I MAY not know much, but I do know this: Boris Johnson is a numpty.

The latest piece of evidence to back up this surely incontrovertible fact came at the weekend, when it was revealed he is trying to ban pipers from the streets of London; that will undoubtedly be the consequence of his new "code of conduct" for buskers which says that "performers who create piercing sounds like bagpipes" have to move regularly or find locations "with no flats, offices, shops or hotels".

The man clearly has no taste. What's not to love about bagpipes?

For many of us, the pipes are in the blood; and being of a sporting nature, they form part of the soundtrack to my youth, adolescence and even early adulthood.

The solo piper is of course intrinsic to my native Edinburgh. The opening scene of an Auld Reekie-set post-apocalypse movie would surely be an eerie shot of a deserted Waverley Bridge with an abandoned bagpipe case at the Princes Street corner, possibly guarded by a mournful dog wearing a neckerchief. No piper, and you'd know that civilisation had ended.

As a boy, I remember being taken to Murrayfield for a rugby international - I think against Ireland. I can recall nothing of the match itself, but I was transfixed by the pipe band which performed at half-time. This seven-year-old urchin could think of nothing more enticing than being allowed to make a racket and get into a game for free. (Pipe bands used to play at Scottish Cup finals, too, but as a Hibs supporter these largely passed me by; I was 15 at our first one, 22 at our next, and middle-aged and catatonic at subsequent appearances.)

Grown to man's estate, or very nearly, I trooped with the Tartan Army to the skirl of the pipes at the World Cups of 1982, in Spain, and 1990, in Italy. On marches to the stadium, there were always two VIPs to keep in sight - the piper, who knew the way, and always seemed to have attractive women in tow, and the mate who was scooting off with the carry-out.

I nearly joined a pipe band once; I got as far as taking drumming lessons with the BBs, but my lack of rhythmic sense meant my paradiddles were paradidn'ts. So that, sadly, was that; the only other instrument I ever came close to mastering was the comb and silver paper, not something to thrill a self-respecting Pipe-Major.

Despite, or perhaps because of, those thwarted ambitions, I still love the sound of the pipes. I defy anyone not to be moved by a solo rendition of Highland Cathedral. Even you, Boris; you don't know what you're missing.