WHERE DOES ONE begin? Scotland, I suppose. I've known Abby since Day One in St Andrews. I was among the number of poor souls who were foolish enough to participate in the 'overseas orientation' for non-UK/RoI students. Through pure chance, a group of us who sat down to dinner in Andrew Melville Hall that night decided to venture into town that evening and see what was what. We went to the Central, which became my regular for a very long time, until replaced by the Russell for my tertian and magistrand years. Jon I met just over a year later, during his first few weeks at St Andrews (as I entered my second year). It was at the Catholic Society and he told me he came from Bristol. I was fairly ignorant of Bristol other than that it is home to the British Empire and Commonwealth Museum. I asked Jon about the museum and his answer was such as to confirm that he and I were on the same page of the book, so to speak. He didn't come much to Canmore at the start and so we were not instant friends, though I do recall running into him in the corridor of New Hall at 2 or 3 in the morning one night and striking up a brief conversation (most likely telling him he ought to be coming to Canmore, since like-minded folk are a dime a dozen there).

Anyhow, by some time or another we were all best of friends, and both Jon and Abby have been the source of (and butt of) so many of the great amusements we enjoyed at St Andrews. Good God, how many laughs! In Canmore, the Cellar Bar, the Central, the Russell, in flats, in Edinburgh, in Rome, in Dublin, in New York, and most recently in California, whenever one is with Jon and Abby there is always a good time to be had, and an appropriately inappropriate comment to relish. I have picked up the habit of simply saying "ledge" (that is, short for "legend") every time I utter the name of Jon Burke. Abby once desired that I verbally express precisely what it was that makes Jon such a legend, but all I could say was that it was of the same nature as the Sacraments in Eastern theology: appreciated, nourishing, and clung-to, but ultimately a mystery.

It was California then, which was host to our latest adventure, namely the joining in matrimony of Miss Abigail Hesser and Mr. Jonathan Burke. I flew in on Wednesday and upon checking in at the hotel, the desk clerk handed me a written message from Jon: "We're in the bar, free cocktails!" The wonderful rehearsal dinner was the next evening, and I was privileged to have the best seat in the house, with Fr. E and Mrs. Hesser on my left and Abigail and Jon on my right. But Friday... Friday was the wedding!

I'm off to California for a few days (I've never been before) for the wedding of two friends with whom some of the readers of this blog may be acquainted, Abigail Hesser & Jonathan Burke. It should prove quite good fun, and of course we certainly had a ball at the the last wedding. And it'll be in the old rite as well!

In honour of the anniversary of the birth of Her Majesty Queen Margrethe II of Denmark, I raised a glass of Warre's (Purveyors to the Household of the Queen of Denmark) this evening. May God bless and keep Her Majesty!

Some of you may recall that Her Majesty is of a somewhat artistic temperment. She sent her sketches inspired by The Lord of the Rings to J.R.R. Tolkein while he was alive, and the author liked them so much he had them published in the Danish edition of the trilogy. Above is an episcopal cope designed by Her Majesty in 1988 for the Cathedral of Viborg.

His Royal Highness Prince Christian, the Queen's grandson and the future King of Denmark.

† † †

Naturally, we also wish a very happy birthday and many, many bountiful blessings to another of Christendom's reigning monarchs: Christ's vicar and our Holy Father, Pope Benedict XVI, who, it seems, is a reader of Chronicles. God bless our Pope, the great, the good!

THE RECENT UTTERANCE of most grievous blasphemies against the Holy Spirit and the Blessed Virgin by a member of Senator John Edwards' presidential campaign team sparked great scandal, much compounded by the Senator standing by the offending party after the affair erupted. While she has since resigned, one wonders in what jurisdiction her comments, posted electronically on the internet, were made. Blasphemy remains a common law offense in New York, while one suspects it is almost as rarely enforced as those as-yet-unrepealed Plantagenet-era laws requiring all free-born Englishmen to practice archery weekly.

The blasphemy case which obtained the greatest reknown in these parts took place in December of 1810. A man (we will not call him gentle) by the name of Timothy Ruggles was brought to court in Salem in Charlotte County, New York. (Or, more properly, Washington County, as that particular bailiwick, originally named after the patron of the arts and Queen Consort to King George the Last, had been rechristened after a George of more recent popularity). Ruggles, anyhow, had made grievously blasphemous utterances against Our Lord and the Blessed Virgin which do not bear repeating (but which the inquisitive and hard-stomached scholar can find in the appropriate academic sources).

