Today marked the final barbecue I am ever likely to attend at No. 12 Queens Gardens. The current inhabitants are moving out and new, strange people will move in next year, who are foreign to me.

No. 12 was quite recently home to Barbecue Challenge 2005 (BBQC05). The challenge was that during Reading Week (the week between the end of class and the start of exams) for all the partcipants to have all meals – breakfast, lunch, and dinner – on the barbecue. It lasted from Monday until Friday, and I am happy to say that of the twelve who started out, I am one of three who managed to last all the way through. The others were Chris C. and George Irwin.

Anyhow, I have enjoyed plentiful good times at No. 12, more than I deserve. Home to Chris, Dave, Alex, Jenny, and ZaZa, it was always a comforting place when things were irritating me; a veritable home away from home. And because they have satellite television, there was always at least one program about Irwin Rommel on for us to watch whilst slowly sipping a cup of Earl Grey. From getting sunburnt in the garden while studying this term, to the time Cockburn the Younger was ill atop the herb garden, No. 12 has been a font of good times and fond memories, and long may it be so to its future residents. No. 12, I shall miss thee.

Last night was my very good friend Arabella Anderson-Braidwood’s twenty-first birthday celebration, unfortunately timed for the evening before my last exam of the year (9:30 this morning). In the spirit of self-sacrifice, I attended the soirée nonetheless, which, owing to Bella’s generosity, raised funds for the newest Maggie’s Cancer Caring Centre in London. (more…)

The Bronxville Review-Press informs me that old Mrs. Garretson has passed away. When I worked at the bookshop in the village, I used to deliver the books she ordered to her apartment. I never made it past the large entrance hall, but that alone was literally covered in all sorts of polychromatic art; always very intriguing. Mrs. Garretson was always a very courteous lady, may she rest in peace.

This morning after the 9:00am Mass we learned that Fr. Patrick Burke has been summoned to the Eternal City for a job at the Congregation of the Doctrine of the Faith. Fr. Burke, who was Convener of the University of St Andrews Union Debating Society (f. 1794) and President of the Catholic Society during his undergraduate days, is just about the best (diocesan) priest in Scotland.

Oft-described as a Rhodesian-born English priest of a Scottish diocese who’s spent more time in Italy than anywhere else and speaks German to boot, Fr. Burke has a massive following at his alma mater. He is currently a parish priest in Stirling and Bannockburn as well as editor of Faith magazine. We were all elated to hear of his appointment, though the precise details of it are unknown at the moment, though we are saddened that it means he will likely be unavailable for his popular, informative, and hilarious talks at Canmore anymore.

A brilliant academic with excellent pastoral skills as well; not a common combination. We wish him all the best.

Last night was spent in the Mess at Wyvern (HQ, A Sqd, TUOTC), which is one of the most delightful places in St Andrews. They have the cheapest pint in town, and even still it somehow seems you only need to drink half as much as usual to alter your consciousness.

If you are not a member of the Officer Training Corps, and I am not, then you have to be signed in by a member (2LT. Chris C. obliged) and introduced to the PMC, Tom Kerr, who lives a few floors above me and is an admirable man despite having gone to school with Dave Watt. Wyvern’s a beautiful house though, and adequately looked after by A Squadron of the Tayforth Universities Officer Training Corps.

Speaking of Mr. Watt, Dave had gone to Wine and Cheese that evening and showed up in the Mess pretty late, grievously attired in a black shirt with red stripes, accompanying tie, a white jumper, and with the obligatory blazer on top. He had hassled along some other OCDT (officer cadet) who had been at Wine and Cheese that evening to come along to the Mess. Now this chap was decked up in the more usual tweed jacket (and riding boots, without explanation) but was lacking in necktie. As one might expect, jacket and tie are de rigeur for the Mess, and once the said tie-less fellow showed up the lack of tie was noted and brought to the attention of the PMC.

Disgrace! What was to be done? A Mess Court would be convened, Tom Kerr presiding. The shameless and inebriated David Watt would provide the defense, the shameless and inebriated Chris C. the prosecution, and George Irwin, Euan Gorford, and I were appointed as jury.

