2005 December
About Andrew Cusack
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The Last Post of 2005
A Drink at the Gills’
The other day the Gills invited me over to dinner as the patriarch of the family, one of the most amusing men in lower Westchester (if not all of Westchester) was preparing his speciality of Shepherd’s Pie. The timing was unfortunate, however, since it was the nativital feast of my own pater familias and thus attendance was required at our own dynastic mastication of the evening meal. Nonetheless I agreed to head over Gill-ward a bit before dinner and enjoy a little drink. Caroline and Michelle, true to form, were late for dinner and thus I actually didn’t manage to see either of them before heading to Pop’s birthday feast but I did rather enjoy a nice civilised glass of red with Mater et Pater Gill and a family friend of their’s from Larchmont.
Lord and Lady Gill recently had the pleasure of hearing their younger daughter Lizzy sing in Carnegie Hall, though with the marked reservation that they considered it an ‘alternative’ concert, by which they mean to say it broke their usual statutory “Fifty-Year Rule” whereby they do not attend choral events unless the composer has been dead for at least half a century. To break this sacred doctrine, say the Gills, is to run the strong risk of becoming the latest victim of atonality and disharmony. (As an aside, any fans of atonality, ye poor wretched souls, would be interested to know that the Met is doing Berg’s Wozzeck this season). Nonetheless, Mr. and Mrs. Gill donned their noblesse oblige and attended. Besides, the two pieces Lizzy’s group were singing were Byrd and Tallis, if my memory serves me, so the offending parties were other participants in the concert, praise be.
Anyhow, the family friend from Larchmont asked me how I came to be friends with Caroline which provided me the splendid opportunity of telling the story of the first meeting of yours truly and dear old Caro.
A Young Lady Stuck in a Tree, or: That Wicked Day When We First Chanced to Meet Caroline
Well it was a fall day, perhaps winter, but at any rate it was during the school year. My alma mater was always in the habit of spoiling me by giving me a double-period for lunch which afforded me the time to travel back home for midday victuals, or to world-famous Walter’s in Mamaroneck, or to occasionally luncheon with comrades attending other establishments of secondary education. Well, as the occasion would have it I one day arranged to lunch with young Miss Emma Haberl, une lycéen of Bronxville High School. Emma asked if she might bring along her friend Caroline, and at the time a firm believer in the more the merrier I happily acquiesced to her proposal. The meeting place was agreed as the hour of one in the front courtyard of Bronxville High School.
Well, I duly arrived at the appointed time and place to discover a courtyard bare of any personages bar our Emma. “I thought you said your friend Caroline was coming?” I inquired. Emma was braced to reply when a shrill abrasive voice emanating from a nearby tree shouted “I’M STUCK IN THE TREE! I CAN’T GET DOWN” And, she told no lie, she was stuck in the tree, though I’m happy to report not for very long. We soon had her out and highed off to luncheon during which I managed to offend Caroline in all sorts of charming and hilarious ways.
Last Night’s Soirée Chez Brenner
The Brenners, a most intelligent and amusing family whose presence I always enjoy, threw a little holiday light-dinner-and-drinks sort of thing last night at their place over in Larchmont. Eldest son Adam and I are friends because we had a good friend in common back in our school days (none other than the famous Lucas de Soto). Adam, you see, was not blessed enough to be a Thorntonian; he had to suffer through all those years at Riverdale instead. Anyhow, Brenner decided to sample the university life over at St Andrews by doing a junior semester abroad during Candlemas Term of ’04. Twas the dinner for Adam’s twenty-first at the Caledonian in Edinburgh after which Whit ‘Lawrenceville Spirit Personified’ Miller and I missed the last train back to our little corner of Fife and had to wait ages in Waverley Station for a taxi from St Andrews to arrive. A gaggle of neds (or chavs or what-have-you) crawled out of their hovel and investigated the curiously well-dressed pair of Americans conversing by the taxi rank. Eventually we fended them off.