Ruggles had reckoned himself a "free thinker" and the townsfolk made haste to ensure he would be, at the very least, an imprisoned one. Found guilty in the Court of Oyer and Terminer of Salem, he was jailed for three months and fined $500. The blasphemer appealed the conviction, his lawyer arguing that there was no specific statute against blasphemy in the State of New York. The great James Kent, Chief Justice (and later Chancellor) of New York whose Commentaries on American Law earned him the worthy cognomen of "America's Blackstone", however, upheld the blasphemy conviction, citing blasphemy as a threat to morality and public welfare and "offence against the public peace and safety". Would that such was the case today!

• • •

IN THE MIDST of the frigid cold, I found myself (a fortnight ago) having a meander around the old Ward estate in New Rochelle. I was very glad that I had brought my walking stick along, as most of the old paths were covered in frozen snow. Without the aid of it, I most certainly would have slipped and cracked my head. A good few nooks and gullies had filled with frozen snow and water, to the extent that some small trees were eerily half-submerged in white. In a clearing amidst the barren trees, the old house sits, boarded-up and somewhat neglected. Despite being surrounded by sheets of ice, I circumnavigated it, and gave as good an inspection as I could before the cold bade me onwards, and back home.

Just as I reached the edge of the estate by the old forge, I came upon an old man with a giant of a beast that may very well have been the Hound of Cullen. My presence was acknowledge by a great loud bark, one of such ambiguity as to leave me guessing whether it was of welcome or suspicion. The old man promptly leashed the enormous beast. "No good out there today," he said. "Expect it's all frozen over". "Yes, quite," I tersely responded, my mind still arrested by the Hound of Cullen. (The reader will recall that only the week before, my right calf had been the object of a terrier's affections). "Better in a few weeks," the Old Man said in aspiration. "Hope so". Realizing my own terseness, I expressed my wish that the Old Man and the Hound of Cullen enjoy the remainder of the afternoon, and, the wish having been returned in kind, I proceeded home to the warmth of my own abode.

• • •

RATHER APPROPRIATELY, the landlord of our pub has been appointed Grand Marshal of the town's St. Patrick's Parade, which will duly be held tommorrow. Monsignor Doyle even appeared before mass last Sunday to solemnly announce the honor to the assembled faithful, citing this public citizen's good works (among them, sending food over from his rather capable kitchens when the rectory cook is away).

I recall, with fondness, Mr. Fogarty's ardent protests (consisting primarily of a shaked fist and some strongly-pronounced verbiage) when the village police, in a fit of overzealousness, erected checkpoints at every neighboring intersection to the pub, stopping every single passing automobile and "breathalyzing" the driver thereof. Needless to say, many a car was left on the village streets that night, including that of yours truly. Irritatingly, it was already winter, and I had to make the uphill walk home in the cold. Also, while traversing the hockey field behind the school, I was forced to climb over a fence in order to evade a skunk. We were not impressed by the village police that night, and heartily concurred with Mr. Fogarty's protests. No doubt he will do a good job of waving to the assembled Gaelry, compulsively bedecked in the Arran jumper and ceremonial sash which are typical of St. Patrick's Day Parade Grand Marshals past and present.

Does this position confer, we wonder, a certain suzerainity over the town's Irish-Americans?

• • •

THIS EVENING WAS SPENT, happily, in front of the fire, perusing the Encyclopedia of New York State given to me by Col. & Mrs. Cusack, my aunt and uncle next door. It is a worthy companion to the equally weighty Encyclopedia of New York City (an updated edition of which will appear next year). Between stoking the flames and letting the dog in and out of the house, I learnt about agriculture in Westchester (over 2,000 farms in 1850 but only 91 today), almshouses, art collecting, Austerlitz (pop. 1,453), aviation, bagel production, the Bahá'í faith ("white Protestants remain the principal source of converts"), and Ballston Spa.

• • •

PERHAPS I WILL go wander around the old Ward estate again when I return from the city tommorrow. The ice will surely have melted by now, but then tonight's rains might turn it a bit muddy. On the other hand, I've only gotten as far as Ballston Spa in my latest perusal of the Encyclopedia. Very well, I intend to do both (and will likely end up doing neither).

