What’s With All the Cones?
Well, it’s official. Boston has been invaded. Instead of New England, we have become New Scotland. The Tartan Army has managed to bring Boston to its knees without a single shot fired. Nope — they did it with kilts, bagpipes, and a contagious party spirit. They came, they saw, they partied, and Boston loved every minute of it.
But what is it with the traffic cones?
Around here, we have plenty of cones. They sit in potholes, they mark construction, they gather in mysterious clusters on sidewalks. But suddenly they’re adorning every statue and monument in Boston. Even Mrs. Mallard and her brood are not immune.
These Scots are like heat‑seeking missiles. They search out and find even the most obscure statues, and let’s face it — Boston has many. From George Washington in the Public Garden to Robert Burns standing proudly in the Fens, they’ve all been “coned.”
But what does it mean? It must mean something, right?
The Real Story Behind the Cones
The whole tradition actually goes back to Glasgow in the 1980s, when locals started sneaking a traffic cone onto the head of the Duke of Wellington statue outside the Gallery of Modern Art. Every time the city took it down, someone would climb right back up in the middle of the night and put it on again.
What began as a bit of late‑night mischief turned into a full‑blown tug‑of‑war between the people and the authorities — a tiny, harmless act of rebellion that basically said, “We see your authority, and we raise you one bright orange cone.”
By the 1990s, the cone wasn’t just a prank anymore; it was a symbol of Glasgow’s humor — irreverent, stubborn, and proudly chaotic. When officials tried to raise the statue’s plinth to stop people from climbing it, Glaswegians protested so loudly the plan was scrapped. The cone stayed. It always stays.
And from there the tradition spread across Scotland — Edinburgh, Dundee, Aberdeen — until coning a statue became as Scottish as whisky, bagpipes, and arguing about football — soccer to you, mate.
So welcome to Boston, Tartan Army.
We’ll join your party, drink the beer — it’s our beer after all — dance to your bagpipes, and happily share your cone obsession with our statues.