But digression has got the better of me. As I was saying, the Brenners threw a nice event last night, the Eve of New Year’s Eve, and there was some good conversation. Brenner’s roommate during his term at St Andrews, now a Presby seminarian at Princeton Theological, was also in attendance and it was good to catch up and see what’s what and all that. Another friend of the Brenners’, a lady sophomore in college, explained her hopes to spend a year in Argentina and so the few of us who have been took the liberty of pontificating about what to do and where to go and generally showing off our savoir-faire, etc., etc.
I took great pleasure in commiserating with elders around the buffet about how much we hate New Year’s and what a bother it is and how preferable it is just to stay at home. Personally, I think New Year’s is a bit of a farce. Any evening is one year past the same evening the year before, so why the need to make a big to-do of it? I’ve no idea. I’ve never been a fan of New Year’s Eve myself. Such a silly evening.
After the Party… to Fogarty’s
After the party had run its course I went down to Fogarty’s in town to have a pint with a few friends, though I soon abandoned them for Mr. and Mrs. Carroll (Michelle’s parents) who were infinitely better chat than the haggardly sextet with which I was supposed to be conversing. I had the privilege of hearing why the Carrolls decided to move to America (they originally hail from the Emerald Isle) and other fascinating and amusing tales. When the topic of my future, inevitable at this juncture of life, surfaced Mr. Carroll declared his belief that I’ve got the makings of a gentleman farmer in me. The older I get the more I grow fond of the idea of a rustic existence. Sure, once I’ve got a family to myself I’d much prefer to worry about my children falling into brooks and streams in the country rather than getting run over by some soccer mom in her Land Rover in suburbia. Anyhow, Mr. and Mrs. Carroll deserve prizes for the consistently high standard of banter they uphold. After all, high standards are hard to come by these days.
The Anti-Social Guide to New Year’s Eve
I have been rudimentarily clever in avoiding attendance at any social occasion this New Year’s Eve. By implying to the party on the West Side that I will be attending the soirée on E. 89th and implying to the party on E. 89th that I have already committed myself to attending the party on the West Side, all the while forgetting about the event on 14th Street I am comfortably lounging on the sofa at home in the Garden Room watching an episode of Rumpole of the Bailey which I’ve taken out from one of the neighboring villages’ public libraries. With the firm knowledge that my immediate social circle find this little corner of the web far too dull to for their browsing, adding to the fact that all will be pleasantly sloshed this merry eve, I am sure that none will come to knowledge of my little scheme.
Finale
All that remains then is to wish you all, dear readers, a most happy, holy, and enjoyable New Year and may the Lord continue to smile upon yourselves, your families, and all your loved ones!
Governors Island
GOVERNORS ISLAND IS one of New York’s hidden gems. Not only is it a place which has a long and storied history, but it remains, however underappreciated, a place of great beauty, not to mention a place of great potential. The fact that this island in New York Harbor has been the property of the government for the preponderance of its existence has shielded it from the destructive forces of commerce which have savaged so much of what is beautiful and historic in the remainder of the city.
Let us explore this intriguing isle… (more…)
Boy Mulcaster and James Panero: Separated at Birth?
Am I the only one who sees the resemblance between the boisterous character from the television adaptation of Brideshead Revisted and the managing editor of the New Criterion?
Previously: Arafat Joins Team Zissou
Bronxville Institutions and Their Land
I tabulated the following for a number of institutions in the Village of Bronxville: name of institution, tax-assessed value of property, total size of property (unreliable), and number of properties owned. The results are not surprising. The top five in terms of value are, in order, the village’s only college, the hospital (where I was born), the public school, the village government itself, and the main church. (I think the stats on acreage are generally unreliable).
| Name |
Value ($) |
Acres |
No. of Props |
| Concordia College |
160,202,500 |
6.53 |
7 |
| Lawrence Hospital |
125,362,500 |
.55 |
2 |
| Bronxville School (Public) |
91,630,000 |
? |
2 |
| Village of Bronxville |
49,690,000 |
15.18+ |
24 |
| Dutch Reformed Church (R.C.A.) |
45,297,500 |
3.83 |
3 |
| Church of Saint Joseph (Archdiocese of New York) |
25,245,000 |
3.73+ |
7 |
| U.S. Post Office |
18,605,000 |
.54 |
1 |
| Westchester County Park Commission |
18,007,000 |
10.23 |
9 |
| Christ Church Episcopal |
15,593,750 |
.75 |
3 |
| Village Lutheran Church (L.C.-M.S.) |
13,752,500 |
2.33 |
4 |
| Taconic State Parkway Commission |
5,430,000 |
1.36 |
3 |
| Fire District Town of Eastchester (Bronxville Fire Station) |
3,465,000 |
.34 |
1 |
| First Church of Christ Scientist |
3,432,500 |
2.88 |
2 |
| Bronxville Women’s Club |
1,321,000 |
.9 |
5 |
| Town of Eastchester |
540,000 |
2.74 |
3 |
Source: http://www.bronxville.us/
The Feast of the Nativity
A very happy and blessed Christmas to you all!