ABOVE: Ed and Christian with your humble scribe in between.

THE MONTH OF FEBRUARY returns, and so too the Knights of Malta Ball with its requisite sojourn to Edinburgh. If I have a confession to make, it is that I am a creature of habit, and having gone the past three years, I didn't see why the intervening distance of the Atlantic Ocean should make any particular difference this year. If I may make another confession, it is that I am incapable at organizing things competently, and of course left sorting out tickets to the last week. "Impossible," quoth Zygmunt Sikorski-Mazur when I contacted him. "Too late I'm afraid, and there is even a waiting list of people who've paid up just in case tickets become available". Well, I had accomodated myself to the concept of heading up to St Andrews and having a grand night out instead, but luckily Christian de Lisle came to the rescue. "Perchance," saith the youthful Old Harrovian, "I have a spare ticket and you can have it if you wish". Well, that settled it.

Carried off by taxicab to the Assembly Rooms in George Street from the similarly-monikered Assembly bar in Bristo Square, it was something of a disappointment to find the fine Georgian building veiled in scaffolding and lacking the usual looming Scottish standards of the Order (smaller version seen here) and the flanking flags hanging, floodlit, from the splendid façade. Nonetheless, the Assembly Rooms have been in need a fixing-up for some time now, so it's a relief to know that the City of Edinburgh have finally coughed up the dough. Interior restorations are to follow in the coming years, but then where will the Ball during such a restoration? Ed Monckton suggested the Castle as an acceptable substitute, and I'm inclined to agree.

It was quite the enjoyable ball, as per usual. His Eminence the Cardinal Archbishop of St Andrews & Edinburgh was affable as ever. (Last year, a photo of His Eminence, Lt. Col. Bogle, Abigail, and myself at this very event made it onto the social page of Scottish Field. I hope that is as far as my life in the limelight goes!). I ran into Fra' Freddie (Crichton-Stuart) and he exclaimed "What are you doing here!", though he subsequently admitted that his "little spies" had, actually, informed him I would be popping over from New York. Ed Monckton shared an amusing tale of his late grandfather and the Duke of Wellington commandeering a tank to gain entry to a public house and disengaging street lamps by means of firearms. California's own Chevalier Charles Coulombe, of course, talked to everyone, even the bouncers, who had a decidedly mafioso look to them this year. I, forgetfully, neglected to pick up a pack of Dunhills beforehand, but Gary Dench and I ran into Albert Thurn und Taxis and he kindly offered his brand: an excellent, unfilitered variety of (naturally) German origin.

One of the unintended consequences of the Scottish smoking ban is an increase in socialization: a greater appreciation of the brotherly bonds of nicotine intake. Now that we of the smoking habit are forced to congregate outside entrances you have an instant bond of solidarity with complete strangers. I met an Austrian fellow named Camilo Auersperg-Breunner, an Edinburgh University student, and we agreed on the excellence of the Scottish system of higher education. (If one could dignify it with that term; perhaps 'style' is a better word than 'system'). As it turned out, he had also spent some time in dear old Argentina, and so we swapped stories of the people and their particular ingenuity.

Later, Zygmunt introduced me to his son Nicholas, a very intelligent fellow who sounds terribly Scottish because he was educated in France rather than England with all the other Scots. (Alright, some Scots are educated in Scotland. There are Gordonstoun, Fettes, Glenalmond, and elsewhere needless to say). There were also two young Cypriot ladies, sisters if I recall correctly, who were very charming and whom we managed to drag onto the dance floor for a reel (and one of whom even managed to drag me onto the dance floor later in the evening). Typically, their names have been filed away in some deep but, alas, inaccessible fold of my brain. At any rate, we all agreed that the Turks ought to be given the boot. (Seems to be a recurring theme in European history, eh?).

