How splendid it will be to return home for Christmas! However, I still have a few days here in St Andrews and a few tasks to get done as well. Breakfast with Nicholas Vincent (Architecture writer for the Mitre) tommorrow. A pint with Chris Pollard sometime in there. Lunch with Tom Leppard, St Andrews’ favourite champagne socialist, Thursday. I told Alex Matzdorf and Ed Jackson both I’d have coffee with them sometime, and hopefully I will in the next three days.

Today was my last academic bit, a celebratory affair marking the final seminar for the ‘Monarchy, Church, and State’ course with Dr. Bradley (seen at right, Kirkin’ it up). It was somewhat embarassing as I was about fifteen minutes late since I stopped to buy sherry for the seminar. There is something moderately amusing about walking into of the rooms in St. Mary’s quad with a bottle of sherry and getting a round of applause. In addition to my sherry, there were other beverages including non-alcoholic mulled wine (NON-ALCOHOLIC MULLED WINE! That’s right, there were Protestants afoot).

We were supposed to be covering what will be on the exam, but that pretty much came down to “There will be nine questions to choose from and you’ve had nine seminars. Study them all.” It may be very well for me, but others have dissertations to write, poor souls! Nonetheless, Dr. Bradley insisted the latest Mitre be passed around as he found our editorial rather intriguing. Of course the triumvirate of young Baptist ladies in the corner went straight for Za-Za Shelly’s article on bras. (Have to have something in the Mitre for the fair ones to read). Graham Booth volunteered himself as sports writer.

Already have my first appointment for home. Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols at St Thomas on Sunday. Brenner and I will be going, providing I have any energy left after flying home the previous evening, and hopefully we’ll be able to track down James Feddeck – the man himself – to come along. Ah, but I’m not really home until I hear the euphonic incantation of Asperges me at the 11 o’clock Mass at St Agnes.

Thanksgiving is one of the things you miss most when you’re abroad. A., Chris, Dave, Jenny, and Za-Za were kind enough to host a Thanksgiving at their residence on Queens Gardens last Friday, since we don’t get Thanksgiving Day itself off. (more…)

Having left the West Bank, it appears that Yasser Arafat has aspirations to join Team Zissou.

Boy did we have a blast last night! Bishop Rifan of Campos swung by Edinburgh on his tour of the United Kingdom (organised by Una Voce Scotland and the British Friends of Campos), and I was among a number of St Andreans lucky enough to make his aquaintance and receive the episcopal blessing.

It began with a Pontifical Low Mass at the Church of St Andrew in Ravelston, Edinburgh. The church is a wooden structure that would not look out of place in the Catskills or Adirondacks. In fact, it somewhat reminded me of the Chapel at Camp Jeanne d’Arc, where my sister spent her summers growing up. Such a setting in addition to the Mass being in the old rite slightly assuaged my permanent yearning for New York. (more…)

Woke up at 9:00 this morning and had ‘breakfast’ at the Northpoint Café with C.. I put the word in quotations because breakfast ought to imply a meal, but owing to the Northpoint’s scant menu, breakfast meant buttered toast and a pot of tea. At least it was only £2.00.

The topics of conversation were of the usual C. n’ Cusack ilk: How ridiculous Britain is, how brilliant the States are, delving into meaningless and ultimately feckless points of argument, hoping for the downfall of world Islam, and recalling past misadventures as well as plotting new ones.

I think the only reason we ever have breakfast at the Northpoint is because Afghan president Hamid Karzai had tea there when he was in town last year, and Chris has some sort of bizarre fascination with this.

“French Algeria 1830-1962” was at 11:00am, with Dr. Stephen Tyre. A fascinating class of five students which we usually manage to steer onto some even more fascinating tangent, which itself usually tangentalizes onto football somehow. Today was all about Abd el-Qadir and his jihad. We also discussed an Islamic figure in 1840’s Algeria who claimed his goat was the Prophet Mohammed and sparked a brief uprising. Oh those wacky savages and their messianic goats!

Read quite a lot during the afternoon, had spaghetti bolognese from Pizza Connection across the street (since Jocelyn has Mondays off), and then popped down to the Cellar Bar for a pint of de Konick with Robert O’Brien, Maria Bramble, “Ishmael”, and Jon Burke – an assemblage which ought to be collectively known as the Inappropriate Joke Squadron. Classic.

“Monarchy, Church, and State” tommorrow with the indomitable Rev. Dr. Ian C. Bradley. I think I shall have to abandon or change my Hapsburg essay plans owing to lack of adequate sources.

