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.

LAST NIGHT WAS, shall we say, a doozy. It began about half past eight when I sauntered over to the flat of George Ronald Valentine Hastings Irwin in Southgait Hall. (Astute followers of the Cossack will recall that I lived in the same building last year). George Ronald Valentine Hastings Irwin wasn’t in, as he was busy instructing young’uns how to kill, but C. was in since he’s been up visiting for the past few days. We cracked open some beers and watched the second half of an episode of Law and Order before heading over to Wyvern (HQ A Sqd, TUOTC) for some Wednesday evening revelry in the Mess.

The Mess, as we all know, is an oasis of old-school fun in our ever-changing world. Eventually a poker game broke out in the anteroom; an entertaining little melée involving yours truly, the Infamous C., George Ronald Valentine Hastings Irwin, Phil Evans, Cockburn the Younger, Alex Findlay, and a chap named Will. Now, I am a rubbish poker player and so accordingly am I a rare poker player, even more so if money is involved. Nonetheless, the buy-in was cheap so I gave it a go, failed miserably but bought in again and twas then that Fortuna began to smile upon my adventures. C. is quite proud of his poker-playing abilities, but I managed to bluff him into betting everything he had then hit him with the nasty surprise of my triumvirate of aces. Kicked out of the game by Cusack – that’s got to be embarassing. The man looked as if he’d just been told his prize-winning horse had just been eaten by an erstwhile Chechen terrorist who mistook it for one of the King’s Troop. He went back into the Mess in hopes of elevating the chat there (a handfull of souls had wandered into the anteroom informing us of the poor state of chat next door). A little while afterwards I managed to goad George into a large stake and deprived him of it quite readily. There was nothing on the table but I had ace-9, he had ace-2. Bummer for him!

There I was, drunk as a lord and rich as a Russian oligarch (or would’ve been if the chips were oil company shares). The others slowly ran out of capital and it was finally down to George, Alex (or was it Phil?), and yours truly. I was in the lead and decided to play it safe, but Phil (I think it was Phil, Alex was out earlier) went all in against George and lost, putting Georgie boy in the lead. (No, actually it was Alex, not Phil). We agreed to end at a quarter to 12:00, and so did, splitting the meagre winnings proportionally betwixt the two of us. Cockburn the Younger was quite upset with my victory and kept grunting “bloody colonial!” much in the same vein as Cockburn the Elder would were he present. Fine game, fine game.

We crossed the hall to return to the last few minutes of Mess time and witnessed some forfeits in process and joined in some bawdy singing. Now at midnight the bell’s rung, the glasses are put down, the Sergeant Major yells and the fun’s over. And had that been the end of the evening it still would’ve been a splendid one… were it not for those two words: after party. Now, that after parties can be splendid things I will certainly concede. But in my old age I prefer to be in bed reading E. Digby Baltzell by 11:00 and here it was, past midnight, and I was still out. Nonetheless, being taken by the festive spirit and with C. being up I thought to myself “After party? What the hey! Why not…” And thus a procession of students varyingly attired in camoflouge uniforms, blue blazers, or tweed jackets snaked its way towards the flat in Wallace Street shared by OCDT Charlie Hazlerigg and WOCDT Jen Stewart.

We were greeted by a little white terrier named Helen I think, though I referred to it constantly as Mackintosh for reasons no longer contained within my knowledge. It was a good after-party with some good chat and I’m not quite sure what time it was when I left, but I think it may have been nearly two in the morning. Somewhere in this equation I ran into a gaggle of gowned debaters, Miss Jennings among them in her gown of office as Education Officer of the Students Association. I confiscated the gown, donned it myself, and apparently, flailing my arms about and running around, announced to all of South Street that I was the Education Officer until Henry Evans (sometime head of the Conservative and Unionist Association) re-requisitioned it and returned it to its rightful bearer. We also ran into some Australians who agreed with me that Boston is a very silly place. I’m told that was around 2:00am.

Curiously as I finally made my way back to Sallies, I ran into Dr. Jens Timmerman. He had only just left Edgecliffe (the home of the School of Philosophy) and was on his way home. Dr. Timmerman is absolutely brilliant. One half wonders what he was up to in his office, with his 1925 Triumph typewriter, Keble College straw boater, and deep crimson doctoral cap and gown from the University of Göttingen. Musing on Kant, no doubt. (Dr. Timmerman is an expert on and devotée of Kant). I’m sure I’ll see him at the Kens club dinner on Saturday.