Now, the poor lad in the dock, whom we shall call Oliver George Wilson, since, when asked to state his name for the court, he replied “Oll… Oll… Oliver George Wilson”. Well, the poor Oliver George Wilson could barely compose a coherent sentence, most likely due to the imbibing of wine at “Chine and Weese”, and seemed to posess very few of his own faculties and certainly even fewer of anyone else’s. Nonetheless the Prosecution opened the case charging Oliver George Wilson with entering the mess without a tie by effortlessly pointing to Oliver George Wilson sitting in the makeshift dock (actually a barstool) suffering from a complete lack of any form of neck attire bar
the collar of his shirt.

I began to have my suspicions as to the integrity of the court when I, a member of the jury, was called to testify on behalf of the prosecution. Now, the questions interrogated of me and the responses freely, and I dare say deftly, given are not for stating in the public realm. Nonetheless they were of a such a nature as to make the padre blush (or so Gorford told me when I left the stand and returned to the jury), and the denizens of the Mess were rollicking, so in my humble opinion it’s all for the better.

The defense was then given the opportunity to state their case, which was lacking. [Note to self: if in trouble, never call on Dave Watt to act as my defense]. Mr. Watt threw out some rambling, barely grammatical sentences in a highly dramatic style which he no doubt hoped would distract the jury from the matter at hand. It was to no effect, as the jury of three — and a fine jury it was, mind you, one of the best juries in the land — as I was saying, the jury of George, Euan, and I were pretty much convinced by the defense’s argument and my own stand in the witness box and thus Oll… Oll… Oliver George Wilson was convicted on all charges. Lord Chief Justice Kerr sentenced the delinquent to an “H.M.S. Wyvern” which involves drinking lots of gin and being turned around incessentantly, this processes being repeated four times in some vaguely nautical fashion while singing, not their own A Squadron ditty, but instead the B Squadron (Dundee University) song, to the tune ‘Cwm Rhondda’ aka Guide Me O Thou Great Redeemer:

Dundee, frightful. Oliver George Wilson didn’t even chunder (at least not in the faux German helmet in the Mess designated for such a purpose), and thus a good time was had by all.

Commandant, Old Guard of the City of New York.

Today I:

1. Practically wrote an entire essay in one day and handed it in and I think it was pretty good. I know, that’s nothing special, but I’ve never done it before, and it took up the preponderance of the day.
2. Went to a celebratory birthday brunch for Maria.
3. Participated in the Second Annual Bumblebee Hunt held under the auspices of the St Andrews branch of the Sons of Confederate Veterans. The winning bumblebee was a big one, which was christened Algernon Deathbee. He will be tied to a string which will be tacked to a table at the Officer Training Corps Ball tonight. (I am not attending).
4. Managed to fit in a walk on the beach with Lizzy and Nicholas.

Next on the agenda… get a bit of research done for the next essay, then out for dinner and drinks at the Jigger for Maria’s birthday, then hopefully get started on the speech I have to give at a dinner tommorrow night.

The Charity Polo is tommorrow, and it looks like it’s going to be a beautiful day, but I’m not sure if I’ll go. Vichy France looms on the horizon, and I’ve got the hush-hush dinner in the evening to boot.

Oh fiddlesticks, I’ve forgotten to return these short loan books. Got to run.

Easter is my favorite day of the year, as it is always infused with a spirit of joy and thanksgiving. Despite cloudy skies, this Easter was still a most enjoyable one.

Ezra, myself, Jon, Abby, Rob, Maria, and Stefano went down to Edinburgh and heard a Tridentine mass at St. Andrew’s Church in Ravelston. Why is it that going to old rite masses always reminds me of home, wherever I hear them offered? It was a wonderful affair, as was the five-course six-hour lunch we had afterwards with some of our good friends in Edinburgh.

Yesterday I took a morning off, finally rising about midday to most undesirable weather. Cloudy, rainy, cold, most uncharming. The majority of the day was spent reading (Modern Times, by Paul Johnson, the best history book I’ve read so far) in Canmore.