Jamie Bogle was extremely late in arriving, and it turned out there was a story behind it. The trains from London were a typical shambles and there was every type of delay imaginable. Having used his mobile to make a phone call, the good Lieutenant Colonel was approached by another fellow asking if he could make a call. Jamie happened to overheard the fellow discussing "chambers" and so inquired if he (like Jamie) was a lawyer. The chap applied in the affirmative. Later in discussion, they discovered they were both actually heading to Edinburgh, and furthermore, as it turns out, to the Knights of Malta Ball! They realized they would both be terribly late, and so resigned themselves to the bar car, where they drank the train dry of champagne. The fellow's name is Christopher Boyle, and he and his wife made for some excellent conversation, along with Amanda Crichton-Stuart, whom I singularly failed when sent to procure cigarettes for, as the few newsagents along George Street had shut by that time in the evening. I did, however, introduce her to Albert (Thurn und Taxis), who offered one of his cigarettes, and happily they seemed to get on well. Unhappily, the Sunday following, Albert's Jack Russell terrier (who goes by the name of Chicho) took serious umbrage with my throwing a stick around with a female German shepherd Chicho clearly had eyes on. He ran up to me and bit me in the leg! Albert was very apologetic, and with a rolled-up newspaper and a "kommen zie here!" forced Chicho to likewise apologize. You know, as he lay prostrate before me with a teary look in his eye, I actually felt pity for the blighted creature which, only moments before, had planted its jaws on my right calf! Well, these things do happen.

On a more positive note, I actually won two prizes in the tombola raffle! A china mug bedecked with the insignia of the Sovereign Military and Hospitaller Order of Saint John of Jerusalem of Rhodes and of Malta and a placemat with an unrecognizable coat of arms emblazoned upon it. I shall have to get my heraldic detectives to work investigating the bearer of the arms; needless to say I will be quite prepared should he come for dinner.

EVENTUALLY, THE BELLS tolled and the staff encouraged us to exeunt the Assembly Rooms and we duly complied. There was then some prolonged pondering about after-parties. Zygmunt, Nicholas, and myself made a foray into the hopping Opal Lounge across the street, but I found it not to my particular liking (too loud! too crowded!) and thus decided to retire to bed. All in all a much-enjoyed evening. I congratulated Henry Lorimer on the night for having pulled it all off. "You have no idea how glad I'll be when tomorrow comes!" was his response. Well, all the organizers deserve our thanks and appreciation. I have been to the ball four years in a row now and each time it has been excellent, though, because of the variety of parties I've gone with, excellent in very different ways. I wonder if I will attend next year? I hope so, as the more excuses to go to Edinburgh I have, the happier I shall be.

Previously: The Knights of Malta Ball 2004 | 2005 | 2006

It is one of the wonders of Facebook that with a touch of the button you can find hundreds of photos of your friends. Among my compadres, none have quite the varying range of facial expressions as one R.J.E. Bradley. (Actually, you've met him, and his delightful parents, before, remember?). If any of you fear that 1980s-Wall-Street-style decadence has gone the way of the dodo, fear not, for Bradley keeps it alive in St Andrews. He can usually be found doing something outrageous at one of the numerous charity fashion shows, or perhaps enlivening a meeting of the Global Investment Group, or else displaying his wit in some other corner of the auld grey toon.

Previously: The Last Sunday

I was very saddened to hear this morning of the sudden death of our good and loyal friend, Walter Phelan of Brooklyn. Walter was a good man, with a heart of gold, and a brilliant mind. He taught himself the law, and passed the New York bar exams in the years before at least a year in law school was required (a development which Walter would've been the first to tell you was an outright racket). I have no doubt that Walter will be remembered for his numerous small kindnesses. Proud of his favorite Italian bakery, he would hand out loaves of bread from there every Sunday on the sidewalk outside St. Agnes after the 11:00 Tridentine mass. Having a gift for languages, he would often exchange a few kind words with the Polish waitress in her native tongue whenever we had lunch at Bloom's on Lexington, and he made sure to tutor his young nephew in Latin when he discovered it wasn't offered at school.

One of the things I liked most about Walter is that he was never afraid to have a good argument. More often than not, he and I found ourselves in agreement, but it was sometimes otherwise, such as with his firm contention that Shakespeare's plays were actually written by the Earl of Oxford. Nonetheless, he was polite and gracious in dispute, even if outspoken. Still, he was a private man, and as a friend said of him tonight, it would probably take five of his friends who'd never known eachother to piece together the story of his life. Walter heard mass three times a day, and could often be found attending masses at St. Agnes on 43rd Street, at St. Vincent de Paul's on 24th, and at St. George's Ukrainian Catholic Church down on 7th Street. Earnest in his desire for the salvation of souls and their eternal repose, he never missed the monthly mass of the New York Purgatorial Society. His friends will miss him very much.

