Close Encounters Of The Scottish Kind

20 June 2026

1171

R. Linda:

Close Encounter #1

It started with the Siege of Boston, AKA The Tartan Invasion. I had expected many things when the World Cup came to Boston, like traffic jams, tourists, overpriced liquor, at least one bewildered reporter attempting to explain offside, or the difference between Scottish and American football, that sort of thing.

Nowhere did I expect to be inundated by hordes of Scottish men in kilts! They were all over the place. Not one or two, no, no, bus loads, train loads, plane loads! THOUSANDS! Entire battalions of kilted warriors descended upon Beantown like a tartan-coloured weather event. I wondered if anyone was left in Scotland.

I tell ya! I was minding me own business, and I WAS on business at South Station waiting for me transport to arrive, when I was accosted, R. Linda, yes, accosted with THIS said over me shoulder:

"IRISH, ARE YE?"

I did not recognise the voice or the hot breath breathing down me neck. I turned to see a giant of a man wearing a kilt and carrying what appeared to be three pints and a traffic cone, looking at me as if to say, "Well, aren't ye?"

"I am. Actually—" I stuttered, me brow furrowed as I had never to me recollection seen this gent in me life.

"GRAND!" the man shouted.

Before I could ask anything, he was photographing me with the three other Scots I did not know. And the unnerving thing was that they handed me a beer and suddenly vanished, leaving me there holding the bottle, in a place where I wasn't sure I was legally allowed to drink in public. 

I looked at the bottle's label, and it was the Scottish Skull Splitter, an ale. I didn't know what to do.

"I know this label," I muttered to meself. I didn't have time to think much more about it; my train pulled in, so I had to dump the full bottle into the bin.

How did they know?

Close Encounter #2

The second encounter occurred three hours later in a pub. I had stopped by me favourite Irish pub in Boston, the Black Rose. At first, I did not notice the clientele; I was busy fishing out my credit card to pay for lunch.

I had barely sat down when a voice erupted behind me.

"THERE HE IS!"

The room fell silent, everyone turned around looking, and then suddenly I realised they were looking at ME, who was sitting there silently, wondering 'where who was'? They were all smiling heads, all fifty of them! I saw they were all Scots wearing kilts. They began to chant, not an angry chant, a happy chant, the worst kind of chant. Within minutes, I was surrounded by men named Angus, Hamish, Duncan, Fergus, and somehow, many more Anguses. Nobody could recall why they had come over; they were simply delighted I existed. For what reason, I wondered, because this was insanity.

I could not tell if they were the same part of the group that accosted me with a Skull Splitter at the station. They all had red or reddish-blond hair, beards, and blue eyes, and wore kilts in various clan colours. They all looked RELATED. And some were!

I was asked if I minded a group snap? There were so many of them, what could I do, so I let them take their photo.

Trying to look like this is a natural occurrence, and they aren't really there

Close Encounter #3

By Wednesday, the city had become unmanageable. Every pub in Boston was out of beer. Either low on beer, or OUT of beer. One bartender had tears in his eyes while pointing to an empty tap. I had ordered a Guinness, and well, none to be had.

"They drank twenty-seven kegs before noon."

"Who?"

"The Scots."

"All of them?"

"No," the bartender replied grimly. "Just one table."

I commiserated with the barkeep for a while and then decided to call it a night. The rowdy Scots were doing cheers or some such Scottish nonsense, so I thought it safe to slip out. But when they saw me, they told me to hold on a second and have a beer.

I informed them that there was none.

Enterprising as ever, one of them got a ginger ale, thrust it into me hand and said, "Almost the same thing. Pretend it's American beer." 

I was open-mouth stunned. Another one told me to look this way; he wanted a shot of an Irishman drinking ginger ale, no one back home would believe him, so he needed "proof." I tell ya!

It was just too much, and  here I am with a ginger ale that was pretending to be an ale

Encounter #4

The next day, I went to the pub for lunch. I looked around, and there were kilted wonders scattered here and there, drinking the last of the beer, talking until one turned around and when he saw me, he got this big grin on his face and pointed and shouted, "THERE HE IS OUR IRISH FELLA!"