And then, finally, home, sleep, and the comfort of one’s own bed. There are few things as priceless as that.

Dear friends, I have been absent from the “world wide web” of late owing to technological discrepancies. Rest assured by health and faith are still strong. No doubt you have felt a distinct lack during the past few days, which I hope to remedy by showing you a few photos of the locus in which my quotidian adventures take place.

Above is the view from the reading ledge by my window. A rather nifty thing, which obliges the requirements for some occasional fresh air along with an advantageous location from which to glance down upon the Principal’s Lawn (There’s a fine if he catches you treading on his little green patch).

Sunset from the Cusack chamber. (more…)

From the British Students Song Book:

Today is the first Sunday and term and so after breakfasting in hall (a modest meal of bacon, hash-brown, and apple juice) I donned the old three-piece and gown and hopped over to Chapel for the first service of term. Chapel was packed to the brim almost, a very good showing, and as the Principal entered the Chapel following the mace-bearing Bedellus he had a very self-satisfied chagrin on, and nodded to himself no doubt reflecting upon the ancient glories of our university.

We were sadly informed that a student had died over the summer, killed in a car crash in France. Strangely enough, the same thing happened the summer before last when a very popular student died in a crash in Provence.

Other than that sad news, the service was of the usual feel-good traditional mainline psuedo-Protestant ilk that they are at St Andrews, the most interesting interesting part of which was when the University Chaplain, the Rev. Dr. James Walker, announced that our new hymnals had yet to arrive owing to a strike at the plant in Finland where they’re printed. I ran into J.E.B. tweeded and gowned, as we were exiting the service and he inquired as to whether I was “seeking religious inspiration when I had my eyes closed during the sermon or whether I was just nodding off.” I will leave our readers to guess.

Afterwards, instead of the usual post-chapel sherry in the Hebdomadar’s Chamber, the Principal hosted a little reception in Lower College Hall (from which, photographs above and below). (more…)

The forecast for St Andrews. Gloom and dreariness with a 90% chance of gray.

My room faces the Garden Quad (there’s a fine for walking on the Principal’s Lawn), and there is a good view of the college tower from the window.

The view out the window towards the rest of the Hall. More later on, now I must rest!

My fellow St Andrean Andrew Bisset reports in from auld Caledonia, recently incapacitated by a banana:

Deserved indeed!

Pursuant to conversations held yesterday afternoon, I give you the thorn tree in the quad of St. Mary’s College, University of St Andrews, planted by Mary Queen of Scots. This photo was taken in the 1930’s, I believe. It looks a little worse for wear these days; rather sickly actually. Wouldn’t be surprised if the University was trying to kill it off as a safety hazard or other such bureaucratic flopdoodle.

We had something of a late evening last night at the Leviathan, in which I curiously had the chance to sample – perhaps that word is too modest, imbibe would be more accurate – a port which was, well, not a port. It was a port of New York, and I am not referring to the riparian locus wherein multifarious containers of a universal design speed cheap imported goods from the Orient to our fair city and beyond. Nay, the port was a fortified wine which claimed Long Island as its place of birth. Was it any good? Well, it was a little too fruity for my tastes, but then I’m a man of simple (some would say bland) tastes.

The Leviathan, for those who have not the pleasure of knowing it (which I take to be most of you) is a unique private club open to a select few young gentlemen and their occasional lady guests. It is not so much a club, but a private home which, given the absence of the parents off in foreign climes for rather extended periods of time, has been turned into a private club by the ingenious only child who is its sole permanent inhabitant. The club has a high proportion of members of French Canadian extraction, and features an interesting collection of Russian artifacts, provenance “unknown”.

As I was saying it was a late night, or rather late in Cusack terms as I left at half past one in the morning, and I am told the last members left around the hour of three. I nonetheless awoke this morning and took the train down to Manhattan and heard the resplendent treasure that is the Tridentine mass said in all its glory at the Church of St Agnes.

Whilst jolloping through the Hudson News shop in Grand Central, in the vain hope of being able to flip through a grievously overpriced imported latest edition of Country Life, I stumbled upon the latest issue of the New Oxford Review, the cover of which claimed that an article by John Lamont lay within. Delving into the formerly Anglican now ardent traditionalist Catholic publication I found that indeed it is the John Lamont we know and love. (He is also known as ‘Big John’ owing to his heighth and to differentiate him from the comparitively ‘Little Jon’ Burke).