A Sunny Winter’s Day in Eastchester
The sun was out today which made it ever so slightly warm in a most welcome way. I managed to get all my Christmas shopping done, which brought forth a great sense of satisfaction. That aside, I thought I’d share a few photos of here and there I took today. (more…)
Well Boo Hoo for the TWU!
Well, the Great Transit Strike of 2005 is over with the Transport Workers Union having succeeding in winning for themselves the enmity of the entire city. The Trinidadian Roger Toussaint was elected head of the TWU on a radical platform and radical is what they got. And boy did it blow up in their faces! Listening to the radio the other day I heard stories of decent hard-working people who were waking up at 3:30 in the morning so that they could walk to their jobs and get there on time. Others were sleeping in impromptu locations at their place of employ. All this hassle just because Roger Toussaint wanted his pampered transit workers to retire at 55. Well boo hoo!
One Knickerbocker said: “Roger Toussaint gave up a life of hard work picking sugar cane down in the islands to come up to New York and pick the pockets of decent, hard-working Americans instead!” Well at least it’s all over now, so I can finally catch the Prague exhibit at the Met (oh and the Fra Angelico). I still curse myself for missing the Byzantium exhibit they held; I turned up a day late so I and the young lady who accompanied me assuaged our ire at J.G. Melon’s.
Whilst perusing the British corner of the Hudson Newsstand in Grand Central, waiting for a train home last Sunday after hearing Mass at St Agnes and then attending the Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols at St Thomas, I chanced upon a copy of This England, a splendid and reactionary quarterly from that green and pleasant land. It was something of a rediscovery as I have somewhere two copies of This England from 1983 and I am happy to report that the magazine has changed very little. It is a wonderful collection of little articles, stories, anecdotes, and charivari about the Mother Country and doesn’t give the slightest hoot for political correctness. A cozy and comfortable quarterly which I believe any traditionalist from the English-speaking world will enjoy. Irritatingly they did not have the Christmas double edition of the beloved Spectator, so I fear I must do without it this year. (And there was much gnashing of teeth…).
The Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols was superlative as always. It was interesting to note that in the program/weekly bulletin the word ‘Episcopal’ was nowhere to be found, nor any indication that St. Thomas is a parish of the Episcopal Diocese of New York and likewise the Episcopal Church of the United States of America except a very brief statement mentioning that the parish is “in the Anglican tradition”. A parish in denial? Perhaps, but if you were in their situation would you want to face facts? Ignorance is bliss, and it was a blissful service after all. Much enjoyed. My only complaint was that I thought the choir could’ve put a little more oomph in the final verses of Once in Royal David’s City and O Come All Ye Faithful, perhaps with a little help from the organ, but oh well, I’m no choirmaster, deo gratias.
Almost everyone in our little arrondissement of the web has been chiming in with their thoughts on the recent Chronicles of Narnia film, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. I have little to contribute other than to say I found it an enjoyable film which I warmly encourage others to see. We found Father Christmas’s lack of headgear disappointing. A mitre would’ve been most appropriate, but his head was bare; perhaps Saint Nicholas should look to the much-vaunted final word in matters sartorial currently sitting on the throne of Peter.
Speaking of matters sartorial, a kerfuffle recently erupted in Missouri when some Communist enemy of all that good and holy banned a kilted student from a high school dance on the grounds that he was not properly attired. If I can trust my profound study of Scottish history (which consists mostly of the first few minutes of that 1959 biopic of John Paul Johns in which Robert Stack plays the title role) then we recall that the boorish Hanoverians banned the kilt for reasons I have forgotten. (I haven’t seen the film in years, and Robert Stack is dead, r.i.p.). I am certain that my readers and I are united in scorn.