Last night I had a few people over for dinner and drinks that lasted until 1:00am. Jocelyn, our trusted agent of culinary perfection, and Jenny, whose ancestors had beastly things done to them by Chinese pirates, cooked up a splendid shepherd’s pie. On the receiving end of said pie were fellow American Rob (one of Jocie’s choir friends), apostate Catholic and former Literary Society president David Taylor, Mitre associate editor and former Catholic Society president Robert O’Brien, his fiancée and my good friend Maria Bramble, current Catholic Society president Matthew Gorrie, California’s prettiest Antiochian Orthodox girl Abigail Hesser (engaged to an Aussie), and Connecticut’s prettiest Choate grad, Kat ‘Kiki’ Murphy.

Jocie and Jenny left for the Byre shortly after dinner to meet up with a friend of theirs. We were then joined by traditionalist/OTC/Old Cliftonian Jon Burke and the legendary Blackpudlian, “Ishmael”.

I think we got through four or five bottles of wine if not more, at least one bottle of port, and luckily not too much of my whiskey. We just about went through our entire retinue of politically-incorrect jokes as well. One of the highlights of the evening was getting the former ‘most enthusiastic man in St Andrews’ on the phone: none other than the great Peter Cox. We had all had a fair amount to drink and decided calling Brussels wasn’t a bad idea. True to form, Peter Cox was enthusiastic as ever, explained that he is organising things for the upcoming World Youth Day and working in a youth hostel to pay the bills. The man is brilliant.

We listened to half of Bach’s Mass in B Minor, our favourite Breton/French hip-hop/jazz group Manau and the obligatory Smashing Pumpkins.

One of my flatmates left his KK tie lying around, and Jon Burke decided to put it on. Fair enough. Unfortunately, Burke forgot he had it on, left my place and proceeded to Ma Bell’s – one of the preferred night spots for members of the Kate Kennedy Club. Of course the first KKer who observed Jon and his illegitimate usage of club neckware gave him a right verbal bollicking. Still, nothing nearly as bad as what happened when Paul Pennyfeather ran into the inebriated members of the Bollinger Club wearing his old school tie which was surprising similar to that of the Bollingers. This, of course, took place at Scone College, Oxford in Evelyn Waugh’s Decline and Fall.

David Taylor agreed to write a piece on Derrida for the next Mitre, although it’ll probably be fawning. The current crisis in modern poetry was discussed, and it was agreed that Milton is more important than Shakespeare.

“Yeah, Abby. That’s about as funny as the sack of Constantinople.”
– “Ishmael”

“I hope his gerbils get better by Septuagesima.”
– E.S.

A palace coup has taken place and I have been forcibly removed from the Committee of the Literary Society. Which is fair enough. Last term I just turned up to their AGM for the free wine and to make fun of David Taylor, and somehow ended up on the committee. Besides, at the Kens club committee meeting last night, I was put on the subcommittee to organize the Christmas charity event, along with Second Lieutenant Cockburn and Herr Wyss.

Had a brilliant time at Rob’s last night on Hepburn Gardens. Maria, “Ishmael”, and I were over for dinner from 8:00 until midnight. Great conversation as always, and laughter barreling through the night. Not to mention the food was excellent. I have the utmost appreciation for those who can cook, owing to my complete incompetence in the field.

I may be taking up gardening, however, as Maria Christina has waggled me into volunteering to help out with the parish garden. I explained I know nothing about gardening, but it really couldn’t hurt to try.

Kat Murphy is a riot. We were playing Scrabble the other day in Sallies and she just said the funniest things. Sadly, I can’t remember any of them. Sic transit gloria.

Sarah Laurence Goodwin is organising a production of Our Town. Grovers Corners meets St Andrews. An interesting combination. I can rather picture the old church ladies from Holy Trin singing ‘Blest Be The Tie That Binds’. Last time I visited that little corner of New Hampshire was at Bronxville High School, with Julie McAllister as the narrator, Emma Haberl as someone, and I’m pretty sure Caroline Gill was in it too (Oh, Caro!).

Last night I attended the ordinary session of the University of St Andrews Union Debating Society. It was an altogether so-so debate, (This House Believes Harry Potter is A Danger to sometherother) with the first proposition rather overwhelming the three other speakers.

The most interesting aspect was Mr. Ralph Covino in the Chair, since the Convenor of the UDS, Mr. Peter Blair, was second prop. Mr. Covino showed himself very capable of such a task, and handled the Chair with alacrity.

