Mufulira Caledonian Society Pipe Band

From Great North Road

By: Bob Smith

As I get older and more wrinkly by the day, I feel the time has now come when I must unburden my conscience and admit to a series of crimes against humanity. I often lie awake at night wondering if there is some way in which I can atone for the unnecessary suffering I inflicted upon innocent people on the Copperbelt all those years ago. I refer to the time when I was a member of a terrorist organisation known as The Mufulira Caledonian Society Pipe Band.

Few will deny that the spectacle of the massed Pipes and Drums of the Scots Guards in full regalia swinging down Princess Street in Edinburgh is one of the most exhilarating experiences one can imagine, never failing to send a thrill down the spine. But having played the Scottish highland bagpipes since I was a lad in the Boys Brigade, I was fully aware of the effect these instruments of torture could have in the right hands if played badly enough.

We played them badly. To be honest, we played them very badly. Anxious mothers would rush out and grab their offspring off the streets as we approached and not without good cause either. Elderly ladies were known to have fainting fits even at what was considered a safe distance, believing pussycats were being tortured to death. Stories of ordinary, sane and well-balanced folk having recurring nightmares after being subjected to quite short periods of our music were never disproved and the Police struggled in vain to find something in the Law to put us out of action.

Our problem was quite a simple one; we lacked practice. There was no doubt that had we practised, we could at least have mastered the technique of starting together and finishing together, of that I am convinced. What happened in between starting and finishing was considered much less important. One of our pipers in particular, Jimmy, an ex-rear gunner in wartime Lancaster bombers, would invariably still have two or three bars to get through after the rest of us had fallen silent. I'm sure he had been a very good rear gunner though. Admittedly, we did gather once a week at a spot on the local golf course to practice and many a golfer welcomed our presence and the din we created as an excuse for playing a bum shot. However, as most of us worked on the Mine and were on shift work, we rarely managed to get anything like the full band together.

When the film "Tunes of Glory" came to Mufulira, the Manager of the Mine Cinema had the inspired idea of having us up on stage in front of the screen to play, as he put it, "something to set the theme," before the film began as apparently it featured Scottish regiments. As always, we didn't bother to organise anything in advance and only when we were prised out of the bar and assembled on stage in a semi-circle, facing our victims, did the Pipe Major whisper the name of the tunes we would attempt to play. Unfortunately, he didn't wait until the whisper had been relayed along the line to everyone before giving the signal to strike up. The result was interesting to say the least. Some of us had got the message and began to play while the others, in turn, joined in when they thought they recognised the tune. Bagpipe tunes are very similar and therein lay our downfall. Some began playing what they thought was the right tune but wasn't, some joined in but a bar or two out in their timing and of course, Jimmy was a couple of laps behind as usual, doing it his way. Eventually we came to a grinding halt, waited until Jimmy finished his little solo, then beat a hasty retreat from the scene. The film ran for a week but the Manager bought us all a drink and said we had "set such a good theme" that it would last all week and he would not need us again. A very nice man.

Non-Scots, especially female non-Scots seem obsessed with the question of what a Scotsman wears under his kilt. I'm Irish so I don't know and I'm too well brought up to go around peering up my friends' kilts but I can reveal what one of our pipers used to wear. In fact, a large number of Mufulirans who were around the Main Street shopping area on a certain Saturday afternoon will have known also. The answer is, a pair of white football shorts. To be precise, a pair of his big brother's white football shorts with weak elastic. Yes, it gave way. I can't recall what the occasion was but there were the Saturday afternoon shoppers lining both sides of the street as we huffed and puffed our way along, trying manfully to keep in step and play the same tune when Sam's elastic failed. To give the lad credit, he kept his dignity as, clutching his pipes, which still squealed as the bag deflated, in one hand and holding up his brother's shorts with the other, he pushed his way through the crowd who were by now roaring with laughter and found sanctuary in a nearby shop.

It would be fair to say that none of us could be called natural pipers which is probably why we were once, and only once, asked by the Mufulira Scottish Country Dance Club to play for them at an open-air display. With hindsight it would have been better if we had held some sort of rehearsal to acquaint ourselves with what was expected of us, but, as usual, we just rolled up on the day and pronounced ourselves ready to play.

As the spectators waited expectantly, the dance team leader came over and said, "Right lads, we want to start with a hornpipe and then a jig." We stared, aghast. We didn't know any hornpipes or jigs. These were fast tunes requiring nimble fingers; we weren't hornpipe or jig players, we played marches. He looked worried at this blow and the spectators were becoming restless at the prolonged negotiations. It was finally a matter of compromise. We would play our best march tunes as fast as we could without leaving Jimmy hopelessly behind and they would try to dance hornpipes and jigs to it. It was doomed before we even started. The whole thing was a sure recipe for disaster.

We tried, we really did, but it just wasn't good enough. We were playing far too slowly and the dancers were trying to slow down their little leaps and hops with terrible consequences. These were ordinary folks, not trained ballet dancers and it began to show first among the more corpulent ones amongst them as they tried to balance on one leg waiting for us to catch up with them. Some would overbalance backwards, some flat on their face, while others chose to go crashing sideways, bringing a neighbour down with them. We had to admire them; they were real troupers and managed to smile graciously as they went down. They were so good at it that many in the audience, thinking all this staggering and falling over was part of Scottish dancing, applauded enthusiastically each time a smiling dancer went rolling on the grass. Luckily for all concerned, one of their number, having heard of our reputation, had brought along his wind-up gramophone and Jimmy Shand record collection so we were excused further participation and retired to our favourite haunt, the beer tent.

Our big drummer, or bass drummer, lets keep it technical, was John. John was from Cork; an Irishman like myself and a very good drummer who had never been known to miss a beat or a free Guinness. John liked to hitch his drum really high on his chest to the extent that he could not see over the top of it. The was a story which circulated about John which I never really believed but see what you think. The Mufulira Caledonian Society Pipe Band were marching in all their glory along F Avenue and turned left into 5th Street. John, unsighted behind his big drum carried on along the avenue, banging away until a small boy tugged at his kilt and said, "Hey Mister. The band's gone up 5th Street." "It's OK son," says John, "I know the tune."

One incident involving John I can vouch for because I was there. He and I were returning in his new car from playing at some function in Ndola. He had picked up the gleaming new Mercedes only that morning and was brimming over with pride. It was dark as we drove along the unlit strip road from Ndola to Muf. and after a while the headlights picked out a lone cyclist weaving his unsteady way along the road ahead. Clearly, he had stayed too long in the beer hall and it was a miracle the way he managed to stay on the machine at all. John slowed right down and attempted to pass to one side then the other without success as the cyclist wobbled all over the road, but eventually managed to squeeze past, only to have the cyclist run into the side of the car.

John was out in a flash as, just as quickly, the cyclist disappeared into the bush. There was a huge scratch running almost the full length of the car and he saw red. The bike lay on the road in front of the car and John, in his fury, leapt up in the air repeatedly and came crashing down, all 18 stone of him with his big boots, on the spokes of the bike. As he descended each time, his kilt flew up around his waist in a most unladylike fashion when a plaintive voice from the bush cried, "Donna, donna, aikona bulala lo njinga ka mina." (Madam, madam, don't break my bicycle.)

I left the band soon after this so cannot be held responsible for any noise pollution inflicted on the good people of Mufulira in later years though I do ask their forgiveness for my part in their misery up until that time.