St Andrews Pipes

Hamish grimaced as his tee shot whistled into the thick heath along the loch beside the par four seventh. "Ye'll nae get oot o' there wi'oot some difficaltae Hamish" chortled Bruce in his best antipodean mock-scottish. "It's 'Roamin in the Gloamin' for you my lad!!"

"Bugger and Damnation!" swore Hamish, as he drew up his 3 wood and gave the head a quick, unlocking twist - sliding the hollow telescopic shaft back down to it's pipe configuration, "Will i nae get tae pipe any other bliddy choon tidae?"

Hamish swung the shoulder strap of a slightly oversized set of tartan-covered bagpipes around from its position on his back and deftly screwed the transformed three wood into it's correct place as his second drone pipe. Picking up his tee and slotting it into his sporran, he paused briefly to give Bruce a furious glare - made more menacing by his bushy red eyebrows - then proceeded to inflate the bag now tucked under his left arm.

He wondered for the thousandth time at the wisdom of his childhood invention, made to please his traditionalist mother who insisted he become a proficient piper and his English father, who pushed him mercilessly to become a pro golfer. The Royal and Ancient had given the pipes special dispensation to be used on the course and he was now one of the wealthiest members - selling at least twenty sets a week through the pro shop.. A tidy living, even if the green divot stains around his lips meant he had never been able to find a wife.

With Bruce swaggering smugly a few steps behind, Hamish set off down the fairway, cheeks a-puff and elbows squeezing as his fingers worked up and down the melody pipe / putter and the plaintive wail of dying pig gushed forth from the irons...

Roamin, In the Gloamin, On the bonny banks of Clyde...