It’s 10 a.m. on a Friday in June, and “the Hut” in Hawick, Scotland, is heaving. Some 500 men are packed into the low wooden structure, banging tables, straining under bottles of beer and glasses of rum and milk. In comes the cornet flanked by his right- and left-hand men, all three in ties, top hats, green frocks, breeches and boots.