Equally dismal weather, but I still roused myself to get to the coffee place on Bell Street to have breakfast with Chris C.. I paid off a poker debt by buying him breakfast. Nonetheless, dismal weather is a good excuse to get some reading done, so off I go.

Resurrexit sicut dixit, Alleluia!

“Thank God for beautiful Scottish girls in pretty summer dresses, for if we cannot give thanks for this we have become more hard-hearted than Pharoah.” – Ezra Pierce

Part the First: On St Andrews, Oxford, and Leisure

The past few days have been nice and relaxing, which, come to think of it, are what most St Andrews days are like. I think Josef Pieper would thoroughly prefer the University of St Andrews to the University of Oxford. We are an institution which makes leisure – the basis of culture – possible. Truthfully speaking, Oxford students are so laden with work that they actually do in one week what St Andrews do in an entire semester. As a result, they are stressed out of their minds and worked to an extreme. This situation ideally suits Ezra Pierce, formerly of St Andrews and now a first-year at Hertford College Oxford, who has been up here in town visiting for a few days, sleeping on the sofa in our living room.

For me, therein lies the attraction of the Universitas doctorum magistrorum et scholarum Sancti Andreae apud Scotos: free time in which you are allowed to develop yourself, or not to develop at all, or even to devolve. I may be taking classes titled ‘France Since 1940: Politics, Culture, and Society’ and ‘Art and Piety in Western Europe 1400-1700’ but I have ample time to delve into subjects more akin to my interests; Graf von Stauffenberg, the architectural works of Lorimer, the humour of P.J. O’Rourke, or the holiness of Pier Giorgio Frassati. I have always prefered self-learning to formal instruction, and I wish that it was not until my third year here before I realized I have more free time now than I ever will in my entire life.

So I do as I please. I go for leisurely strolls down the West Sands. I read random books about architecture or history or religion or whatnot in the University Library. I muse upon the architecture of St Salvator’s Chapel. I mourn the withered ruins of our once-great cathedral. I run something which can approximately be described as a newspaper. I have pints of John Smith’s in the Central or the Russell, or a Leffe in the Cellar Bar. I discuss. I go to balls. I read the paper. This and that. Were I at Oxford I would have to read and write and read and write and read and so on and so forth. What a terrible bore! Though I pine to return to the motherland, I much prefer the leafy, lacsidaisical approach to academia which I live out at St Andrews than all that work nonsense they make you do at Oxford.

That said, some part of me (say, my thumb, or perhaps my epiglottis) admires those who, both here and at Oxford, actually work very hard and get very good grades and all that jazz. David Taylor got a twenty on his dissertation. A twenty! Out of twenty! I mean, you’ve got to give a guy credit for that, especially when he’s an affable chap with a decent personality instead of some spoilsport who spends all his time in the library. I sometimes try to start arguments with him over various topics when my cook has him over for tea, but as much as I try to be approbrious to him for his ridiculous Guardian-influenced views we actually get along quite well.

Part the Second: On the merits of Miss Jennings

Speaking of my cook, there are two folks to whom I owe a lot to over the span of my university career, one of whom is my cook, Jocelyn, and the other is my secretary, Miss Jennings (or Personal Assitant to the Editor, as she is officially styled). Miss Jennings is simply amazing. Presented with any Cusackian crisis she faithfully answers the call of duty. Miss Jennings, I need a cell phone. Miss Jennings, I want to have lunch with Tom Leppard sometime next week. Miss Jennings, we need to give disapproving looks to local townsfolk. Miss Jennings, remind me I have a club dinner in the Golf Hotel on Friday. Miss Jennings, how do I get this or that, etc., etc., etc. Without her help, I would not have been able to organise my various responsibilities so that I still am able to spend half my time doing nothing in particular.

Eventually, I was convinced I needed to scale back some of said responsibilites and have done so accordingly. This freed up time for Miss Jennings to persue interests of her own (which are myriad). Nonetheless, we all need a little break sometime, and Miss Jennings has decided that she will not be finishing the semester, but will return in the fall. If anyone deserves a break it’s Miss Jennings!

