London, GB | Formerly of New York, Buenos Aires, Fife, and the Western Cape. | Saoránach d’Éirinn.

A Ground-floor Flat in Greyfriars Gardens

I THINK IT WAS Cousin Jasper in Brideshead Revisited who told Charles Ryder to switch his ground-floor rooms for a more suitable arrangement. Charles, of course, failed to heed his elder cousin’s advice, and last night I couldn’t help but wonder if the inhabitants of a ground floor flat on Greyfriars Gardens wished they had been given a similar recommendation. An assemblage of young gentlemen, having moved from one pub to another and then making their way down Greyfriars stumbled upon an open window and, discovering that merriment was ongoing within, took it upon themselves to use that very portal as a mode of entrance. Quite succesfully, I might add, for it was a very wide window and not terribly high up. Upon gaining entrance, they proceeded to join in the merriment, which chiefly revolved around a triumvirate of good conversation, bad wine, and pretty young ladies. (I managed to inculcate one in the history of the Order of Malta). I ran into fellow oarsman Rory Mcdonald (who, despite his Scottish name, is from Norfolk) with his academic mother who dropped a coin in my beverage and told me I had to save the Queen from drowning by downing my glass right then and there. I took my time (God bless Her Majesty, but she’s only a Saxe-Coburg).

The evening had begun a few hours previous in the Chariots bar with yours truly, George, J.E.B., Ben, Tom Marshall, Rorie, Cockburn the Younger (worse for wear having been dealt a dirty pint in the Mess the night previous to celebrate his birthday), a rather confused ‘Dougal’ in black tie, Jon Burke (legend), Manuel, Cameron (President of Fin Fur & Feather), a chap named Will, and someone else I’m quite sure. Apparently J.E.B.’s going to reconquer India and I’ll be made Viceroy. This was decided as some sort of recompense for India going republican before Enoch Powell could be appointed to the viceregal throne. A brilliant linguist, it was his life’s ambition until ’47, and he was heartbroken when it became impossible. Ego sum linguiste très mal, but I don’t think I’d mind the job. Surely it just involves officially opening schools and hospitals and such, spending the rest of the time napping through cricket matches and sitting in a club sipping G&T’s and saying in a firm, authoritative voice “The sun never sets on the British Empire”. Comes with nice digs as well, designed by Lutyens. There are worse jobs, no doubt. Anyhow there was some bloody good chat, excellent banter.

Intelligence reports indicating that 1 Golf Place was overcrowded we decided not to make our way there to enjoy their two-pint steins, and so headed to the Tudor Inn (a rather townie pub) instead. There we ran into some Germans (Hamburgers, even) in town for the golf and spoke with them. Ed tried to speak to them in his broken German; somehow the term ‘Britischer Wehrmacht’ doesn’t seem quite the right translation. We tried to give them a bit of British culture by singing “I Vow To Thee, My Country” but it literally drove half the punters out of the pub, and the barman asked us to desist. It was then we sought out proposals for further enjoyment in alternative locations, and decided to move the forces southward accordingly. Twas then, of course, we discovered the open window in Greyfriars Gardens and good times ensued.

Published at 6:29 am on Friday 14 October 2005. Categories: Journal People St Andrews.
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