a quick rehearsal that afternoon. "It's a chance," he said, "to see the adaptability and versatility of Her Majesty's forces at times of crisis."

We sat next to a retired major in the Royal Military Police, almost more medals than chest upon which to wear them, who'd been in charge of 4,000 married quarters. "That's 8,000 in-laws, it wasn't funny I can tell you," he said.

In front was Moira White, Bob's wife, who'd long yearned to revive the Remembrance event in Richmond and who'd produced the show.

As is usual on such occasions, there was a mixture of sombre and stiff upper, of Queen and country and of Quartermaster's Store.

Thus it was possible to wonder, when the Normandy Band struck up the theme from The Bridge Over the River Kwai, how many old soldiers were still silently singing the words which made Hitler history's best known monorchid.

It was probably also to lift the spirits that the band - uniformly excellent - essayed a variation on Goldilocks and the Three Bears, though it may not have been everyone's plate of porridge.

"It's what we do," said Captain Kevin Roberts, the conductor.

The pipers were led by Richard Malt, a drum major in full highland fig and with a wonderful line in barked commands.

"Quick march!" he demanded, but pipers do it standing still.

"Oh my lord," said someone close by, though that might have been a case of mistaken identity.

The band, the Teesdale Pipes and Drums until a recent transfer bid saw them spirited across the water, were absolutely terrific. We checked the spelling of the drum major's name.

"Malt as in whisky?"

"Exactly as in whisky," said one of the kilt crusaders.

Almost inevitably, their repertoire included Flower of Scotland, now threatened with usurpation as that country's unofficial national anthem on the grounds that it's just too miserable - and that was even before the Rugby World Cup.

To the unequivocally buoyant tune of Those Magnificent Men In Their Flying Machines, the ATC - still just bit bairns, really - performed a wonderfully choreographed drill display of 290 changes in two minutes, most present fearing that someone might crash land in a heap on the apron. None did.

Bob White ended the first half on a sober note, recalling warfare down the ages - how many knew that the 19th Regiment of Foot became the Green Howards because they were led by Colonel Howard and had green flashes on their uniforms? - and also war's grim toll.

Throughout the 20th century, lest we forget, it was only in 1968 that Britain had no military casualties on active service. Still they serve, still they die and still the Royal British Legion - £4,000 raised in 1921, £21m last year - cares for those who are left and grow old.

"We don't seek to glorify war," said Mr White. "Anyone who has ever been through war and knows what it's like would never want to go back."

He himself had joined up in 1967. It was not, he said, a major highlight in British military history.

After the interval, the pipe band played again. Daphne Clarke delivered a gentle, thoughtful, wistful monologue on how war changed those who lived through it - Daphne's still so careful, she has a plastic carrier bag in which she keeps plastic carrier bags - and at 9.50pm, we had to leave to attend yet another football function, in West Auckland.

There was still the choir, still the singalong - White Cliffs of Dover, Roll Out the Barrel, Tipperary - still the short service at the end.

It lasted three hours, enjoyed and appreciated by all who were on parade. Truly a night to remember.

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