I called up the folks at the New Criterion yesterday and Cricket Farnsworth, that hilarious and ever-charming daughter of Connecticut, answered the phone. I asked if there were any commuting woes and Cricket, the token liberal on the staff, just said “Well of course everyone here thinks the union leaders should all be shot.” “Then all is as it should be, Cricket,” I replied, “all is well in the world.” Happily, they have put one of the Jacksons’ Roger Kimball gingerbread men (or ‘Kimballbreadmen’ as they are calling them) to the side for me to consume when I pop down and visit next week. All is well indeed.
Hypothetical Chicago Church
The clever kids over at Notre-Dame have struck again. Matthew Alderman (of Whapping fame) has published his hypothetical proposal for a church online and we thought we’d offer our most humble thoughts and comments upon the design. The Université de Nôtre-Dame du Lac over in South Bend, Indiana has arguably the best school of architecture in the country, if not all the Americas. Taking into account the state of most architecture schools these days, that isn’t saying much, but the School excels at teaching within the Western tradition of building, rather than inculcating the bland and soulless rejection of tradition which is modern architectural theory. You can see examples of the students’ works online at the School’s Student Gallery. (Of the rest, we found Lucas Hafeli’s art-nouveau mini-flatiron intriguing, as well as Erin Dwyer’s ferry terminal, and particularly enjoyed Brad Houston’s splendid arena). (more…)
Welcome to Doughty Street
It is an eternal and reassuring fact of human nature that when an editor announces that he is stepping down from a great publication, there is not the slightest interest in what he plans to do with his life, or even who he was.
I have received many phone calls from friends and colleagues since announcing last Friday that this would be my last edition, and they only want to know one thing. ‘Who is taking over?’
I wish I knew myself. But since the white smoke has yet to go up, I thought I had better write a general welcome to whoever you are out there. I propose to open the door of 56 Doughty Street and show you — not so much how it’s done — but where it’s done.
You arrive at a big black door in Holborn with a brass plaque, and after you have gained admission, you find a scene of domestic chaos, with dog leads, umbrellas, champagne and other impedimenta. Immediately beneath a sign saying ‘No Bicycles’ you will notice several bicycles.
You will dimly glimpse other offices ahead and to your left, the Books and Arts and Cartoon departments, bulging with the greatest talents in journalism. But if you are like me, you will be overcome with nerves and scoot straight upstairs for your office, on the first floor. As soon as you walk in, your heart will lift.
It is a magnificent room, a huge Victorian drawing-room with a chandelier and three sash windows looking out on the street where Charles Dickens lived, with an assortment of furniture both distinguished and distressed.
As you walk to your desk you cross Ian Gilmour’s (editor 1954–59) carpet, a large, fine and extremely valuable Turkish rug. Occasionally in the last 50 years there have been peeps from Isleworth suggesting this carpet might be returned. You will find these suggestions increasingly easy to ignore.
You sit down at the colossal desk. You find a Black Museum of Spectator history. There is a fragment of red telephone box, rescued by Charles Moore (editor 1984–1990). There is a big yellow molar in a plastic thimble, apparently wrenched from the merry chaps of Frank Johnson (editor 1995–1999). There is a silver-plated statuette of a miner with pick and shovel, presented to ‘The Spectator’ by the townsfolk of Aberdare in 1929. ‘In grateful recognition,’ says the plaque, adding, ‘the greatest of these is love.’
Hear, hear, you say, and try the drawers. You will find the handles mainly broken, but in the bottom left is a fabulous cache of letters congratulating Dominic Lawson (editor 1990–1995) on acceding to your chair. You will by now be blizzarded with your own letters of congratulation, and in some cases you will have received the same letters, from the same people, offering the same columns!
Before you have time to recover, your hugely efficient PA will be patching you through to Downing Street, because the Prime Minister wants to congratulate you in person. You leave instantly, and have half an hour in the sofa room with Tony, during which he will extol the magazine and (quite properly) the genius of Paul Johnson.
