THE ROYAL BURGH of St Andrews was recently host to the largest gathering of heralds since the Middle Ages for the XXVII International Congress of Genealogical and Heraldic Sciences. Taking place in the last week of August, the Congress was opened with a grand ceremony in the University’s Younger Hall which was attended and addressed by the XXVII Congress’s patron, the Princess Royal (Scottish arms below). The event lured state heralds, genealogists, heraldists, and other enthusiasts from around the world, as well as local heralds from the Court of Lord Lyon (Scotland’s heraldic authority) and the personal heralds of Scots noble houses. Aside from the ceremonial, a broad variety of lectures were given on various topics in the realm of heraldry and genealogy. We present to you here a number of photographs from the event, which have been taken from the Congress website as well as from the personal collections of Mr. John Gaylor, a member of the Heraldry Society of Scotland, and Mr. David Appleton of the American Heraldry Society.

THE ORIGIN OF THE SLOW MOTION PICTURE

Study of two Scotsmen, having dined together, reaching for the bill.

H.M. Bateman

I’ve always had suspicions about my friend Dr. Jens Timmerman, a Göttingen/Balliol man and the Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung‘s only subscriber in the Royal Burgh of St Andrews. He clearly has some Strangelovian blood in his veins.

One of the best things about Jens (apart from being a man of erudition and taste) is his refusal to give in to the low standard of propriety maintained by students; especially the practice of arriving for his lecture, picking up the handout, and leaving immediately. One day he made a fake handout and waited for the lazybones to leave before distributing the real handout to the remnant. It included, under ‘Further Reading’, a guide to manners and etiquette. Also, I am informed that whenever a mobile phone goes off during one of his lectures he pronounces “Please turn off your walkie-talkies!”

In Which the Degree of Magister Artium is Conferred Upon the Author

The reader is no doubt anxious to hear about the recent goings-on within the Royal Burgh of St Andrews, that ‘auld grey toon’, relating and pertaining to the awarding of a degree to yours truly in recompense for four arduous years of undergraduate study, and so I bring it upon myself to relate a chronicle of said events.

The Saturday preceding graduation week, I was sitting enjoying a cup of tea with young Miss Dempsey in the Common Room of Canmore on the Scores when I gazed out the window and chanced upon my own dear uncle, Col. Matthew Cusack himself, gazing back at me with surprise. I rushed outside to greet him and invited him in to Canmore to introduce him to Clare before continuing back outside to seek the remainder of my visiting relatives due to arrive. We found them all (bar my brother Airman Matthew Cusack, who would arrive a few days later) around the corner up Murray Park, and it was then that I was first introduced to my dear little nephew Finn, merely a few weeks after his happy arrival. My mother, father, sister, brother-in-law, uncle, aunt, and second uncle all accompanied the little one, whom I have placed under the protection of St. Marcellinus. We made our way to the surprisingly commodious house on the Scores which we rented for the duration of the week and settled down in our temporary abode. (more…)

Sentenced to life…

The University of St Andrews Students Association has apparently decided to reward my tireless efforts towards the embetterment of my fellow St Andreans with Honorary Life Membership of that body. I find it rather nice and very amusing, not to mention ironic, being as a central part of said tireless efforts has been waging intellectual warfare against the Students Association. I asked those in the know (chiefly my former secretary, Miss Alexandra Jennings, who formerly held positions in the Association) and apparently I’ve been on the list to receive one since second year, except they’re only given to graduating magistrands (that’s fourth-years, ye laymen) so I had to wait until now for it. I assume it is in recognition for my foundation of the Mitre, the first quality student newspaper at the University of St Andrews in some many years. Alas, the Mitre was laid to rest owing to my dissertation work, but it just might be revived by the legendary Jon Burke and some of his crew next year. (Watch this space!). The ever-charming Miss Alexandra Harrod will also receive an Honorary Life Membership, so at least I’ll have someone to chat with at the ceremony next week. I wonder if I get to adoptd H.L.M as postnominals?