In the spirit of appreciation and celebration, a good number of us gathered at the bar of the Byre Theatre last night to kick back a few in honour of this great young lady. I consumed an appreciable amount of Budvar myself, while White Russians seemed to be de rigeur for most of the ladyfolk. And best of all, since this coming Wednesday is my twenty-first, Miss Jennings conferred upon me a wonderful little gift: a coffee mug marked “His Lordship”.

Part the Third: The Evening Previous

Began with the Opus Dei talk at Canmore; a very plain-speaking guy named Jim McFie who lives in Glasgow. (Sr. Roseanne Reddy is coming back after the break, Stefano informs me). Then back home, where one of my flatmates was hosting a Chapel Choir party (pajama-themed). I changed garb to jacket and tie and headed over to the Officers Mess at Wyverne (cheapest pint in town) to enjoy a few Grolschs with Chris C., Matt Normington, and George Irwin, and to discuss affairs of varying importance. Midnight closing time we headed to George Irwin’s flat (No. 14 in my building), played some poker, lost £3, headed down to my flat around 1:00 after having a brief conversation in the hallway with George’s neighbour Tamsin who’s a friend of Piers Thompson.

I have, of late, also noticed the presence of a canine in our beloved Southgait Hall; a West Highland Terrier by the name of Molly. Has she been here the whole time and I’ve just never run into her? Perhaps. Nonetheless, I held the door open for her when she returned from an evening promenade this very evening and she growled at me! Ah well. They say you should never let the sun go down with an argument unresolved. I disagree. I find that by the time I wake up the next morning, I couldn’t give a steeplejack’s penknife for any disputes from the day before.

Snow-covered peaks viewed from Edinburgh Castle.

The busy nature of the past week or so has been the reason for a distinct lack of posting. And the fact that I have an essay for Monday, a presentation for Tuesday, and another essay for Friday means there may not be all that much over the next week either.

We have been graced with two guests in the Auld Grey Toon recently, the first of which was Chris Moreland, a reactionary Catholic friend of Chris C., followed this past week by my cousin Mark Gannon visiting Europe for the first time. I’m pretty sure both enjoyed it thoroughly. It was fun acclimatizing Mark to the various idiosyncrasies of St Andrews; they are legion.

In the midst of all this, Jon and Abby had a dinner party for the feast of St Thomas Aquinas and it was quite a grand affair. We consumed two bottles of champagne, ten bottles of red wine, a bottle of port, and some cognac to boot, ending at nearly three in the morning. There was more wine left and I was ready to carry on til dawn, but I don’t think Jon’s flatmates would’ve appreciated it. No doubt the ‘Dumb Ox’ was proud of our prodigious endeavour in his honor. Unfortunately the conversation was of such a jovial nature that it would not bear repeating on the internet, for fear of the entire slate of participants being banned from positions in most realms on employment. A damn good time; many thanks to Jon and Abby.

Now I’ve got to get a bite to eat for lunch and head off to rosary. Pray for the conversion of India!

Before rosary today, Clare and I sat in the living room of Canmore listening to Rachmaninov’s piano concertos on the record player. She read abour Irenaeus, whereas I read the Telegraph. We decided that we were discontented with the state of the world, and that this would be partially remedied if girls wore skirts and men wore collared shirts and ties. (Said despite Claire being trousered and me being collar-and-tieless).

Today, after printing off the Review (which, by the way, is both erudite and informative, as well hilarious, especially “Ishmael”‘s contribution) and going to Rosary, I popped over to St. Salvator’s Hall (aka ‘Sallies’, seen above) where Kat and Jocie were watching a dvd of The Office. I sold Kat a copy of the MLR, and she played with a yoyo I found while I was home.