Anyhow, Big John is the Gifford Research Fellow at St. Mary’s College, the School of Divinity at the University of St Andrews. He and I are seen below in a photo taken by Rebecka Winell at a dinner in the Byre Theatre organized by Miss Victoria Truett in Candlemas term 2004.

Our own Professor John Haldane, Scotland’s premier living philosopher (one wonders if he ever tires of hearing that), exhibits his rather wide breadth with an article in the Scotsman, not on his usual topics of heavier import, but rather speaking with Suggs (né Graham MacPherson) of the early-80’s band Madness.

A little Madness is good for you

by JOHN HALDANE

IN PRINCIPIO ERAT VERBUM – The Latin formula translates the opening of the prologue to the Gospel of St John: “In the beginning was the Word”. Cast in iron, the phrase spans the gateway into St Mary’s College, a reminder that a century before its foundation in 1538 the scholars of St Andrews gathered there in a long lost “College of St John”.

Six hundred years later a man in a leather jacket stands in the gateway and passers-by slow down to check that it’s really him: Suggs, lead singer of Madness, the group described as the “missing link” between The Kinks and Blur. A woman with young children stops to shake his hand, a pair of postgrads approach for autographs, even senior academics begin to hover in the background. Earlier, across at St Salvator’s College, it was the same story: seated in a stall of the 15th-century chapel or standing in the cloister, visitors approach; a cleaner makes her way around the quad just to say she thought it was him, and secretarial staff come from their offices.

Read on.

Nothing is quite as much fun as a good old debate in the press. Alas, the Saint, true to form, published a somewhat slapdash and second-rate response (see post below) to what I thought was a pretty decent, albeit somewhat light-hearted, attack (see the Mitre, February 15, 2005, pp. 1-3). Well, herein follows a very brief highlight of portions of Mr. Hendele’s retort.

“Most of you probably haven’t read it – or heard of it – but what is important is that it continues to provide students with a voice.”

Judging from the usual content of the Saint, we should very much hope that their target audience has not heard of us, let alone read us. We are a quality newspaper, we are not a tool for entertaining the masses.

“What is important is that it continues to provide fair and unbiased coverage of things which matter most to students.”

Here, I must report an innacuracy. Though the Mitre is fair, we are far from unbiased. In fact, I am happy to report we have all the best biases.

“In a ‘recently’ – it only comes out once a month – published editorial from the Mitre of February of this year, the paper claimed The Saint has adopted a patronising, smug tone toward Christians, evangelicals and Catholics, and that this is indicative of our ‘intellectual backwardness.’ First of all, I do not see how one’s tone can be construed as an indicator of their intellect.”

I would advise the author to keep trying; perhaps someday he will gain just such an ability.

“Further, all of the articles written about Christians this year were authored by a Catholic, me, and have been aimed at the bigots who travelled great distances in an attempt to silence students’ in their exercise of the inalienable right to expression.”

Oh, the author is Catholic! Always good to have a fellow Catholic in the student press. Strange that he would defend a supremely blasphemous and perverted play as the ‘exercise of the inalienable right to expression’, but at least the author is Catholic, right?

“Secondly, how dare a paper so obviously enamored with the intricacies of Mother Church and the brainwashing dogma prescribed by it attack The Saint for being intellectually backward.”

Wait, I thought he said he was Catholic? Labelling the dogma proclaimed by Christ’s Church as “brainwashing” and insinuating that Catholicism (which I’m sure the author will recall is responsible for the preservation and maintanence of Western civilization not to mention the foundation of the University of St Andrews and every medieval university in Europe) is actually “intellectually backward” are not things that Catholics are wont to do. Perhaps the author meant to write “former Catholic” or “ex-Catholic” or the trendy “recovering Catholic” or the slightly more neutral “was raised Catholic” which would imply the disassociation from the Church so blatant in the author’s tone.

I also, perchance, wonder what Augustine and Aquinas would think when, upon reading the Saint, they discovered – quel horreur! – that James Hendele has implied that is they, the members of the greatest intellectual tradition the world has ever known, who are intellectually backward, instead of the mindless drones who regurgitate the spirit of the age fed up by the Guardian, New Statesman and other outlets of the secularist media and culture.

“Furthermore, the only other articles written about the University’s Christians this year have been in regards to their annoying, yet undeniably plucky, insistence on inviting ‘academics’ to speak on the merits of creationism.”

