Although I have only recently taken up the pipe, I have had several
encounters with pipes and pipemen over the years which I suppose must
have contributed to my late-flowering interest.

For example, about 10 years ago to celebrate my 25th wedding
anniversary I took a short Caribbean cruise (my wife, being in
hospital at the time, was unable to accompany me as originally
planned). Stopping one day at Grand Cayman I went ashore and within
five minutes had exhausted the small cluster of shops selling black
coral, reproduction cutlasses, and t-shirts with amusing though
slightly off-colour slogans. For want of anything better to do, and
lured by the offer of free food and drink, but mostly drink, I took up
the offer of a passing sandwich-board man to attend a "time-share
presentation" in a local resort. Subsequent events are hazy in my
mind, but I emerged blinking into the daylight three hours later the
proud owner of the first two weeks in October at a villa at Rum Point.
Subsequent years have taught me that the expense of getting there from
Falkirk is only exceeded by the boredom levels when one does. However,
I am hopeful that the salesman's assurance that I could easily re-sell
this prize will eventually bear fruit, possibly even before the heat
death of the universe.

Anyway, one year to liven up the local scene, while waiting for the
next October hurricane to breeze in, one of the local bars hired
someone to portray a character called "Pirate Jack" - he would pose
for photographs, pretend to decapitate the children, and generally
make a thorough nuisance of himself. But (and I get finally to my
point) he came equipped with a real live parrot called "Captain Bob"
perched on his shoulder and this bird, for no sane reason I could see,
had its own little corncob pipe on a ribbon round its neck which it
would occasionally take into its beak and chew on in a contemplative
manner, punctuated with ear-splitting shrieks. When he did this,
Pirate Jack - already labouring under the burden of wearing a thick
woollen navy blue jacket in the tropical heat - would wince slightly
and say "Will you be quiet Captain Bob ?" adding as an afterthought
"... matey !".

The next year Pirate Jack was absent, but the bar was selling "Pirate
Jack t-shirts" - these were navy blue with dark patches under the arms
and streaks of white and green down the back. The first sighting of
post-modern humour West of Cardiff.

Happy Days.

Many Thanks,

Ted Woodley.