I Hate Bagpipes

I hate bagpipes. I didn’t always hate them. Prior to 1967 I merely

disliked them, but during the spring and summer of that year, when I was

exposed to them continually, hour after hour, day after day, I developed a

real lifelong abhorrence.

Inspector Johnson was training his first Musical Ride with the

Mounted Unit and had enlisted the Metropolitan Toronto Police Pipe Band

to provide the music. Not such a bad idea on the surface: the Band was

steeped in tradition and had a lot of eye appeal but I had my reservations.

Recently I had ridden in a troop in front of them leading the Santa Claus

Parade and the experience had left a bad taste in my mouth.

Granted their musicianship, as that of pipers goes, was probably very

good. There was no doubt that the crowds that lined both sides of the street

were enthused by the sight and sound of them, particularly the older guys

wearing tam o'shanters. However the emotions they stirred in me were quite

different.

I was riding King and he seemed equally irked by the proximity of the

Band as they followed us down the street. They made him nervous and he

danced, pranced, threw his head, and blew foam out of his mouth and

nostrils. Maybe the crowd thought he was dancing in time to the music, but

Big Ed, who was riding old Major and leading the parade in front of us knew

better and kept looking back at me with an evil look of disapproval, finally

shouting at me, “Use two hands on that horse, Leeson!” It was embarrassing

as hell. I had complete control of the animal-- he only appeared to be about

to bolt and run amuck through the throngs of tiny tots sitting on the curbs.

It wasn’t my fault. It was that damned Pipe Band. Every time I looked

over my shoulder I could see the Drum Major, a huge, barrel-chested bugger

in a Busby strutting along, tossing his mace in the air and getting

uncomfortably close to our horses’ rear ends. He was followed by thirty or

so other kilted giants squeezing away on their bagpipes and blowing, red

faced, into something that looked like the stem of a hookah.

And the drums, Oh, the drums! How could anyone fail to be moved

by the rhythmic roll of the snares and the throb of the big bass drum. I know

I was moved-- about three feet in the air. Every time the bass drummer

whacked his infernal instrument to start yet another monotonous Scottish

reel, King would buck and fire me momentarily up and out of the saddle.

The goof playing the huge drum was obviously aware of the effect he

was having on King and me as he swaggered along with a smirk on his face,

kilt swaying and decked out in bearskins and the pelts of other endangered

species.

I had heard that you didn’t need a great deal of talent or brains to play

the bass drum, just the ability to walk and chew gum at the same time. This

guy barely met the minimal criteria and deserved a good kick in the sporran.

King and I finished the parade intact but thanks to the Pipe Band, we

had not made a very good impression.

Understandably, it was with a certain amount of trepidation that I

joined the rest of the crew on a Monday morning and started rehearsing for

the Musical Ride. I knew the Pipe Band would be present and participating,

but the total duration of the ride was only going to be about thirty minutes

and I was certain that I could put up with the Band’s caterwauling for that

short period of time, besides, I would be riding Blackie, a young horse I had

just broken and trained. He was nothing like the hotheaded King.

The first rehearsal with the Band went well with all the horses

behaving despite the bass drummers’ attempts to stir them up. Blackie was

exceptionally good. It was as if he were born to that kind of job. When the

hour or so was up and we all took a break, I thought that we were through

for the day. I hadn’t allowed for Big Ed’s insistence on perfection. He had

Sgt. Lewis, who was now in charge of the Musical Ride keep us at it all day

long.

And it continued that way, day after day for weeks on end, with the

horses trotting in circles and the sound of the pipes and drums echoing off

the rafters of the Coliseum. We practiced the same routine over and over

until the horses became so familiar with it that they could make all the

moves on their own, as they often did when one of the riders fell off.

But, oh, that God-awful noise! It never stopped, even when we

stopped to rest and Sgt Lewis said, “Smoke 'em if you got ‘em!” the pipers

would take the opportunity to practice their individual parts, thirty pipers

wailing away at thirty different tunes at the same time. It was an acoustic

nightmare. Blackie and I could edge away from the guys who were smoking

but there was no escaping the din of those pipes. I understood now why the

German soldiers during WW1 referred to the kilted Scots as ‘The Ladies

from Hell.’

I wasn’t the only horseman who was being driven mad by the pipes. It

was during that period that I first heard the classic bagpipe jokes. I

take no credit for coming up with them but I am in complete agreement with

the sentiments they express.

Q. What is the definition of a gentleman?

A. Some one who can play the bagpipes but doesn’t.

Did you hear about man who left his car to do some shopping and then

panicked when he realized that he had left the vehicle unlocked with his very

valuable bagpipes lying in plain view on the back seat?

When he rushed back to the car and looked in, there were two sets of pipes

on the seat!

Once you got those cursed instruments out of their hands, the

members of the Band turned out to be a great bunch of fun loving guys and I

really enjoyed their company when we celebrated after our performances.

The most memorable of these occasions occurred in 1967 at the conclusion

of the last Musical Ride that we did after a week’s run at the Canadian

National Exhibition.