If you do the job in the way that we all hope, that will be the last friendly contact you have with the regime. In due course, when Downing Street takes you to the Press Complaints Commission over a story that turns out to be 100 per cent right, you will have to keep your nerve. Old chums will turn up in your office, urging you to capitulate. Don’t.
The Spectator surrenders to no one. The Spectator is always right.
When you return from your audience you may be tired and cold, and I recommend that you light the gas fire. There are few sights more cheering than that fire on a winter’s day, though you should not forget to turn it off when you leave. I did, and the Nigerian security guy put it out with the fire extinguisher.
Once the fire is going well, you may find your eyes drifting to the lovely striped chesterfield across the room. Is it the right size, you wonder, for a snooze…? You come round in a panic, to find a lustrous pair of black eyes staring down at you.
Relax. It’s only Kimberly, with some helpful suggestions for boosting circulation. Just pat her on the bottom and send her on her way. Whatever you do, don’t get depressed if she starts saying ‘noos-stand is sawft this week, Booriss’ (she is American) or that she doesn’t like your cover. That’s her job, and if you put your back into yours you’ll find that news-stand has a way of gently recovering.
Just as you’re drifting off again, the phone goes. There are two phones on the desk, white and black. If it is the white phone, on your first day in the job, I would say it is a dime to a dollar that the caller is Bruce Anderson.
Now Bruce is a wonderful fellow and an excellent writer, but if you happen to tell him, after lunch, that you do not have space for a piece, he is apt to get morbid. ‘I will destroy you,’ he starts saying. ‘I will destroy you and your reputation for ever.’ Do not on any account take fright. He doesn’t mean it. The best thing is to blow kisses down the phone and commission a piece for the following week.
And then the phone goes again, and this time I would wager it is Taki, calling from Gstaad, full of good cheer and anxious to find out whether or not you are going to sack him. At this stage in your editorship the sacking or keeping of Taki is likely to be turned into a culture war of Dreyfus-like proportions.
The Guardian and other papers will start a horrible drumming roar for his dismissal. It is time, they say, that The Spectator showed it has moved on. Soon the whole of civilised London has joined in. Sack Taki! Sack Taki!
Faced with that overwhelming consensus, you have only one choice, though it is of course entirely up to you to decide what that is.
By now the day is drawing to an end, and it is time to see how everyone else is getting on. You stick your head round the next-door office, about a third of the size of yours, and occupied by three people and….Is that a dog? It is Harry, a highly intelligent and handsome Jack Russell, and certainly no smellier than anyone else in the building.
You go upstairs, past girlish giggles and shrieks emanating from the publisher’s office, and you pass other tiny offices, full of editors and computers and industry of all kinds, until you reach the dining-room.
Here you will pass many happy hours, some of them conscious. These are the very windows through which the magazine’s famous cook, Jennifer Paterson, threw the crockery into the garden of the National Association of Funeral Directors next door. This is the table where most of the copy-editing is done on Mondays and Tuesdays, expert hands and eyes buffing and polishing the contributions with the care of Amsterdam jewellers.
And then, last but not least, you go downstairs to pay homage to the advertising and production teams, who keep The Spectator awash with ads for handbags and help to pay your mortgage. Over time you will find that it pays to listen carefully to what they say, and oblige them as far as you can.
So ends the tour of the ancient distillery. The big black door slams behind you for the first time, as it slammed behind me for the last time this week. Thanks to the exertions of the brilliant team you inherit, the magazine is in the pink of financial health with circulation at an all-time high.
You will be urged to drag it ‘kicking and screaming into the 21st century’. But as editor of The Spectator you should not be tied to any particular decade, century, or even millennium.
You are a Time Lord, and your readers expect you to take them to all parts of the human experience, and to remember that the Bible and Homer are far more interesting and important, sub specie aeternitatis, than the price of oil or Tory prospects.
You will be told that the magazine is elitist, and you should take that as a compliment. Every society that we know of has been run by an elite, and every elite needs elucidation.
Every industry or profession needs an angel at the top of their Christmas tree, and in the case of journalism you hold that angel in your hands.
You will receive threatening letters from female journalists, urging you to have more female bylines, starting with their own, and I would not dream of advising you there.
