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…)

Jon Burke (aka ‘Little Jon’ to distinguish him from ‘Big John’, Dr. John Lamont, the Gifford Research Fellow) tries out a biretta whilst flipping through an old Mitre at the Societies Fair. (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.

Today has been altogether a wonderful day. The sky was slightly cloudy and the air had that simply brilliant, crisp, cool autumnal feel to it.

Luncheon with the Kens. Club at Broon’s lasted from 1:00pm to 4:00pm. Leek and Stilton soup with bread as a starter followed by a main course of chicken stuffed with mozzarella and wrapped in pancetta served with potatoes, and chocolate tart with vanilla ice cream to end it all. Coffee as a finale.

Discussed meta-narratives with the Club’s token postmodern deconstructivist Marxist, Mr. Thomas Leppard, as well as Mr. David Vinton’s summer on a tea plantation in India stomping around the premises on an elephant every afternoon. An informal motion was passed declaring the blunderbuss to be the official weapon of the Club.

An hour after luncheon had finally ended, there was the Vigil Mass, with the usual suspects over to Canmore for tea afterwards. Mr. Ryan Freeburn and myself discussed National Review, whilst Miss Katya Mouris and I discussed the Viceregal Salute of Canada (a fine country, despite being on the slow road to fascism). Mrs. Freeburn referred to the Great White North by the moniker of “Soviet Canuckistan” which I had not heard before.

Rob and Maria may be coming over late for a showing of Bon Voyage.

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…

Well, I have returned to the old gray town and it is much as I have left it. Our apartment is simply splendiferous and I’ve already got my Stars-and-Stripes, Union Jack, and Rhodesian flag hanging from the walls. It’s a bit messy, half-full bottles of absinthe, Bulgarian wine, and empty glasses and the like, but we make do.

Last night, at about two o’clock, we were invaded by a contingent of the Officer Training Corps which included the infamous Paddy Levack, our man David Watt, and a good few others, including Jen, Charlie, and Emma. A bit insane, but good fun nonetheless.

Have to get out the old gown and give it a good dust off, for there is a debate tonight. It’s on some ridiculous topic, but they’ve got good speakers lined up. Peter Blair and I had to truck up to Safeway today to purchase £61.87 worth of sherry and port for the event. No worries, the Union reimburses us.

Must go!

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

Photo: Peter Tweed

Just over a fortnight to go, but a number of things I miss about St Andrews:

The people (too many to mention), wearing academic gowns, torchlit processions, dinner parties, St. Salvator’s Chapel, three-piece suits at Chapel, lady preachers making fools of themselves at Chapel, the after-Chapel bit of sherry, tweed, the Kensington Club, tweed, the ruins of the Cathedral, tweed, the Pier, the East Sands, the West Sands, Castle Sands, the Castle, the Castle Tavern, the Central, Broon’s, Ma Bell’s, not so much the Westport but their beer garden instead, eating at the Golf Hotel, reading the magazines in the common room of Canmore, reading everything else in the library of Canmore, big dinner thursdays, avoiding the Students Union at all costs, Queens Gardens, the Quarto, the Bouquiniste, chips, the late movie on Wednesday nights, anything and everything Richard Demarco is involved in, plotting reaction, writing the Mitre, reading the Mitre, reactions to the Mitre, St. Leonard’s Chapel, candlelit compline, the Scores, Boots’ meal deal, the evangelists in the streets, Parliament Hall, St. Mary’s Quad, St. Katharine’s Lodge, St. John’s House, the King James Library, the Bunk Room in St. Mary’s, Professor Haldane’s house, the hallway chat after the daily Rosary, the Parish garden, Fr. Halloran’s black vestments and the fact that he still uses them, the Latin Mass in Edinburgh and everything that goes with it, the Telegraph, the Spectator, making fun of people, being made fun of, evensong at Holy Trinity, the Renaissance Group, St. Salvator’s Hall, Hamilton Hall, University Hall, Lower College Hall, the Old Union Diner, Butts Wynd, St. Salvator’s Quad, North Street, Market Street, South Street, the Pends, the Cemetary, the cloister, the chapter house, driving up and down the Fife coast, awkward people, the Whiskey-tasting Society (oh boy!), unapologetic support for the monarchy, international diplomacy, an appreciation for Chesterton, representing New York abroad, beautiful and charming South African tutors, Dean’s Court, champagne, the Royal & Ancient, innocent decadence, Kinburn Park and the lawn bowling club, Bishop Kennedy’s tomb, the Buchanan, falling asleep in lectures, doing the crossword in lectures, inscribing the Sacred Heart of Jesus, monarchist slogans, or anachronistic pro-Rhodesian graffiti onto lecture hall desktops, tea after Mass, Country Life, the Kate Kennedy Procession, buying the papers at J+G Innes, formal events, wearing the old school tie, the Annual Boules Match in St. Mary’s College, the Younger Hall, plotting to start a croquet club, people willing to sacrifice their lives for their country, my complete inability to write an essay without Jameson’s, paninis from Cherries, Luvian’s wine shop, all the alleyways, the Byre Theatre, the bar at the Byre, Pimm’s on the lawn, Christianity being taken seriously, incessantly amusing people, life in St Andrews. Life in St Andrews!