Requiem æternam dona eis, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis.
Requiescat in pace. Amen.

Your most humble and obedient servant and the Long Island Sound.

Previously: Larchmontiana

We neglected to mention Prince Andrew's recent visit to New York in commemoration of the anniversary of the attacks on the World Trade Center. Sixty-seven British subjects died in the September 11, 2001 attacks, and eleven more were non-citizens with British ties. A ceremony was held in Hanover Square, where the British Memorial Garden is being built, followed by a reception at India House, which is located at No. 1 Hanover Square (the brown edifice in the photos above and below).

ONE THING WE greatly enjoyed about the Scotsman in its pre-tabloid days was that they often deemed St Andrews social events worthy of coverage in their august pages. It was a source of pride to see 'the national newspaper', a respectable broadsheet, covering events at the oldest university in the land (which we are proud to call our own). Naturally, once the conversion to tabloid size was complete, we were rarely heard of again, which was a little saddening. The Scotsman is not what it used to be —a beautiful, well-designed, informative respectable newspaper— but it still manages to print some thoroughly worthwhile articles which is more than can be said of any other Scottish daily. (One need only point out two articles by Prof. Haldane, c.f. here and here, recently posted on this site).

"...when the diehards decided to totter the one and a half miles back to toon on foot." Sounds familiar.

Admittedly, most of the events covered were organised by the Kate Kennedy Club, which seems to take pride in the sheer vulgarity and tastelessness with which they advertise many of their events. (This is only slightly mitigated by their superb running of the annual Kate Kennedy Procession). Still, we enjoyed the Scotsman's coverage and wish it had continued. I only bought the Scotsman on occasion after the switch, but often gave the Common Room's copy a browse when I lived in St. Salvator's. (Its Sunday edition, Scotland on Sunday is worth buying for Gerald Warner alone).

Here are a few bits and pieces clipped from the Scotsman for your perusal:

'Undampened spirits take the party indoors' / Lumsden Club garden party moved indoors on account of the rain. (I didn't go).

'High jinks and low cuts at Kate Kennedy's' / This covered the Kate Kennedy Procession dinner which takes place at the Old Course Hotel on the evening following the procession. This particular year I was in attendance myself and recall commiserating with Michelle Romero, that charming daughter of Venezuela, about the troubled state of her native land. I was their with our favorite Dane, Sofie von Hauch, and my flatmate, a member of the KK who wishes to remain unnamed on this site. Will Lyons couldn't make the dinner himself, so he sent 'K' up instead, accompanied by 'society photographer Z' whom I ran into while we were on our way out.

'Maltesers set ball rolling for charity' / The 2004 Knights of Malta Ball, not covered by this website because it did not exist at the time. It was a good time, especially so because I had three friends over from the States. Yalie Adam Brenner was doing his semester abroad at St Andrews at the time, and fellow Old Thorntonian Clara de Soto popped over from Boston College for the weekend with her good friend Katie Cordtz of Atlanta. The four of us together with Michelle Romero and the aforementioned unnamed flatmate of mine piled into a cab and made the hour's journey to Edinburgh for the soirée. Poor Adam, though. Towards the latter part of the evening Archie Crichton-Stuart, an exceptionally amusing Edinburgh student, and his friend Ramsay forced Adam to consume the significant remnants of a bottle of house red. It all went down swimmingly, but came back up on the cab ride back to Fife. Freddy McNair, who was recently nearly killed by an incompetent gurkha on a training ground, sat at the table next to ours, I recall. (Also, in the lower right-hand corner of the clipping you can spy the face of our good friend Ricky Demarco peering out from an unrelated article).

Previously: Another Broadsheet Bites the Dust

Chumley's Launch Party for 'Forgotten New York' Book

AS I GROW more and more cantankerous, my tolerance for evening trips down to Mannahatta declines, but on occasion there's an event which would be a crime to miss. Last Thursday, Dawn Eden and I popped down to Chumley's, the old speakeasy on Bedford Street in the West Village, for the shindig launching Kevin Walsh's brilliant book, Forgotten New York: Views of a Lost Metropolis. (Kevin reports on the party here). I've been following Kevin's Forgotten New York website for years now, and it has earned an unquestionable rank as one of my favorite sites ever (though, shamefully, I've never been on one of his legendary 'Forgottentours'). The author himself was on hand, naturally, and I also enjoyed meeting a number of very kind people who are as fond of Forgotten New York as I am.