You will find that our proprietors are little short of superb. They are cheerful, tolerant, wise, and eager to develop and improve the magazine.
I have a feeling that they are bluff enough not to mind the occasional laugh at their own expense, but I confess I have not had the nerve to find out.
Like everyone in a new post, you will probably have a tough first six months. You will then discover that you have, by some margin, the best job in London, and I have no doubt that you will have fun to a degree that is almost improper.
New York Currency
When New York magazine speculated on the prospects of an independent New York they postulated Woody Allen gracing a “1 York” note with Rudolph Guliani on the “20 York” note. In Caledonia they’re used to dealing with many different varieties of banknotes. In Scotland alone there are three different institutions authorised ot print currency: the Royal Bank of Scotland, the Bank of Scotland, and the Clydesdale Bank. Northern Ireland, meanwhile, has four: the Bank of Ireland, Ulster Bank, Northern Bank, and First Trust Bank. England and Wales, on the other hand, have but the Bank of England to issue legal tender, that institution having been granted a monopoly so to do in 1921. [More on British banknotes]
Nonetheless, this got me to thinking who and what I would put on New York bank notes if we had them. First of all, none of this “York” business; dollars they are and dollars they would remain in my land of fancy. Anyhow, here’s what I generally came up with: (more…)
A Splendid Evening
Well tonight was an absolutely splendid evening and a perfect end to my last Martinmas term at St Andrews. It was spent at the beautiful home of Professor and Mrs. John Haldane who warmly invited us in for a wonderful little end-of-term bash with plentiful food and drink. Nunc est bibendum indeed. What’s more is that good cheer and great conversation flowed almost as freely as the wine, and I dare say the dozen-plus of we merry Catholic students had a most enjoyable time. We were all very grateful that Mr. and Mrs. Haldane were kind enough to open their home to us, as they have done in the past.
Rather like the home of Pierre Loti in Rochefort (which, if ever one is in Charente-Maritime, I firmly recommend visiting), the Haldanes’ is unassuming and quite normal on the exterior but the first step inside reveals a splendid little kingdom of assorted treasures. Icons, books, paintings, sketches, engravings, crosses, busts, statues, and so on and so forth line all the walls leaving little free space but at the same time lacking a feeling of crowdedness or chaos. Professor Haldane (recently made a Knight of the Holy Sepulchre) introduced us to a number of the works in his living room including some actual sketches of dueling swordsmen by G.K. Chesterton, prints by Eric Gill, and various other works of art and items of interest such as military medals of ancestors and crusader coins and St Andrean ephemera. While I was wandering through his library, Prof. Haldane and I discussed the splendours of Gothic architecture and the revival of traditional (albeit mostly classical) architecture especially at the University of Notre Dame’s School of Architecture, and architects like Quinlan Terry, Demetri Porphyrios and such.
With plenty of eats and drinks it was quite a merry time and it’s mildly disconcerting that I must awake in only just over five hours to catch my flight home to the Big Apple but, God willing, I will make it. It will be absolutely magnificent to be home in Westchester, to sit by the fire with the dog – or dogs rather since my sister and brother-in-law will be up with their dogs as well – and of course to have the pleasure of driving again. (Ah, Audi A6, how I miss thy German engineering!). Then there are the little splendours of Bronxville with the bookshop and St. Joseph’s and all my friends back in town, not to mention dichotomous Manhattan in all it’s glory. Ah, the wonders of home; deo gratias!
The Feast of the Immaculate Conception of the Blessed Virgin Mary
The Holy Father has declared a plenary indulgence for this day, which is also the patronal feast of the United States.
The following Act of Consecration was supposedly composed by Archbishop John Carroll, the first bishop of the United States (or Foederatarum Civitatum Americae Septentrionalis, to give it’s official Latin name).
Most Holy Trinity, we put the United States of America into the hands of Mary Immaculate in order that she may present the country to You. Through her we wish to thank You for the great resources of this land and for the freedom which has been its heritage. Through the intercession of Mary, have mercy on the Catholic Church in America. Grant us peace. Have mercy on our President and on all the officers of our government. Grant us a fruitful economy, born of justice and charity. Have mercy on capital and industry and labor. Protect the family life of the nation. Guard the precious gift of many religious vocations. Through the intercession of Our Mother, have mercy on the sick, the tempted, sinners – on all who are in need.