A degree

Speaking of postnominals, I’ve finally earned myself some. As of just a few days ago I am now Andrew K. B. Cusack, M.A. (Hons). The Universitas Doctorum Magistrorum et Scholarum Sancti Andreae apud Scotos has seen fit to award me with the title of Magister Artium, or to be more precise a Master of the Arts (Honours, Second Class, Division II). This degree is more commonly referred to as a 2:2, nicknamed a ‘Desmond’ after the former Archbishop of Cape Town, Desmond Tutu. I am very glad, even a little surprised, to be getting my degree on time in the allotted four years, but I must confess I am mildly disappointed with the 2:2. Evelyn Waugh was famously of the opinion that one should get either a First or a Fourth. Fourths have since been abolished on the grounds that they might hurt someone’s feelings, and thus Seconds became 2:1’s, Thirds became 2:2’s, and Fourths became Thirds. Firsts, naturally, remain Firsts, and chiefly go to two categories of persons: 1) Complete bores who do nothing but sit in the library, studying, revising, and doing lots of work, and 2) Interesting and rather clever people who say to themselves “Hmmm… think I’ll go for a first” and do. 2:1’s, then, have rather become the standard degree, awarded to most students. I, as stated, have been awarded the 2:2, which is the St Andrews equivalent of the Gentleman’s C. It shows you were either too busy with either your own individual research outwith the academic curriculum or you just couldn’t be bothered to waste your hours on academic work. I think I’m guilty on both counts. The Third, then, is the lowest of the low, but has a certain cachet about it for that. Certainly a number of stupid people get thirds, but then a number of clever folks do as well, and they have every right to wear it as a badge of honour. At any rate, I’m very happy to have my degree at all, and an M.A. to boot. Beats all those lousy BAs and BScs my camarades back home are receiving. My graduation exercises (a mere formality, which disgusting modernists like Nicholas Vincent neglect to attend) take place the Thursday of next week, and a large delegation of the Clan Cusack are hopping the pond for the event. Rather looking forward to it, actually.

A good man and a brave man. May he rest in peace.

Brave student had heart set on Sandhurst (The Telegraph)
Cadet killed on train was role model for friends (The Times)
Stab victim, 19, died doing the right thing (The Daily Mail)
Tributes to train stabbing victim (BBC News)
The student who was stabbed for trying to break up a fight (The Independent)
Tributes to Hero Stabbed to Death on Train (The Daily Record)
Tributes for ‘joker’ Tom (The Sun)

This past Saturday we went on a little expedition to the neighbouring town of Cupar for the annual Fife Show put on by the Fife Agricultural Association. It was an excellent day which provided much joviality. The venison hamburgers were especially enjoyed; I hadn’t had one since I was in Vermont years ago. And naturally there were plenty of animals; sheep, cattle, horses, dogs, but sadly no pigs. (more…)

Today in Younger Hall I completed my very last university examination ever. Now all I need to do is graduate in the very same hall in June, and, of course, find some source of income. Thankfully, everyone’s been very helpful, realistic, and practical with career advice: they all see me as editor of the New Yorker. “Furry ’nuff,” I thought to myself, and dabbled into the realm of research by ‘logging on’ to that weekly’s internet presence wherein I discovered that the New Yorker not only already has an editor but it seems he has no intentions of relinquishing the position in the near future. Outrageous!

Well folks, what’s a lad to do?

Yours truly, Mr. J. Dunn, and Mr. H. Evans, taking part in the traditional torchlit procession which is part of the rectorial festivities.

Here at good old St Andrews we find ourselves thrust into the lens of the news camera, this time thanks to the Association of University Teachers strike. Basically, the AUT are on partial-strike (they won’t set exams and won’t grade papers) in hopes of better pay. The idea is that by the time exams come around in June the whole thing will be settled. Unfortunately, here in Scotland our exams our a month earlier in May, so there’s a good chance that the strike will disrupt some students’ exams.