First Mr. Hendele said he wrote all the articles about Christians this year, now he says that there are others. Besides, we did not attack the Saint for having a smug and patronising tone for just this year; it has existed longer than that.

“The Saint has asked the Christian Union in a number of instances to contribute pieces reflecting their stances on issues of national importance and has not once heard a reply. Pot + Kettle = Black, you do the math.”

The Mitre is in absolutely no way associated with the (evangelical) Christian Union and never shall. The Christian Union often propagates the opposite strain of anti-intellectualism to that exhibited in the Saint.

“In that same article of February of this year, the Mitre not only goes on to quote our current, supremely ineffectual and apathetic rector, as saying that he believes The Saint has let its standards slip, but also accuses the paper of printing an excess of copies in order to somehow defraud would-be advertisers out of money. Any article based on the words of Clement Freud, a man more concerned with the sound of his own voice, should be taken with a pinch of salt. His recent contradictory statements on the problems The Saint were facing is testament to that. Furthermore, I do not see how printing extra copies and not selling them would in any way entice businesses to advertise. In fact the reason we print so many copies is because we must print a minimum of 1,000 and every thousand copies above that number costs only £3. It would do the Mitre well to get its facts straight before it starts pointing fingers at out ‘faulty accountants.'”

The remarks against Clement Freud are not worth refuting. Putting quotation marks around “faulty accountants” in my mind implies that such was a term used in either the Mitre article or commentary piece. In fact, the phrase is in neither the article nor the opinion piece. A tad misleading, but easily forgiven.

The Uni’s other newspaper ought to get its facts straight

(Published in the Saint, Thursday 5 May 2005)

by JAMES HENDELE

Here’s something I bet you didn’t know: our university has not only one, but two student newspapers. Well, more like one student newspaper and one student evangelical handout. Now I am not one to lambaste members of my own literary community, to accuse and name call and slander those I consider my fellow scholars and thinkers and journalists. I admire their effort. To start a student newspaper from scrap and turn it into a publication that can rightfully claim to be St Andrews’ most religious monthly takes determination, smarts and a dose of class.

Most of you probably haven’t read it – or heard of it – but what is important is that it continues to provide students with a voice. A voice which can be heard all the way from North Street in the north to South Street in the south. What is important is that it continues to provide fair and unbiased coverage of things which matter most to students: the latest Vatican news, the status of the recently formed St Andrews pro-life society, a definitive guide to the town’s best martini, and in depth coverage of Pope-watch ‘05. What is important is that it continues to assail those who would hinder students in their quest to know the specific details of last week’s debate. Here here, Mitre, here here.

I do not really think that anyone could possibly argue that this town is too small for two papers or that it is too liberal for a conservative voice. Quite the contrary – this student body has long been in need of a paper dedicated to voicing the concerns of those among us with a political or religious persuasion which would cause them to vote Tory and rest on the Sabbath. What bothers me is the way in which this University’s second paper has, at many instances, rebuked the editorial team of The Saint when it is guilty of the same sins it claims to reject.

In a “recently” – it only comes out once a month – published editorial from the Mitre of February of this year, the paper claimed The Saint has adopted a patronising, smug tone toward Christians, evangelicals and Catholics, and that this is indicative of our “intellectual backwardness.” First of all, I do not see how one’s tone can be construed as an indicator of their intellect. Further, all of the articles written about Christians this year were authored by a Catholic, me, and have been aimed at the bigots who travelled great distances in an attempt to silence students’ in their exercise of the inalienable right to expression. Secondly, how dare a paper so obviously enamored with the intricacies of Mother Church and the brainwashing dogma prescribed by it attack The Saint for being intellectually backward. Furthermore, the only other articles written about the University’s Christians this year have been in regards to their annoying, yet undeniably plucky, insistence on inviting “academics” to speak on the merits of creationism. The Saint has asked the Christian Union in a number of instances to contribute pieces reflecting their stances on issues of national importance and has not once heard a reply. Pot + Kettle = Black, you do the math.