My only criticism was when he mistook a portrait for Andrew Carnegie for the Marquess of Bute, which is actually all the way towards the back. It hangs approximate to the portrait of Field Marshal Jan Christiaan Smuts, replete with the coats of arms of the University (of which he was Lord Rector) and the Union of South Africa (of which he was Prime Minister — twice). (more…)

Last week, Robert O’Brien and two of his old school friends from Manchester (or thereabouts) gathered in the Cellar Bar along with the brilliant Miss Maria Bramble (the future Mrs. O’Brien), the inimitable Mr. Donald Renouf (aka Donocle the Monocle), and myself.

A good time was had by all, and I even got to try on the legendary monocle. A bit tricky trying to keep a monocle in one’s eye. Donald has had it for years, so is much more used to it.

Well my godson is excommunicate. Having become a Freemason, he has now decided to attend the high Anglican church in town instead of the Catholic parish (Which at least is preferable to his remaining a Freemason and claiming to be a Catholic).

His godmother (a good friend of mine) and I tried to postpone his entry into the Church because we were afraid just this kind of thing would happen. We didn’t think three months of instruction were enough, but at the end of the day, we thought he was completely on board.

Everything else seems to be going fairly well though, minus the grim weather that hangs round these parts this time of year. Ah, to be in New England this time of year, rather than old Scotland.

Also, Tori informs me that Michael Davies has died, so we must all say a few prayers on his behalf at the next opportunity.

On a lighter note, Fr. Patrick Burke’s talk last night at Canmore went exceptionally well. The subject was “Can We Prove the Existence of God?” and Fr. Burke handled the matter with his usual alacrity and humour.

For those who don’t know of Fr. Burke, he is a graduate of St Andrews, having been Convenor of the Union Debating Society during his tenure as an undergraduate. He then went on to the Pontifical Scots College, I believe, and then the Gregorian. Fr. Burke is currently editor of Faith magazine and a parish priest in the Archdiocese of St Andrews.

Fr. Burke is one of our most popular speakers, evidenced by the fact that the Common Room at Canmore was filled to capacity, with three or four others standing in the hallway outside. Next week is Fr. Luiz Ruscillo, also of the Faith movement, also one of our popular speakers. Also, Fr. Luiz has only recently taken up saying the Tridentine rite.

If any of you receive Mass of Ages, the very well-produced magazine of the Latin Mass Society of England and Wales, you will no doubt have noticed an article on the Schola Cantorum Universitate Sancti Andreae – aka Scusa, Sophie von Hauch’s splendiferous chant choir. Definitely worth a read.

That’s all for now. There’s work to be done…

A band of merrie gentlemen haunt the Lizard Lounge late on a Thursday evening. (more…)

More Yale fun today, and because I was stupid enough to leave the top bit of our brewing apparatus back home, I shall be up again tommorrow evening.

Quite sadly, thanks to traffic on I-95, we missed our reservation for luncheon at Mory’s, and so ate at a more than satisfactory Italian place instead. Nothing like penne basilico and a bloody mary on a Saturday afternoon in New Haven, eh?

Nonetheless, Adam and his friend Neer have an exceptional apartment on Park Street in New Haven, just across the street from Yale’s Pierson College. It’s on the top floor, giving it a great view of some gothic towers, and its got some some neo-classical woodwork to boot.

However the best thing of all about the apartment is that the previous owners, for no known reason, left a two-seater choir pew on the fire escape. With misericords and everything, although not ornate. Robert O’Brien would be jealous. So today we dusted the thing off, cleaned it up, and hauled it into the apartment. It fits in perfectly, especially since it blends in with all the woodwork.

I mean really, what luck! I doubt when I move into our flat in Southgait Hall in a few weeks that there will be any random ecclesiastical furnishings lying about from previous occupants. Of course, within a few days of us living there it will no doubt be full of Leon’s army things, Y*****’s art, and my newspapers.

Adam’s filling out his law school applications, and Neer his medical school applications, and it being their last year, I offered to take the choir pew off their hands once the academic year is over. Perhaps then I shall turn my room into a would-be Pluscarden.

Well folks, another entry is long overdue, and it will surprise you not that my computer is still out. As such, the unanswered emails are piling high, but I promise they will be taken care of.

Reading.