To solve the quandary, the University decided to negotiate locally with the AUT chapter in St Andrews. After all, why should our superb institution be cast in with all the others? Well, the University administration made a good offer and the local chapter voted 94% in favor of the deal. Swell! At least it was until the national AUT came in and said “Sorry chaps, we’re invalidating your ballot. How many times do we have to tell you: don’t think for yourselves, just do as Union says!”

So BBC Scotland sent out their intrepid reporter to interview a few folks, and if you watch the video you can see the Younger Hall where I will be graduating in June. I will be graduating because not all the teachers are on strike. In fact, I think most St Andrews lecturers and tutors aren’t in the union. But it’ll still cause a right ruckus for some if the whole thing isn’t sorted out. The University will stick to the agreed pay deal nonetheless.

Local lecturer pay deals rejected, BBC News, click ‘ Views on the lecturers’ pay deal impasse’ on the right for the video.
March against exam papers action, BBC News, (same video link).

(more…)

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. (more…)

Spring has come late to Fife this year, but I do think we’re all the better for it. One appreciates so much more these spriteful spring days after a longer dark season, though in all honesty I already partly miss the many snowy days we enjoyed in St Andrews this winter. How splendid it is to warm oneself by the fire on a cold winter’s day, with a cup of coffee or a pint of ale and some Washington Irving to read. None of that today, however!

Quite a decent day, really. The eleven o’clock Mass saw a good friend received into the Church, followed by her Confirmation along with another friend of mine. After the post-Mass tea and coffee, myself, young McMorrin, Tom Howard, Adrian, Miss Brennan, Michelle, and Miss Dempsey got sandwiches from Cherries and enjoyed the sun-soaked ruins of the Cathedral cloister. I had a delicious honey mustard chicken and stuffing brown-bread baguette, splendidly washed down with a bottle of Old Speckled Hen. (more…)

A young lass of Ulster claims I look “adorably marriageble” in this photograph. (more…)

Hot dang, what a break! I am now safely entrenched in my humble little chamber in St. Salvator’s Hall, North Street, Royal Burgh of St. Andrews, Kingdom of Fife, Scotland, United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, God’s Own English-Speaking World, the Planet Earth, the Milky Way, the Universe, the Mind of God. The first week of my two-week vacation, you will no doubt recall, was spent in the Eternal City: Roma, Caput Mundi. I had not been to Europe in six years, I believe, and since that time the entire continent has adopted Monopoly Money as the official currency. Johnny Foreigner, what will he do next! Despite being in Europe, it is Rome after all, and thus both the birthplace and font of Western Civilization. A suitably humbling experience. Brilliant.

Then an exceedingly brief foray to Trinity College Dublin in our neighbourly Republic to have a few pints and some damn good laughs with one of the leaders of Youth Defence, Ireland’s main pro-life group, (I would give his name but it’s Gaelic and thus impossible to spell) and to hear an update on the general state of things large and small in Éire. Despite being civilised English-speakers over there, they seem to have adopted the Monopoly Money as well. Odd.

Then to Somerset (or ‘Zomerzet’ as the endearing locals call it) to the great Basilica and Monastery of Saint Gregory the Great, founded at Douai in France, removed to Acton Burnell in England to escape the nefarious and ungodly French Revolution, and currently located at a place most commonly called Downside. Our good friends Robert and Maria O’Brien upheld their usual high standard of entertainment. A week in the English countryside is a most enjoyable thing after having spent week on the Continent, perhaps even necessary. Last night, Jon and Abby joined us since they were in nearby Bristol and we all got drunk as lords. To top it all off, Pop called heralding the birth of Master Finn Daniel Larson, thus elevating me to Unclehood. Well, as you can imagine, we had even more to drink after hearing that news. Splendid!

Well friends, you can appreciate the need for a little rest and relaxation, even though I just spent a week resting and relaxing at Downside, so I will bid you adieu for now. You can expect a full report on our amazing Roman expedition within the next few days.

In a shocking defeat for the Hacks, Tom d’Ardenne has been elected President of the University of St Andrews Students Association, though not without a fight! First, the background.

