There’s a very good reason the oboe is not traditionally part of a marching band: it’s fucking dangerous. How I managed to march in the Amsterdam Rams Marching Band with an oboe and not stab myself in the face with a sharp double reed is more a testament to my stubborn refusal to learn a new instrument than any sense of reason. Here is proof that it did happen.
If ever I were to be put off by purple feathers, this would have been it, but since it didn’t happen I doubt it will ever happen. The rest of that scratchy uniform, however, did instill an abhorrence to polyester and all its evil forms. I’d go into the details of how it all came about, but I think the picture is more than enough for this Wacky Wednesday post. One day I’ll regale you with tales of how I fashioned a clarinet lyre onto the base of the oboe to hold my music, or the night we put on a half-time show in the midst of flurries, or the simple fact that I marched down the streets of Amsterdam WITH A FUCKING OBOE IN MY MOUTH.
Since so many of you enjoy seeing the piss taken out of me, Wacky Wednesday may be a new regular, or semi-regular, feature. Or it might not. As much as I enjoy a bit of silliness from time to time, I’ve suffered enough. (You’re going to love it.)
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