The Man of the Hour himself: Kevin Walsh (in glasses).

While Dawn and Kevin are familiar friends (she even gets a mention in the book's acknowledgements), I had never before had the privilege of meeting this great chronicler of quinqueboronian miscellany. He is very much like his website: simple and brilliant. Happily, I got my complementary copy of the book personally inscribed, though I quite presumptuously upbraided him for only mentioning Audubon Terrace in passing (c.f. FNY: 'I Can't Drive 155') while I believe it is worth a Forgotten page of its own. (Naturally, I have a post slowly developing on Audubon Terrace, which I believe is one of the most beautiful public spaces in all New York, as well as one of the most underappreciated).

No, the camera isn't smudged; an angelic haze follows Dawn wherever she goes.

But enough of the fun, how's the book? Well I love it. It's emphasis is on breadth rather than depth, since it'd be impossible to reproduce the entire contents of the encyclopedic website in a mid-sized paperback book. I view the book in two regards: first, as a handy basic guide referencing the variety of forgotten, unnoticed, and underappreciated sites around the Five Boroughs; and second, as a good jump-start companion to the more thoroughly informative website.

Take, for example, the Lent Riker Smith House out in Queens. Browsing through the book we see the entry on the 'Lent Riker Smith Homestead' which gives us two paragraphs of information. Enough to whet the appitite and plant the seed of intrigue, but when we check out the website's entry on the house we get much, much more… and in color, to boot. I hope readers not yet familiar with the website will use the book as a springboard, but I also hope that we will be gifted with updated editions of the book in years to come, with added features.

Buy the book. Aficionados of forgotten-ny.com will appreciate a version of the familiar in dead-tree form, while the uninitiated will find it extremely useful as a foundation for appreciating Gotham's numerous nooks and crannies. Kevin Walsh has done a great service to all those who have a love for the Big Apple.

I work at my computer in a small room here at home, and Jamie has his in the main room alongside. When we are both tapping away busily, our work is punctuated by his pleas for cups of tea (sometimes he just makes a sort of bleating noise - it's really quite heart-rending) and by the telephone ringing (annoying - so we often leave the answerphone on and deal with calls later). […]

Later, emerging from a tube station on my way to St Mary's Church in Chelsea where I was due to give a talk to young engaged couples as part of a Marriage Preparation course, I had a most extraordinary and wonderful experience. There are eight million people in London. And there, walking towards me, was the one person dearest to me in all of them: my husband Jamie. He would never normally be in that part of London, and it is unusual for me to be there too. Neither of us had co-ordinated our activities today, just normal busy schedules for us both........ He had been at some event at Brompton Oratory followed by lunch and a meeting nearby.....it was a chance in eight million that we should both happen to be in Sloane Square at that precise moment.

Just a little snippet from Joanna Bogle's new blog, Auntie Joanna Writes. Joanna is an author and journalist, as well as being wife to Jamie Bogle (c.f. balls of '05 and '06). You can go on a tour of Catholic England by listening to fourteen of Joanna's 'Catholic Heritage' programs available at this address.

A most hearty congratulations to Mr. and Mrs. James Panero, who were wed recently in a ceremony on Block Island. The Times carried the announcement.

Scientists informed the media that the combined lightness of all the seersucker and linen suits worn at the ceremony raised Block Island four inches out of the water.

For David Yezzi, poetry is a lonely business…

Abigail Hesser once asked me what champagne I preferred and I replied that I'm something of a fan of Veuve-Clicquot. "Veuve-Clicquot? I've never heard of it," saith the Moet et Chandon partisan. Well now the young Miss Hesser (who in less than a year will be the young Mrs. Burke) has revealed herself as a convert to the Veuve cause. "Moet is trite," she tersely says of her former poison of choice. I sent her a Veuve-Clicquot e-card welcoming her to Veuvianity.