I’ve finished Buckley’s Miles Gone By and I have to say I found it immensely enjoyable. It is a collection of biographical musings from across the years, akin to his previous Nearer, My God. The former, I’m glad to report, avoids the slight haphazardness of the latter, perhaps because it is much longer and the selections included are well grouped. One of the tales which I particularly enjoyed was of WFB and Brent Bozell (whose brother is in Solesmes) at Yale. WFB and some cronies had piled there money together to purchase an aircraft, which Buckley and Bozell one day landed on the great lawn of the Ethel Walker School, where Buckley’s younger sister was studying. Upon disembarking the aircraft, they were promptly invited to tea with the headmistress. The audio CD which accompanies the book is a mere fancy.

Of Paradise and Power was particularly enlightening. Though Mr. Kagan’s general supposition about the difference in American and European worldviews (as well as Europe achieving a Kantian perpetual peace only by existing under the wing of the United States, a Hobbesian leviathan) seems quite well thought out, I did find myself disagreeing with one or two of his conclusions. Plus it irritated me when he referred to Britons as Europeans. Such silliness.

Speaking of silliness, I’ve started reading Wodehouse. Bought Young Men in Spats, a collection of tales from the Drones Club, and a volume of three of the Jeeves-and-Wooster novels. So far, both are thoroughly enjoyable.

et cetera…

I was very pleased to catch up with Mr. Nicholas Merrick last night, via whom I also ran into Mssrs. Simon Tuchman and Steven Lagotte. Good old Nicholas, I’m very pleased to say, is not a Buddhist as was previously thought for some unknown reason, and Deo gratias Simon is no longer of the Marxian persuasion in terms of economic thought and whatnot. Floreat Thorntona!

Michael Ulsterman (as he is known to me), our favourite Oirishman, was in town recently and I was very pleased enough to take him out for a bite at Café Lalo, one of Manhattan’s finest eateries (as well as the locale where I inadvertently stood up Brearley girl Buffy Breed on accounts of my not knowing what day of the week it was). Michael, though a liberal, is a Unionist through-and-through, and has a very sharp, sardonic wit that I hope will soon grace the pages of the Mitre. I think the first time I went to Lalo’s was with Jessy Lewis, Jessie Smyth, and Peter Scott (and was the other Peter there as well?). Jessy is now at Brown, which I’m informed she is enjoying much more than her premier year at Barnard; I just spoke to young lady Smyth (Univ. of Penn.) a week or so ago; and last I heard of Peter Scott he was on the May Ball committee at King’s College Cambridge. Not bad, not bad at all.

Particularly enjoyed the recent Kens Club correspondence.

Got to chat with Nicholas Vincent on his birthday (Aug 1) whilst he was minding Japanese children in Oxford with the indefatigable D. P. Atheist Mr. Vincent threatened to don shorts to evensong at Christ Church Cathedral, but Mr. Prior threatened a walloping and Nicholas was brought into line. (I know! Shorts at evensong! What will they think of next?)

Lastly, and mournfully…

Our prayers go out to Lindsay Mucka, whose father died only a few days ago. Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon him. May he rest in peace. Amen.

Behold, the only photo ever smuggled out of a Kensington Club dinner. Alright, I’ll admit it’s not a terribly interesting photo, but it’s the only one, so you’ll pardon that. I’m actually somewhat surprised I wasn’t fined a bottle of port or two for this, but I felt as a historian there ought to be some proof that the Kensington Club actually exists.

Here Ed Jackson turns to Rob Cockburn who explained some point about something. On the peripheral left is Michael Phillips, and on the dexter, Michael Gaster’s right arm (if my knowledge of the seating that evening is correct, which is doubtful).

Kens Club dinners are good fun, usually lasting from about seven-thirty until midnight, and they would be longer if only the Golf Hotel would oblige to keep its dining room open.

Well they always get a mention in the Mitre so I reckoned it was time the University of St Andrews Clay Pigeon Club got a mention on andrewcusack.com. Seen here are Grant Thomson and Jonny Armstrong displaying the new gun purchased with a grant from the Rector’s Fund.

The Rector, of course, is Sir Clement Freud, OBE, who during his long life has been a soldier, restauranteur, dog-food promoter, Member of Parliament, ‘relative of most other people named Freud’, and of course, the Honorary Chairman of a certain St Andrews secret society that shall not be named.

Jonny, above on the right, is an all-around nice guy and was a source of good conversation at a recent Dashwood Club luncheon, along with the legend of all legends C. L. whose graduation a few days ago marks a tremendous loss to la société des amusantes in St Andrews.

Among Charlie’s efforts are his attempts to have Queen Victoria disinterred. Lush thinks she had a bastard child after dear Albert died, I think. Charlie’s not the only one who wants to dig up the Imperatrix. Apparently some Hannoverians think she may have been illegitimate herself, which would mean that they are still the rightful heirs to the crown of the United Kingdom. Germans coming over to take the throne of England, again? That thought alone may keep Victoria in the ground.

