A Mighty Headache

Ask not for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee…

As I sat in bed this morning, hearing the bells of St. Salvator’s summoning the studentry from their cozy chambers to the hebdomadal chapel service, the fifteen minutes of tolling summoned naught but two thoughts from the deep recesses of my brain: doom and misery. The reader will forgive this rather grim introduction, but grim was precisely the feeling in the ascendant this morning. I shall continue by retreating to the beginning.

The merriment began at about one o’clock in the afternoon in the Central bar, as have many a session of merriment and good laddery. My good friend Chris C. was visiting the Royal Burgh for the weekend and we decided to head to the Central for a smooth, satisfying pint of John Smith’s, which is the preferred tipple for joint C./Cusack operations. Making our way to that public house, we chanced upon none other than Manuel Pantelias Garces, the little fellah who packs a tremendous punch, and invited him to join in our imbibing of Yorkshire ale.

And imbibe we did. We had one pint of John Smith’s, followed by another, then another, and then another until I swept over to Step Rock Cottage to be fashionably late for Jon and Abby’s engagement party. There, for some unknown reason, I declined copious amounts of Louis Jadot instead deciding to drink down a mighty torrent of Bucks Fizz. In a jocular and celebratory mood, I decided to purchase a ticket to tommorrow’s charity polo tournament off Richard Holtum, and discussed various things with Adrian and young Miss Tori Truett who had popped up from London to grace us with her beauty and wit.

Around 6:00 pm it seemed we were all going to Liam’s house out in the boondocks, so Louise, Adrian, and yours truly stumbled into a cab. Coincidentally, it was the same taxi-driver who just a few days before driven myself, Charles Coulombe, and Leonard the aged valet thereof, around the Royal Burgh so ancient Leonard could see the town. (The good knight himself had just the evening previous given a cracking lecture to the Monarchist League in Edinburgh which I happily attended. Charles is the author of numerous books such as Rum: The Epic Story of the Drink That Conquered the World, Vicars of Christ: A History of the Popes and The Muse in the Bottle: Great Writers on the Joy of Drinking).

At any rate, we arrived at Liam’s and much joviality ensued. You know, I’m not sure I had anything to drink at Liam’s, but having consumed enough Bucks Fizz to keep forty Sussex housewives plastered for a week, I’m fairly certain I had no need. Of course, at this stage one’s memory begins to fail oneself and one immediately suspects it is having traitorous relations with that enemy, Forgetfulness. Well, the drunken revellers at Liam’s were more or less the same faces you see at Rosary everyday, plus a few hearty additions. We lasted at Liam’s until sometime in the hour of eleven, whereupon your humble and obedient servant decided it was time to head back into town and launched an expedition towards that end with Mr. Moore, Mr. McMorrin, and Miss Brennan (whom we call “Mrs. Brennan” because she exudes all the exemplary virtues of a tea-making, abortion-hating, Irish church lady).

It was then that some facts which had not previously lent themselves to discovery made themselves readily apparent. The drunken inhabitant of a taxicab is neither a good judge of distance nor an excellent recaller of routes taken. To be precise, we did not realize quite how far out of town Liam’s house is, nor had we realized until then that none of us were quite sure of the route. Somehow, Mrs. Brennan and Mr. McMorrin became separated from us (“Why hadn’t I told them that stragglers will be shot?” I thought to myself), leaving just Adrian and myself. With regards to devising a route leading us back to the throbbing metropolis of St Andrews, I (being me) have an excellent sense of direction, and Adrian (being a Duke of Edinburgh awardee) is not too shabby himself. We immediately sensed the right direction, and proceeded through a field and a small wooded area only to be dismally greeted by a small burn [thats Scots for a brook or a kill] barring further perambulation.

Undaunted, we went back in the direction from whence we had journeyed and came upon Jamie and Amanda, sitting by the side of the road like forlorn puppies who had lost their way. We then went down a few streets before discovering a main road, which we took to a crossroads lacking any signage indicating town. We tarried at the crossroads for a short while until I spied in the distance a motor vehicle of some nature and thought it best to stand in the middle of the road, necessitating the cessation of movement of said motor vehicle and thus allowing parly with the driver of said motor vehicle.