I was stunned. I stood there like a dummy. They started forward, and I attempted evasive measures. I got to the men's room, where I removed any green clothing I had, which was me sports jacket. I rolled it into a ball where the grey inside showed, no green. Then I went back out.

I had a Red Sox cap in me jacket pocket that I had taken out and stuck on me head to be incognito, or so I thought, because they still found me. I waved to the teary-eyed barkeeper and out the door I ran.

I took the commuter rail to a suburb nobody had ever heard of. I thought I was safe, but three Scots were already there. One waved!

Another shouted, "WE THOUGHT YOU'D COME THIS WAY." They were the same three from the first encounter.

I waved like it was no big deal and took a table. I ordered meself food, still holding me balled-up jacket and wearing the baseball hat. This was in the hopes that as some more and then some more, and then even more Scots started staggering in, those new ones wouldn't recognise yours truly. But that didn't happen. They surrounded me as I tried to eat me lunch. A bunch of jabberwockies, if ever there were any, telling me with great pleasure on their part, how the Scots are superior to the Irish in so many awful ways, I just can't describe them.

I was getting scared 

Close Encounter #5

The worst incident occurred on Thursday night. I had to work the late shift at the paper, so I decided to get a late dinner at a neighbourhood pub, hoping for anonymity. I took off me sports jacket, rolled it up in a ball, and put on me baseball cap, just like the last time, thinking I wouldn't look like I had just come from the office and that no one would recognise me. Feeling pretty safe, I slipped in with me head down, then I looked around.

Success seemed possible. There were no kilts in sight, no bagpipes, no chanting. Sighing with relief, I ordered a pint and a burger and sat down, feeling relaxed for the first time in what seemed like days. Then I heard it. A voice from the far corner.

"Oh no."

Another voice replied.

"What?"

"I think we've lost Angus."

"Which one?"

The room grew quiet.

Then a third voice.

"Wait."

A long pause.

The sound of squinting.

And then:

"THERE'S GABE!"

The entire pub erupted, a cheer went up, the bagpipes appeared from nowhere, nobody could explain where they'd come from, least of all the man playing them. I was gobsmacked. One thing I DID know, they were all in their cups, they were.

Where the feck did the bagpipes come from? For that matter, where did they all come from?

Close Encounter #6

By the end of the week, I had accepted me fate. I wasn't the enemy; I wasn't even their friend. I had become something far stranger; I was their emotional support Irishman. Yes, I was. A familiar face in a foreign land. A freaking mascot: A diplomatic envoy between two nations whose primary relationship consisted of arguing about who made better whiskey while buying each other drinks.

And so, on the eve of Scotland's next match, I stood in a crowded Boston pub raising a pint with several hundred kilted football warriors.

One Scot threw an arm around me shoulders.

"YE KNOW," the man said, "WHEN WE FIRST CAME HERE WE DIDN'T KNOW A SOUL."

I nodded.

The Scot smiled and announced to his fellows:

"NOW WE HAVE GABE!"

The pub roared in approval.

I sighed. Then it hit me — HOW DID THEY KNOW ME NAME?

After realising this, and before I could open me cakehole, the pub owner sat down on me right and said, "Gabe, you have to do something."

Well, yes, Gabe did. Gabe needed information on what the hell was happening. How was me name known to these Scots, and was I witnessing the collapse of civilisation in real time because of the shortage of beer, while, in the meantime, the newly arrived Scottish population was having the greatest week in recorded human history!

I had no chance to ask any of this because the Scottish kilt wearer who sat down on me left was ready to negotiate emergency beer supplies while I sat there between them as an unwilling mediator.

As this was going on, the three of us were shouting over the din of a hundred Scots chanting and singing, and suddenly I was ripped from my mediator's chair and trapped in the middle of a singalong. I tried smiling politely while wondering how me life had come to be what it was at that very insane moment. I knew resistance was futile; it must have been written all over my face.

Try shouting over two Celts arguing

To be continued

Gabe

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