Now, there is a certain misconception going around which has reached almost mythical proportions in the Royal Burgh. It is thus: that I am an infrequent visitor to the Bibliotheca Sancti Andreae, more commonly known as the University Library (f. 1612 by one of the King Jameses). This misconception has spread to such an extent that once, chancing upon Rob and Maria in the stairwell of said insitution, Rob expectorated “Fancy seeing you here!” with the smug tone of a too-frequent visitor-of-libraries and the engaged ensemble burst into laughter.

Well, haw haw! I do visit the library, and have even gone so far as to wander the stacks on occasion, finding upon one such a misadventure, decades of bound Spectators for perusing. But to return to the story, following my visit to Sallies, I made my way towards the main library taking a route which took me through St. Salvator’s Quad, reflecting upon the comeliness of which, I decided to take a photograph.

It shows the entrance to College Hall, wherein many important events take place such as examinations, public meetings, champagne receptions, and the like. Moving along from the Quad into Butts Wynd (‘wynd’ is Scots for alley, ye uninformed), I nearly ran right into 2Lt. Robert Cockburn of the Queens Own Yeomanry, a magistrand (that’s a fourth year student, ye uninformed) who happens to be running for the presidency of our Students Union. I told 2Lt. Cockburn to strike a dashing pose, and he gave it his best.

The other candidates are unreconstructed socialist Marco Biagi, future Conservative MP Adrian Galey, and my cook Jocelyn. The real surprise is that Alex Yabroff, a Californian of liberal Episcopalian extraction and member of the Kate Kennedy Club, has decided not to run. Reasons unknown. UPDATE: Alex Yabroff is running.

Anyhow, I went to the top floor of the library and found myself a desk, from which I took the following photos.

The saltire flies from the top of the Town Hall, with the spire of Holy Trinity kirk to the right.

The sun hides behind clouds, with the rooftop and chimneys of the Crawford Centre.

Lizzie popped round to the library to purchase a copy of the Review off me, and I gave her my Spectator as well, since I was done with it. Very good article by some Oxford academic decrying attempts by that University to move away from the traditional tutorial system of education to put a greater emphasis on money-making research. Anyhow, at nearly half past five, I’d had enough of reading various books and egressed our hideous modern library, but just then took a photo of our beauteous College Tower, which I will leave you with.

Well, last night was magnificent. Fraulein Hesser and I travelled down to Edinburgh for the Knights of Malta Ball at the Assembly Rooms in George Street. Our party was organised by Mr. Gerald Warner whose visceral lashings in print of all the senior hubrisarchs of our day are published in weekly in Scotland on Sunday. Alas, Mr. Warner was exposed to mumps recently, and thus could not come for fear of spreading the contagion, but he very kindly gifted us two tickets, for which we are extremely grateful. We toasted his health. (more…)

This afternoon Abby and I ran into Chicago’s unwanted child Jamie Branda and Alabama’s biggest liability Chris C. on South Street. They were having a “day of whimsy” and decided to purchase some fetching blue caps from Lord only knows where, and thus I felt compelled to record it for posterity.

De temps en temps j’ai une excuse pour écrire une entrée en mon pauvre français, et la visite d’Emelie à St Andrews est une excuse par excellence. La merveilleuse Claire Dempsey était assez aimable pour accueillir un petit événement la nuit passée dans le aumônierie (Canmore).

Nous avons discuté des matières fascinantes comme des pommes de terre (ou “spuds” comme Clare les appelle), dommages du rugby d’Emelie, le fait que des fonctionnaires (civil servants) français sont payés pour ne faire rien, et avec précision quoi appeler la couleur de la chemise de Stefano. (Il s’est étendu des saumons à la fraise écrasée).

Clare, Stefano, et Emelie dans la cuisine de Canmore.

Alas, one of my favorite blogs has come to an end.

We had all heard talk and rumors of this crazy site from all our friends who are conventional enough to attend colleges and universities in the Motherland, but now thefacebook.com has arrived at St Andrews. This popular… well, what the heck does one call it? forum, I suppose, has ventured outside North America for the first time and made itself available to students at St A’s, Oxford, Cambridge, Trinity Dublin, and the American University of Paris.

