Okay, I know it’s not St. Patrick’s Day yet, but I am going to tell you this story today so that you have an extra few days to experience a St. Patrick’s Day story that tops it.

And I’m not talking about some stupid “I was so drunk that…” story. Anyone can come up with those.

I’m talking straight-up crazy.

Before I begin, I would like to remind you all that I have never done even the most tame of drugs, because I’m a huge square. And while I do have a somewhat huge imagination, I could never  randomly come up with this shit.


St. Patrick’s Day in Glasgow. As I just said, I’m a total square. I’m fine with it. The reason I’m saying it again is so that you’ll understand that I avoid St. Patrick’s Day in general. I think it’s just a dumb excuse to get ugly wasted and try to get kissed because you’re “Irish.” The snob in me wishes that people had to pass some sort of St. Patrick’s Day basic knowledge test in order to go out and celebrate.

(Sometimes I’m a big snob.)

So, I don’t go out for St. Patrick’s Day in Canada, and a bunch of my friends/family got me all worked up about St. Patrick’s Day in Glasgow.

“Oh, they’re probably CRAZY about it over there,” they all told me.

So I made a date with myself to stay in. (I may or may not have planned on ordering delicious Japanese delivery.)

But then something wonky happened schedule-wise. I had to switch around some theatre tickets I had ordered, and the only other night I could make it was St. Patrick’s Day.

Okay, fine. I would keep my head down, walk fast and with confidence, and avoid areas with lots of pubs.* What’s the worst that could happen?

Well, I had barely left my house before I found my St. Patrick’s Day story.

I was standing on Dumbarton Road, waiting to catch a bus into city centre. I remember it was raining quite a bit, so I was hiding under the bus shelter proper. Yes, a few drunk guys staggered by me, talking about whatever they were talking about. I shrugged it off.

Waiting for the 62. Waiting for the 62. Waiting for the 62.

What the fuck is that?

I looked over at one of the pubs kitty corner to where I was standing and I saw something bizarre emerging from its front doors.

Is that a….horse?!

A white horse head emerged, followed by its immense body, but not only that, there was a police officer riding the horse. Like this:

What the...?
What the…?

I stared, speechless, wondering how the hell the police officer sitting on the horse had just managed to squeeze out the front doors of the pub, not to mention the fact that they had somehow fit INSIDE the pub to begin with.

And what the hell were they doing in there, anyway?

Just as I was starting to wonder if I had accidentally taken some sort of hallucinogenic drug before leaving my flat, A SECOND WHITE HORSE WITH A POLICE OFFICER ON HIM EXITED THE PUB.

Okay, seriously.

Just imagine the gigantic-ness of this:



Once the second horse and officer had exited the tiny corner pub, they turned and traipsed down Dumbarton Road like nothing had happened.

Pretty sure I missed a bus just staring down the road, watching them vanish into the distance.

It was all I could think about for days.

Are there magical shrinking police officers on horseback in Glasgow?

That was the night I learned that St. Patrick’s Day in Glasgow really is crazy.


P.S. I feel like I should be able to come up with some sort of, “So a horse walked into a bar…” joke about this, but quite frankly, I’m still kind of speechless.

P.P.S. Because seriously, this is weird, right? It’s not just me?!

*That doesn’t actually exist in Glasgow, but I meant well.