In that same article of February of this year, the Mitre not only goes on to quote our current, supremely ineffectual and apathetic rector, as saying that he believes The Saint has let its standards slip, but also accuses the paper of printing an excess of copies in order to somehow defraud would-be advertisers out of money. Any article based on the words of Clement Freud, a man more concerned with the sound of his own voice, should be taken with a pinch of salt. His recent contradictory statements on the problems The Saint were facing is testament to that. Furthermore, I do not see how printing extra copies and not selling them would in any way entice businesses to advertise. In fact the reason we print so many copies is because we must print a minimum of 1,000 and every thousand copies above that number costs only £3. It would do the Mitre well to get its facts straight before it starts pointing fingers at our “faulty accountants.”

(Transcribed as printed).

St Andrews is, in many ways, a little oasis which we have been blessed with the pleasure of enjoying. Edinburgh is close enough to make journeying there feasibly, yet far enough to make it still a slight effort to go there. We have a library which, though not comparable to Alexandria of old nor Bodley’s or Congress’s of late, has a wide and deep breadth and enough to keep us occupied. We have beautiful beaches, divine strands on which to saunter, rest a while, exascerbate ourselves, paddle in the waves, or converse with a friend. We have a number of good bookshops in which to peruse ancient volumes. We have myriad cafés in which to read our books, and pubs in which to stir our minds over pints of bitter. We have a style of teaching which allows ample time to wander the library, ambulate down the sands, explore the booksellers, enjoy our drinks. We have, most thankfully, a community of orthodox Catholics and fellow travellers, saints and sinners, which provides sufficient good times and fellowship that one imagines we’d be happy even without our beaches, libraries, cafés, et cetera. We have an entire lifestyle of tradition, thought, worship, and enjoyment. It was ever thus, we are told, and ever thus it shall be, God willing.

Today marked the final barbecue I am ever likely to attend at No. 12 Queens Gardens. The current inhabitants are moving out and new, strange people will move in next year, who are foreign to me.

No. 12 was quite recently home to Barbecue Challenge 2005 (BBQC05). The challenge was that during Reading Week (the week between the end of class and the start of exams) for all the partcipants to have all meals – breakfast, lunch, and dinner – on the barbecue. It lasted from Monday until Friday, and I am happy to say that of the twelve who started out, I am one of three who managed to last all the way through. The others were Chris C. and George Irwin.

Anyhow, I have enjoyed plentiful good times at No. 12, more than I deserve. Home to Chris, Dave, Alex, Jenny, and ZaZa, it was always a comforting place when things were irritating me; a veritable home away from home. And because they have satellite television, there was always at least one program about Irwin Rommel on for us to watch whilst slowly sipping a cup of Earl Grey. From getting sunburnt in the garden while studying this term, to the time Cockburn the Younger was ill atop the herb garden, No. 12 has been a font of good times and fond memories, and long may it be so to its future residents. No. 12, I shall miss thee.

Woke up this morning with a slight timmerman (that’s Dansk/Sofie-speak for hangover), which was happily cured by a prodigious amount of orange juice and two sugar doughrings from Fisher and Donaldson’s on the way to my exam at 9:30am.

The jolly Dr. Frank Lorenz Muller invigilated the exam.

‘France Since 1940: Politics, Culture, and Society’

Three hours to answer three questions. I responded to:

After the exam I headed round to Maria Bramble’s for a glass of fizz with her and Robert O’Brien. She had just had her last exam and both are graduating this year, and getting married, as previously mentioned. Anyhow, we all of us headed to the Doll’s House restaurant to make use of their prudent lunch deal with “Ishmael”, Clare Dempsey, and Sam Ferguson, or ‘Father Sam’ as we call her because she’s studying to be a ‘piscie priestess.

It was a good luncheon with the usual good humour, except “Ishmael” and Rob continued their boring argument over something Paul says in Corinthians. There were a lot of good quips, none of which I can recall sadly.

There are so many great and wonderful people leaving this year; they will be greatly missed. I must thank Jocelyn my cook (God bless her!) for being instrumental in increasing the effectiveness of my general operations this academic year. She will be leaving — hoping she’ll be accepted to a position as nanny to a wealthy Turkish family somewhere in Anatolia – but don’t worry about my stomach. I am leaving the realm of private accomodation (good riddance!) and returning to a university hall of residence. Not just a hall of residence, but the best hall of them all: St. Salvator’s. Three square meals a day and a maid to empty your bin, vacuum your floors, and clean your desk surface. I think my room overlooks the Garden Quad rather than having a sea view, but that’s acceptable.

Now for a few days of packing, cleaning up the empty port bottles from my bedchamber, and then on Saturday back to the Empire State in all its glory. God bless America!

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