I have to say, despite my inherent suspicion of all things new and technological, it’s quite a nifty thing. What you do is, you enter your official university e-mail address to verify you are a real student at a particular university and then you make a profile about yourself and your friends do the same and you add them as your official friends and before you know it you have a veritable network of confederates with photos, their birthdays, favorite books and movies, quotes, and everything. You can even poke people (and poking is one of our most formidable pasttimes).

One of my favorite bits is this nifty tally by which you keep account of your official friends at other institutions:

Heck, I just joined last night and I’ve already got twenty-nine of my friends officially friend-ed on Facebook. In terms of non-St-Andreans, NYU is currently in the lead with 3, the rest all have one, but once I get Will Moller added Kenyon will move to second place with 2. I’ve got seven or so St Andreans so far. Niftiness.

An altogether successful foray was made last night into the neighboring sovereign state of Connecticut, wherein resides a middle-aged (or perhaps even old, by our national standards) university which is named Yale, after the institution’s early benefactor. Said place of higher learning is also home to the burgeoning second chapter of the greatest society ever to have graced the University and Royal Burgh of St Andrews. It was in such a capacity that I was invited along to a moderately informal and very cheerful evening. (more…)

Here’s a glimpse of life at St Andrews and elsewhere. Most of them I took, though some were stolen from Clara and elsewhere. Above are Fraulein von Hauch and Mrs. Freeburn after having divided a chocolate bunny for their own consumption. (more…)

Well the new year is finally upon us. I am very glad to say that this New Year’s Eve has been a very quiet and reserved one, perhaps appropriately enough given the recent catastrophes in Asia and Argentina. The hour was met calmly and quietly with Mom, Pop, Uncle Ed, and the requisite bottle of Veuve-Cliquot.

I previously had designs upon the usual rites of greeting the new year down in Manhattan, but found myself there last night (Dec 30) instead. Fellow Thorntonian Lev Trubkovich had a little event at his apartment in Stuyvesant Town — ostensibly to celebrate the recent Ukrainian highjinks — and I decided to be social for once and attend. Besides, there was pasta and chianti on offer, and I’ve rarely been one to turn down a free meal, even if it is at 11:00pm or thereabouts. There were in attendance an inordinate number of Columbians, but they seemed of a generally jovial character so it was all for the better really.

Last New Year’s Eve was spent in Pipa, a bar on 19th, with Clara and Lucas de Soto and a few others, and was altogether a much enjoyed evening. But this year having been out the previous night I hadn’t the stamina to go out tonight. I am, only somewhat regretably, becoming an old man.

And speaking of fellow members of the prematurely old, I had the immense pleasure of lunching just the other day with the one and only James J. Feddeck, that great proponent of Teutonic and Christian values. James is soldiering on as one of three or four conservatives at Oberlin College in Ohio. I am told that they meet secretly in a dimly-lit boiler room from time to time to watch the Fox News Channel, read the gender-specific translations of the Holy Bible, and fawn over portrait photographs of the late President Reagan. They are hoping the janitors do not find them out and report them to the President of the College, who, the day after the presidential election, sent out an official college e-mail to all the students, faculty, and staff assuaging them for the country’s loss, encouraging them to keep on trying, and telling them the election result shouldn’t dampen the Oberlin College spirit. Absolute insanity. Completely against the spirit of sportsmanship and fair play, if you ask me.

Herr Feddeck is also saddened that the new minister in charge of Village Lutheran is rather low-church. I thenceforth extolled the virtues of Rome, and he grumbled somewhat accordingly – albeit with a slight chagrin.

I’ve occasionally said that I don’t truly feel that I’ve returned home until I’ve heard the incantation of “Asperges me” at the 11:00am Mass at St Agnes, and I was most glad to have done so last Sunday. I rather regret that the obligation for tommorrow’s feast (today’s by now) is moved to Sunday, as we could all really do with some more time at Mass in our lives.

Well then, I guess I’d better wish you all the best for a blessed and joyful new year.

We remember those who have died this passed year, most especially Diane Gannon, my godmother, and Marylynn Heaton, my cousin. Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them. May they rest in peace. Amen.

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