Or: How Andrew Cusack Became a Tea Drinker

THE HOT SUMMER sun has fled us here in New York, having been replaced by the cooling but somber clouds of rain. My mind can't help but harken back to an August of just a few years ago when I spent the summer in Argentina. Of course, New York's summer is Buenos Aires's winter, but in Argentina winter means prodigious rain and skies of grey, rather than the glorious snows we're used to in the Big Apple. On the grounds of St. Alban's College, our happy little school, there was situated the spartan but merry Red Lion Coffee Shoppe.

On many a cold, grey, Argentine August day we would escape the sufferings of education and flee to the Red Lion. There were two points of service at the Red Lion coffee shop: one a window which faced onto the outside (seen above), the other a hole-in-the wall counter which faced onto the little square room which was the shop. It was a simple, sparsely-decorated room with a few chairs and tables, the walls covered with posters lauding South African rugby and New Zealand cricket, and framed prints depicting charming views of other St Alban's toponyms around the world: the original St. Alban's in England, St. Alban's in South Africa, St. Alban's in Denmark, St. Alban's just about everywhere. There was only one heater (the Argentines, in their desire to be in all ways like the British, do not heat their buildings properly) mounted onto the side wall opposite the counter and the obvious idea was to sit right next to the heater or else freeze. It was a black moment when one entered the Red Lion only to discover that others – the nerve! – were already situated by the heater. Rest assured, many a rueful glance was exchanged.

Anyhow, while a number of carbonated beverages were on offer, a nice warm cup of tea was much preferred to a cold, refrigerated soda. Tea at the Red Lion, which was invariably Green Hills, was accompanied by chocolate, usually fulfilled by a packet of M&M's, but occasionally I went for Rhodesia bars which I confess I only ever bought because of their name. (Incidentally, I took a Rhodesia bar home and when I had a fetching young tutor at St Andrews who was one of the last Rhodesians to be born, I gave it to her as a gift at our last tutorial).

I had never been a regular tea drinker before then and am very glad that I acquired the happy habit; it is one which has stood me well throughout the ages. What better companion in Scotland, for example, while reading as the grey tempest of the Caledonian climate brews outside, than a nice cup of warm brew inside? And of course tea need not be a solitary joy. When I think of the hours wasted away in after-rosary cups of tea on weekday afternoons in St Andrews! It would bring scandal to some. Indeed one cold Scottish afternoon the hours of cups of tea gave way to two bottles of port, and then a raid by a gaggle of ne'erdowells on my secret whiskey reserve! (Duly recounted herein).

At any rate, I believe it to be one of summer's chief deficiencies that it is too hot for the proper, frequent enjoyment of tea, and so I rather look forward to the coming fall and winter seasons. Nestled in a comfy chair with a nice cup of tea and a good book; could there be pleasures more sublime?

AS THE MONTH of July draws to a close, we'd like to announce the Polish scientist and politician Prof. Maciej Giertych has been anointed our 'Man of the Month'. Professor Giertych, who holds two degrees from Oxford and his PhD in tree physiology from the University of Toronto, is a Member of the European Parliament and recently took part in that inauspicious body's debate commemorating the seventieth anniversary of the commencement of the Spanish Civil War, a debate which even the BBC's Europe editor slated as "one of those debates that seem rather pious and pointless". While the usual gang of characters spouted their unthinking praise for the tyrannical and genocidal Communist and Anarchist forces, Prof. Giertych had the decency to stand up and set the record straight.

"Thanks to the Spanish Army and Franco the Communist attack on Catholic Spain was thwarted," Prof. Giertych told the European Parliament. "The presence of such people in European politics as Franco guaranteed the maintenance of traditional values in Europe and we lack such statesmen today. Christian Europe is losing against atheistic socialists today and this has to change."

"I thought it was necessary to remind listeners in the EU Parliament," the Professor said later, "that this was not an anti-democratic movement, but a movement that was in defense of certain values that are inherent in the Catholic way of seeing things pertinent to government to run civil society. The uprising was a defense of Catholic Spain, so the civil war in Spain was a conflict between Catholic Spain and communist Spain." The Professor also used his speech to praise António de Oliveira Salazar, Portugal's Catholic dictator who, like Franco, managed to keep his country free from the devastation of the Second World War. (Salazar was also a very close friend of Rhodesian Prime Minister Ian Smith, who claimed in his memoirs that if Salazar had lasted a few more years, Rhodesia would still exist today).