The Scotsman has given in to the current Fleet Street mania and become a tabloid. The newspaper had experimented with the tabloid size for its Saturday edition and then just a few days ago converted the weekday editions as well.

For my fellow Americans in the audience, a little explanation. Going tab is all the rage amongst respectable newspapers in Britain over the past year. The ancient Times of London comes in both broadsheet and tabloid format. The Independent was the first broadsheet to publish both a broadsheet and tabloid edition, and then decided to become a permanent tabloid. The Guardian, to my knowledge, has kept out of the tabloid fray, and the venerable Daily Telegraph remains commited to broadsheetism.

The benefits of publishing in tabloid size are that the newspaper is easier to handle and read. Financially, however, it means page size, and thus potential advertising space, is reduced by half.

I am not a fan of this tabloid revolution. I fantasize periodically about the Mitre being published in broadsheet format instead of A4. Perhaps my anti-tabloidism is culturally ingrained. After all, we Anglophones are used to the formula of broadsheet = trustworthy. This formula is not true, for example, in France, where the two main respectable newspapers, le Figaro and le Monde, are printed in a format slightly smaller than the standard US/UK tabloid.

Nonetheless, one of the aspects of broadsheets that I enjoy is that they aren’t easy to read on subways and whatnot. It’s best to sit down in a comfortable chair in a well-lit location and peruse the goings-on and thoughts of New York, the nation, and the world in the New York Sun than to get tiny bits of news in a “convenient” format.

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.

A beautiful shot of sunset through the Harkness Tower at Yale. Edward Harkness paid for the Harkness Memorial Quadrangle to be built in memory of his brother Charles, who died during the Great War. In addition to being a significant benefactor of Yale and St. Paul’s School, both of which he graduated from, he was also a patron of the University of St Andrews, where he was good friends with Principal Sir James Irvine.

At St Andrews, he built St. Salvator’s Hall, the first hall of residence for men since the end of the residential aspect of the colleges, as well as funding the renovation of the St. Salvator’s Chapel. His generosity is commemorated by a window in the chapel.

The trust he established also later paid for the restoration of St. Leonard’s Chapel, which had been abandoned in the middle of the nineteenth century.

Was feeling a bit nostalgic for St Andrews. Won’t be heading back until Sept. 20, so I figured I’d put up a photo of fellow St Andreans and me with jovial countenances.

And the mantle from my room the past year. For a closer up look at the random items including architectural books, John le Carré novels, the program from the Knights of Malta ball, a bottle of cheap red, the Penguin editions of Gerald of Wales, and Alfred the Great, and R.G. Cant’s history of St. Salvator’s College, click here.

Yesterday, the University officially announced that it has decided to sell Hamilton Hall, the iconic red-brick residence hall that overlooks the Royal and Ancient Golf Club and the 18th hole of the Old Course.

No surprise to Mitre-readers, as we reported this possibility before any other newspaper (university or otherwise) over four months ago, in our edition of March 2, 2004 (see at right).

I have to admit, losing Hamilton is slightly saddening, but having only been acquired in 1949 it is not an historic part of the University, as Finance Derek Watson points out in the press release. Nonetheless, if it does become a hotel, old students coming back years from now will be able to stay in their old rooms.

It’s a good move by the university, and the developers who want to buy it have guaranteed to provide newly-built accomodation before the sale goes through. The only trouble with this is that it seems unlikely this accomodation will be in town. Thus we may have another Fife Park/DRH situation on our hands. University Hall was far enough for me when I lived there!

The Royal & Ancient on the left, and Hamilton Hall on the right.

“When in the Course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature’s God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.”

Two-hundred-and-twenty-eight years ago today, three men with degrees from St Andrews signed the Declaration of Independence, and thus the United States were born (or so the story goes; their independence was only properly established in 1783). Those three were Mr. Benjamin Franklin (Hon. LLD, 1759), Mr. James Wilson (M.A., 1762), and the Rev. John Witherspoon (D.Div., 1764). Rev. Witherspoon was President of Princeton University from 1768 to his death in 1794, whereas Wilson became a justice of the Supreme Court after it was established. Both Franklin and Wilson went on to sign the Constitution as well, two of only eight people who signed both.

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.

The greatest university in the world finally gets recognition in American news for granting Bob Dylan an honorary doctorate, of all things. It’s only the second honorary degree he’s accepted, the other being from Princeton (one of those newfangled schools here in the New World). Nonetheless, there’s Sir Ken capping the new Dr. Dylan and Jim Douglas, one of the nicest people I’ve met, about to give him his doctoral hood. Huzzah for St Andrews. And huzzah for Dr. Bob Dylan, even though I don’t like his music. Here is the AP’s take on events.

I have just checked my results on the Student Portal and it turns out that I have passed every single course this term. “Big deal!” you cry? Well it is a big deal for we, the generally disinclined to work. Especially since I took one more course than usual each term this academic year to make up for the failures of my first year.

This means that I have passed my first two years of university and am now into honours. Thus, God willing, in two years time I shall be Andrew K.B. Cusack, M.A. (Hons) St Andrews.

I’d like to thank all my staff, most especially my secretary, Miss Alexandra Jennings, and my cook, Miss Jocelyn Archer, for selflessly contributing to the Cusack effort and ensuring that Candlemas Term 2004 was a resounding success.

Instagram: @andcusack

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