What is the Hack? The Hack is a strange subspecies of human which populates the myriad committees and offices of the Students Union. They are vile, strange, self-delusional people who live in an alternative universe purely of their own creation. The Hack is the enemy of all that is good and holy and sensible in this world. They have committee meetings which are hours long and which achieve nothing. They devote indordinate amounts of time to the Students Association, and to no real use. The Union (and all its works and worthless pomps) has absolutely no bearing, impact, or influence on the lives of the overwhelming majority of students. Hacks pretend this isn’t so, and when they are confronted with this reality (usually by injurious ne’erdowells such as myself), the reactions vary from the hilarious to the pitiable.

Nonetheless, the free reign the hacks have in the union has led them to create an intricate code of complex rules, regulations, and decrees. The hack has spent years studying and being inculcated in this strange Justinian code of darkness, which makes it intrinsically difficult for any non-hack to win any union election. First of all, the electoral rules can punish a candidate for factors completely outside his control. If you’re running for office and someone you don’t know, have never met, and have nothing to do with has completely unknowingly violated some minutiae of a footnote of a rule, you can be punished for it. Even thrown out of the race!

This is what happened to dear old Tom, the non-hack, the anti-hack. But with appeals and tribunals and what have you, somehow common sense prevailed and it was decided that his votes would be counted along with the others. And when the votes were counted, it was announced that the Anti-Hack himself had been duly elected Association President! Of course, it doesn’t really mean much. It’s largely a figurehead position as he has no real power to abolish, reform, or streamline the Union. But it’s an important symbolic victory against the hacks and their reign of self-importance. Plus, it’s always somewhat comforting to know that nice guys don’t always finish last. Our most profound congratulations to Tom d’Ardenne and best wishes for his sabbatical year as the head student representative of our ancient university. Do us proud!

When snow falls, most people build snowmen. The Catholic Ladies Guild of the University of St Andrews, however, constructed a snow Madonna-and-Child. For your enjoyment, I present you with this selection of recent photographs, mostly stolen from the Facebook accounts of my friends. (more…)

King Peter of Yugoslavia visits the University of St Andrews, September 1941. Above, on South Street outside Parliament Hall and St. Mary’s College gate. Below, in St. Mary’s quad.

How one enjoys the traditional and ceremonial side of university life! Having duly elected Simon Pepper OBE as the new Lord Rector of the Universitas Sancti Andreae, the usual rigamarole of festivities and rites recently took place. The first is the Rectorial Drag, in which the Blues of the University drag the new Lord Rector around the town in a carriage. Along the way he makes various stops, mostly at public houses, in which a number of student groups and the like present him with gifts and drinks. We in the Boat Club arranged to meet the Lord Rector at the Central bar in Market Street. Above (and below), having alighted from his carriage, the Lord Rector greets a number of students, among them Felix Lobkowicz, the recently-elected President of the Boat Club, and Chris Kololian, the outgoing president. (more…)

The Hill of Crosses in Lithuania. Over the years, the faithful left crosses on this hill to praise God and signify their appreciation for the many graces and mercies bestowed by Him. During the Soviet occupation of Lithuania, the hill was twice demolished and cleared by the Communists. Each time it was reconstructed by the people, and on its third appearance the Soviets finally allowed it to stay. Despite strong evidence of Christian faith such as this, the University of St Andrews ‘Christian Union’ claims that Lithuania is a heathen country, ‘with only 35 Christians’.

During my presence at St Andrews over four years, it has snowed on a few occasions, though never stuck for more than a few minutes. I was much pleased, then, to awake on March 2 and spy through my windows (I never draw the curtains, as I enjoy the early morning sun) a blissful wintry utopia. The auld gray toon had been transformed into a veritable snow-globe, with snowflakes shifting back and forth with the wind as gravity drew them nearer their earthly home. Delightfully, this snow lasted, affording thousands of students myriad opportunities for heavenly mischief and giving me an excuse to put on my trusty Sportos. (Trusty Sportos seen at right).

