The Piper's Woes

Last night I was laying around, fingering my practice chanter in an attempt to learn The Mason's Apron. "Fingering my chanter" means exactly that; it is not a euphemism for any other kind of sordid activity, despite the fact that I was watching womens' prison movies at the time. A practice chanter is what a piper plays instead of his bagpipes when he wishes to avoid small-arms fire from his neighbors, as it is much quieter (about as loud as two kazoos) and looks more or less like a kind of recorder. But I digress.

Anyway, I lay there buzzing away when a profound sense of melancholy came over me. I didn't realize what it was at first, but I gradually came to recognize this feeling: I am in dire need of a fleadh.

A fleadh (rhymes with brah !!), for all you non-Gaels out there, can be roughly translated as "a party", albeit one with lots of drink, conversation and Celtic music. It probably doesn't take much imagination to recognize The Angry Piper would enjoy such an event. Unfortunately, I missed one of my favorite fleadhs (although it's much more than that, obviously) when I went to "One Happy Island" last month: The Southern New Hampshire Highland Games. "But Piper, you whiny prick...it's not like you missed it while you were sunning yourself and drinking Pink Panthers," you say.

To you I say: "Wrong."

See, the SNH Highland Games is the biggest Scottish festival on the East Coast next to the Grandfather Mountain Games in NC. Tons of pipers and musicians go there. It is, in effect, a piper's auditory orgasm. And in the words of Linus re: falling asleep during the Great Pumpkin's visit: "Awwwww...I missed it!!"

I have fond memories of the one last year, mainly because of the friend who accompanied me there. My friend, I'll call him "Chuck", is a big lad. He's 6'7". He's Scottish-American. Like me, he wears a kilt, although on his half-ogre frame it looks more like a blanket. Unlike me, he actually has a right to wear it, as his last name starts with "Mc" and is a prominent clan name, and the plaid is his clan's Tartan. I'm not Scottish (I'm Irish, you bastards!) but I wear the plaid 'cuz I'm a piper.

Anyway, I must relate some things that happened last year at the games, because they're funny anecdotes and I'm feeling droll, and if I can't have a fleadh I may as well remember a good one. First, my friend had me laughing fit to piss my kilt within moments of our arrival. I'd tell you the story, but it won't be funny and you had to be there. Just know that it has something to do with the above paragraph on the rights of kilt-wearing.

However, to give you an idea of my friend and his wit, here's one of the best examples of the off-the-cuff comeback I have ever heard:

The SNH Highland Games, being family-oriented, is a mostly dry event, meaning that alcohol is limited to one "beer tent". Naturally, after a bit of time wandering aroond and aboot, we made our way thither and got ourselves a few beers. It was during this time that we attracted the attention of four (very drunk) young ladies, who were sitting at a table nearby. They adored our kilts. This should give you an idea of how drunk they were, as every other guy at the games was wearing one and it's not like we stuck out. Nevertheless, one spoke up: " So...is it true what they say?"

Anyone who has ever worn a kilt has heard this question, and therefore we all know what is really being asked. I'm sure most of you do, too, but just in case you're not following me, she soon spelled it out: "Is it true that you don't have anything on under that kilt?"

I ignored her and enjoyed my beer, intent on the pipers nearby. Chuck, however, looked at her and replied: "Just me". This set off a storm of giggles at the table.

Chuck, you will recall, is 6'7" tall. My license says 6'1" on it, and I feel positively short around him. Chuck has been known to stand next to complete strangers who happen to be tall, say 6'4" or so, and say right to their face: "Yeah. You thought you were tall." Another of the drunk girls must have had a few more than her friends and was feeling brave.

"So," she said to Chuck, "are you big ALL OVER?" Another chorus of giggles.

And my friend Chuck, bless his heart, took a long drag of his cigarette before answering. "Well," he said, "from what I've been told I should be taller."

All the beer that was in my mouth left in a prismatic spray as I convulsed with laughter. I wish I had thought of that one.

Also at this event, I met the love of my life, only to lose her seconds later. As Chuck and I were roamin' in the gloamin'(ok, it was broad daylight, but who cares?) I passed a lovely redhaired lass, plump of face and buxom of form, whom I was immediately taken with. We shared a glance...then a longer one...and then we were cruelly thrust apart by the torrential crowds. I stood there for a moment, watching as she was engulfed in a sea of plaid, wondering if it was real. "Dude, that chick was checking you out," said Chuck, proving I didn't imagine it. Then she was gone, and I have never loved again.

Anyway, I suppose I'll have to make do with some local drink and company soon. Perhaps a trip to my favorite watering hole in Brighton is in order, as we suffer horribly from a dearth of fine Irish pubs here in Fall River. In fact, there's only one, and calling it fine is like calling Budweiser beer.

As we say in Boston: Latah.