Thanks to our Hollandic foundation, Saint Nicholas is the patron saint of New York. The Saint Nicholas Center has a great website telling you all about good Saint Nick, including this page with tips for celebrating the Saint from none other than the great Joanna Bogle.

Joanna is a brilliant woman who I had a great conversation with after her talk ‘Does the Catholic Church Oppress Women?’ at Canmore during Martinmas term. Mrs. Bogle (whose other half is Jamie Bogle, another UK activist who has visited St Andrews) is a no-nonsense public speaker as well as a brilliant journalist covering issues relating to ethics, conception-to-natural-death, the Church, and women, her most interesting work being on culture. I hope to purchase her Book of Feasts and Seasons sometime soon.

His feast, December 6, is also the birthday of Miss Sofie von Hauch, good friend and Scandinavian femme fatale of polyphony who will be forever remembered for bringing Latin back into our parish’s liturgy at university.

Well today was graduation day at good ole Thornton-Donovan. A chance to see some faces old and new. I was very pleased that the Rev. Benoit van Lesberghe‘s heavenly opening Invocation ended with “we make this prayer in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.” [See Touchstone’s Mere Comments on public prayer, and the necessity for Christians’ prayers to be unmistakably Christian in nature.]

Mr. George Herbert Peabody Brokaw, a real great guy from an old Huguenot family, was the valedictorian, and Miss Kelly Ann Webster, whom I was formerly engaged to (jokingly), was salutatorian. George, Kelly, and I were in Ecclesiastical Architecture together during my final year. That was a great class during which much mischief was had by all. It was held in the La Rochelle room, which has a beautiful yellow fleur-de-lys pattern on blue carpet.

Mr. Cove turned up in his old Morgan, pink trousers, purple sunglasses, and handlebar moustache. I believe he currently has possession of a certain flask gifted to me that I have yet to receive. I am currently fostering plans for its speedy reposession.

(more…)

THE SCENE: The Headmaster’s Office. The walls are glass-covered bookshelves with oak trim with intricate plasterwork on the ceiling. The room is full of books, paintings, artifacts from around the world. (e.g.: A carved jade chess set from Yucatan). The HEADMASTER is a grey-haired gentleman heading towards the evening of his life, seated in a comfortable chair behind his large desk. MR. CUSACK is seated in one of two seats on the other side of the desk.

HEADMASTER: Heh, watch this.

He picks up the phone, dials 4-1-1, then hits the Speakerphone function.

OPERATOR NO. 1: (aloud) City and state please?

HEADMASTER: Uh, correct!

OPERATOR NO. 1: One moment, please.

(Pause)

OPERATOR NO. 2: What listing?

HEADMASTER: Hello, I was wondering if you can help me. I’m looking for my socks.

OPERATOR NO. 2: I’m sorry, Sir?

HEADMASTER: My socks, do you have any idea where my socks are?

OPERATOR NO. 2: Sir, I have no idea where your socks are.

HEADMASTER: Well, I really need to find them.

OPERATOR NO. 2: Sir, you do realise you’re paying for this call?

HEADMASTER: Not as much as I paid for those socks! I’d really like to know where they are!

OPERATOR NO. 2: Sir, I can’t help you find your socks. You’re paying for this call.

HEADMASTER: You should be grateful!

(Click. OPERATOR NO. 2 has disconnected.)

HEADMASTER, with shocked expression, turns to MR. CUSACK and points to phone in hand: She’s not grateful.

MR. CUSACK nods approvingly.

Langston Fishburne is probably one of the most fascinating people I know. He always adds that extra bit of surrealism to an everyday situation to make it extraordinary. Among his many achievements, he is the only person to have pinched Sarah S.’s bottom on three different continents. A ballet dancer as well as a keen equestrian despite his ghastly horse allergy, Langston tells me that he has inherited my old Math textbook under the tutelage of the infamous Mr. Donald Johnson at TD.

I recall one day in the thoroughly uninspiring refectory of the aforementioned academy, Langston and I convinced Thomas Mills that Langston’s father was known around the world as the premier builder and designer of aquariums, rather than the award-winning thespian that he actually is. Tom seemed rather upset to find out Langston’s father is not, nor has ever been, an aquarium impresario.

Nevertheless, Mr. Fishburne fancies himself a writer, and we look forward to the day we shall be able to read his first novel Diary of a Nomad in print. Here follows a synopsis:

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