But, woe of woes, I had a presentation to give that afternoon on the mundane and irascibly dull subject of the historiography of Indian/Settler relations in colonial America. I, and about four or five others out of a class of nearly twenty, duly arrived in the Old Library of St. John’s House at the appointed hour. We, the few, pondered where everyone else was. Had they autonomously declared a holiday? Risky business, considering this was a tutorial, and thus required, unlike lectures, of which I likely attended less than a third of my due during the past four years. A kindly secretary came in to inform us that Dr. Hart had cancelled the class and thus we were all free to frolic in the abundant snow to our little hearts’ content. Naturally, I just went to Rosary.

Speaking of Rosary, one day the week previous the post-Rosary revelry nearly drank the town dry. Well, perhaps I ought to give some background to our bliss. The Rosary is said every day Monday through Friday in St. James Church at 1:30 after which we all process across the street to the Common Room in Canmore. One or two of the girls, or Adrian if the girls are absent, make a round of tea for the merry band of Marian devotees. Well, on this frigid day in Scotland (a land of poorly-heated buildings, if one’s lucky enough to have heating on at all), we all huddled by the electric fire in our chairs, surmounted by a large communal blanket. Tom brought a bottle of port, of which we all partook, before I then excused myself to go off and do some equally time-wasting task. Well apparently the Rosary crew finished off that bottle of port, and then went and purchased another one! What’s more, the rapacious dipsomaniacs, once they had finished that bottle of port they emptied the reserve bottle of whiskey I keep hidden behind the German dictionaries in the library upstairs. Disgraceful! I have decided not to replenish the secret reserve, since, to put it in the vernacular parlance, is nae secret anaemoor!

Of course it’s my own fault for leaving it in the Chaplaincy. Should I have hidden it in the chaplaincy of the very friendly heretics over in St. Mary’s Place across from the Students Union, it would have remained unmolested. The worse that could happen would be the Christian Union forming a prayer circle around it and praying for the Good Lord to make it go away. (We Catholics already posess the knowledge on making drink disappear, and how!).

Ah, the ‘Christian Union’! Not in the entire English-speaking world, I daresay, does there exist a more delusional body of people. Everything about them is either hilariously funny or pitably sad, beginning with the irony of their very name. The Christian Union, as it styles itself, actually bans most Christians from joining. Those who wish to sign up (poor fools!) must be willing to sign a statement of faith extolling the tenets of the Evangelical Protestant religion. Thus Catholics, Orthodox, and even most Anglicans are not allowed to join. I have sometimes posited contacting whichever bureau of Britain’s behemoth government is responsible for truth in advertising and trying to get them to get the Christian Union to change their name. ‘Evangelical Society’ would be the most appropriate; while ‘Society of Over-Emotional Self-Deluding Followers of Feel-Good Teddy-Bear Christianity’ might be more accurate we must give some allowance for PR these days.

One of the latest projects of the Christian Union is to work for the ‘Christianization’ of Lithuania, “since there are only 35 Christians in the entire country”. It has apparently escaped the C.U. that Lithuania was Christianised ten centuries ago and has remained a vibrantly Christian country, even through decades of Soviet persecution. But perhaps we should leave them in their self-delusion, if only for the hilarity it provides for the rest of us. One can almost imagine them being given demographic information about the population of heaven, with thousands upon thousands of the patriarchs and prophets of the Old Testament, the apostles, the Church fathers, the martyrs, confessors, priests, nuns, and all the legions of holy souls: “But there are only 35 Christians!”

In an act of worship of the goddess Effeciency, the U.K. Government, or the Meteorological Office thereof, declared March 1 to be the beginning of Spring rather than the traditional, astronomical, and accurate Vernal Equinox (March 20). True to form, Mother Nature (a proud woman), decided that, in the interests of putting the upstarts in their proper place, she would open the heavens and thus a bountiful snowfall was produced the ver next day. I took a few snaps from my little chamber in St. Salvator’s Hall for your enjoyment. (more…)

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