Mary, Immaculate Virgin, Our Mother, Patroness of our land, we praise you and honor you and give ourselves to you. Protect us from every harm. Pray for us, that acting always according to your will and the Will of your Divine Son, we may live and die pleasing to God. Amen.
The Chancellor Retireth
So who will replace good Sir Kenneth? The Chancellor is chosen by the General Council of the University of St Andrews, which consists of all graduates and senior academics, so something like 35,000 people are eligible to vote. The following are among those who have been suggested for the position so far:
Noblemen
• The Rt Hon the Lord Cullen of Whitekirk: An alumnus of St Andrews and outgoing Lord President of the Court of Session (Scotland’s highest court).
• James Douglas-Hamilton, Baron Selkirk of Douglas: Former Tory Member of Parliament, now a Tory Member of the Scottish Parliament, and some relation of Harry Douglas-Hamilton who graduated last year.
• The Most Noble James Graham, 8th Duke of Montrose: The only duke still allowed to sit in the House of Lords after Blair’s butchering of the hereditary peer. Actually the Duke of Norfolk sits as well, but that’s ex officio since he’s the Earl Marshal.
Commoners
• Donald Findlay, QC: Unlikely since he’s been virtually blacklisted by the University since he was discovered singing sectarian songs a few years ago.
• George Reid, MSP: Presiding Officer of the Scottish Parliament.
• James Danforth ‘Dan’ Quayle: Forty-fourth Vice President of the United States and apparently a fan of St Andrews (he came to speak here last year).
Might I suggest:
• His Majesty Constantine II, King of the Hellenes: Exiled King of Greece living in London, Olympic Gold Medalist (Sailing), overthrown by some colonels in 1967, and godfather to William Wales ’05.
• Merlin Charles Sainthill Hanbury-Tracy, 7th Baron Sudeley: Chairman of the Constitutional Monarchy Association, Vice-Chancellor of the International Monarchist League.
• Lord Gill: Lord Justice Clerk of the Court of Session and thus Scotland’s second-most senior judge, who if elected might possibly be the first Catholic chancellor since the Protestant Revolution.
• His Royal Highness the Prince Andrew, Duke of York: Fought in the Falklands War, son of the Queen, frequent visitor to St Andrews owing to his Captaincy of the Royal and Ancient Golf Club
• His Royal Highness Prince Michael of Kent: Supporter and Patron of numerous charities as well as Romanov enthusiast.
• The Rt Hon Betty Boothroyd, Baroness Boothroyd: Former Speaker of the House of Commons, now sitting in the Lords as a cross-bencher. Alright, she is a woman, but she’s still pretty good. At 74, she’s at least old enough.
O Blessed Nicholas
A very happy and blessed St. Nicholas Day to you all. St Nicholas is, as you all know, the patron saint of New York owing to our Netherlandish forefathers. Above you can see Lumen Martin Winter’s mural of St. Nicholas leading Peter Stuyvesant’s legion on their way to attack and take the Swedish fort of Christiania in New Sweden. The account of the battle by Washington Irving is hilarious and counts among my favorite selections of comic writing.
If you’d like to learn more about St. Nicholas, the St. Nicholas Center is a good place to start, as well as the holy bishop’s entry in the Catholic Encyclopedia.
It’s also Sofie von Hauch’s birthday. Tillykke med Fødselsdagen!
Previously: The Feast of St Nicholas
New York & St Andrews
One of the interesting things about living in St. Salvator’s Hall is that one of the beautiful stained-glass windows in our wood-panelled dining hall is dedicated to Edward Harkness, and contains depictions of both the Big Apple and the Auld Gray Toon. Harkness was a benefactor of the University of St Andrews; in fact, he built St. Salvator’s Hall, as well as funding the renovation of the University Chapel (St. Salvator’s) and the restoration of the ruined St. Leonard’s Chapel. (more…)
December Already
Just when you think you’re about to finish your dissertation, an epidemic of good times breaks out. Here are a few photos of late. (more…)
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