Happily, the plan worked. “I don’t suppose you’d be so kind as to direct us towards town?” I inquired. “Ach, aye. Ye joost go doon that wa’ ta get ta toon,” the driver intoned in the charming vernacular of the natives. We heeded the kind man’s directive, and headed down the road towards town. Somehow by this time Adrian had availed himself of a bicycle, which I believe belonged to Jamie. Amanda and Jamie again managed to get separated (there was a wide distance between the four of us, Adrian and myself constituting a forward party, and Amanda and Jamie straggling behind).

Eventually, Adrian and I chanced upon the cottage of my former secretary, Miss Alex Jennings, to whom we decided to pay a visit. She looked a bit flustered – there’s a chance we may have waken her – but she offered us tea. Oh how I wish I had accepted! A cup of tea would have had a pleasant sobering effect, I dare say, and I would’ve seen the light and gone home to bed shortly thereafter. But no, we declined and continued into town, for my night was not even nearly over yet, alas.

The evening was host to the A Squadron Ball at the Golf Hotel on the Scores, and the nearer we got to town (the walk took a good 45-60 minutes), so too nearer was the end of the ball and thus the beginning of the after party. As it happened, I stumbled past the OTC just as the after party was getting started. Well, surely it couldn’t hurt to pop in, just for a bit? Oh the lies we convince ourselves of! Once in the Mess, I had another pint of beer, and then an entire bottle of bubbly stuff which was just sitting around unappreciated.

At least there was excellent company. I had a good chat with Tom McMillan, good man. One thing I like about Tom McMillan is that during his university career he seemed almost permanently attired in a sort of uniform of his own devisal: aged blue jeans, forlorn dark blue jumper adorned with Shrewsbury School coat of arms, and two-days’ growth on his face. (How he managed to permanently have two-days’ growth is beyond me). I also had the pleasure of conversing with the young, beautiful, and charming Miss Grace Somers, who’s presently attached to Mr. Philip Evans (good man). It was an immense pleasure to see another friend of ours whose name I won’t name for security reasons but whose safety and wellbeing we have often prayed for during his tour with Her Majesty’s Forces in Mesopotamia.

Of course, the good times in the Mess were merely an after-party, after which followed the after-after-party in some flat on Playfair Terrace. Les bon temps continued to roller there for a good amount of time. At one point I glanced at my pocketwatch which displayed the time as half past eleven. A cavalryman I was speaking to corrected that it was actually half past two.

I think I left about an hour later, it’s all a little fuzzy really, as you would expect. It was all an exceptionally good time up until that point when illness came and rent any value the evening had down to naught. I somehow managed to get to sleep but the illness continued in the morning. I felt too weak to leave my room. I text messaged my mother to seek an appropriate course of action to deal with said illness and she suggested ginger ale. I texted Adrian and sometime after 2:00 in the afternoon today he and Jamie (my two house chaplains, it would seem, God bless them!) came and brought two bottles of ginger ale and good hearty spirits in addition to that. I just lay in bed, pale and sick, crying “Misery… Misery…” but after a few minutes the ginger ale was having desired salutory effect. I still felt rather worse for wear, but managed to get up and get dressed and make it through about half of the four o’clock mass before feeling that I would completely collapse if I did not eat. It was then I realised that I had neglected to have dinner the evening previous and thus didn’t really have anything substantial to eat from midday the day previous until just after I left mass.

I had undergone twelve straight hours of drinking yesterday day/afternoon/evening and in the early hours of this morning. As much fun as it was to posit jumping a burn with Adrian, to converse with beautiful young ladies as well as officers only just recently returned from the front lines (so to speak), as much as I enjoy a good time, it’s just not worth the misery! I am not well-inclined towards illness, and shall hopefully recall last evening from this day forth whenever presented with copious amounts of Demon Rum. I was somewhat assuaged by at first offering up my pitiable suffering for the forgiveness of sins and the salvations of souls, and then later by ginger ale, a winning combination should – God forbid! – you ever find yourself in a similar situation. Of course the need for a good night’s sleep means I shall not be waking at dawn tommorrow for the annual May Dip, when St Andreans greet the first sun of May with a dip in the North Sea, but no worries. We must all look after our health! Good night, my friends, and Godspeed.

Instagram: @andcusack

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