Prof. Giertych is a Member of the European Parliament for the League of Polish Families, one of the political parties in Poland's tripartite coalition government. His son, Roman Giertych, is both Deputy Prime Minister and Minister for Education of Poland.

Previously: The Tomb of Francisco Franco | Requiescat in Pace | The Caudillo in Action! | Fun with Franco! | The Reconquest of Madrid

General Eisenhower and General Franco

I've always liked Taki's columns in the Spectator; for his sins, the man has a good heart and often writes with brutal honesty. Anyhow, Mr. Theodoracopulos's son recently got hitched to a Borghese, with the priest shipped in from Staten Island, and the baptism of the couple's six-month-old child (!) on the same day. You can read it all yourself. (The links are Taki's).

Midsummer marriage

The Spectator, July 15, 2006 Frankly, this was not a cool wedding. There were no security guards, no stretch limos, no Liz Hurleys, no cutting-edge genetic technology, not even a same-sex marriage. Not very with it, I know, but there we are. John Taki and Assia got hitched last Saturday in the most magical setting I have ever seen a Xanadu. 'And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills/Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;/And here were forests ancient as the hills,/Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.'

Old Sam Coleridge must have visited Prince Nettuno Borghese's property by the sea, west of Rome, because what Kubla Khan decreed is where my boy got hitched. Assia's father Count Maurizio Baudi di Selve and her mother Maria Grazia never let on what they had in store for us. Maurizio is the scion of the Borghese clan, the oldest princely family of Italy, and he began the celebrations on Friday evening in the Palazzo Borghese, with a small dinner for around 250.

Back in the good old days, Rome was led by princes who built palaces reflecting their power. The present head of the family still lives in an apartment there, sharing the rest of the palazzo with the Circolo della Caccia, Rome's most exclusive gentlemen's club. Liveried staff move silently, evoking a time when nobility led from the front. The place is so grand and so beautiful even I managed to behave. The trick for a successful wedding is to keep it small. Only good friends need be invited. The mother of my children, John Taki and I invited 90, Assia's family 135. Not a freak among them, no stuffed shirts, no charlatans, just young people full of grace and manners to match their beauty.

Afterwards, on the terrace of the Hassler, we began to blow off steam. I had friends who had flown in from New York, Los Angeles, Athens and three all the way from deepest Mexico. The jet lag helped. At five in the morning, the management declared the bar closed because a few bores upstairs found it hard to sleep.

Next day was the big one, so I went to the Borghese Gardens and tried to sweat off some of the booze. After a while I had to sit down next to some fat American tourists who, I think, were complaining about the lack of air-conditioning.

Around five in the afternoon I was driven towards Anzio, where Nettuno lies high above the sea. A long alley lined with hay bales suddenly revealed a beautiful small chapel next to a handsome red house which I mistook for the main one. (It turned out to be the gardener's cottage; some cottage.) Two large semi-circles of armchairs were provided for the guests outside the chapel. The ceremony was conducted by Father Ramsay, a close friend of my family who had flown in from Staten Island, Noo Yawk.

Though I say it myself, never have I seen a better-looking couple. The father of the bride is a tall and very handsome man, some 20 years younger than me, and when he came in with Assia, the Med glistening in the distance behind, the green walls of the surrounding woods, spots of light penetrating, the scene was so moving I almost blubbed. Close but no cigar. John Taki, an incredibly sloppy dresser, was for the first time in his life looking like Beau Brummell. He had spent three months preparing his sartorial triumph. Two violinists played Vivaldi and, after a ceremony conducted in English and Italian by the polyglot Father Ramsay, it was time for...yes, the baptism of Taki-Tancredi, aged six months. (Leave it to a son of mine to get married in front of his baby son.) My daughter Lolly was his godmother.

The party that followed I will not soon forget. We walked from the chapel to a wood under a canopy of pines where a jazz band played in the pink light of dusk. My friend John Sutin mistook the round tables lined with drink and pizza-makers for the real thing, and had 24 slices of freshly made pizza. As it got dark and we were asked to proceed to an open lawn under an 11th-century tower for dinner, Sutin looked like the proverbial cat that had swallowed you-know-what. Dinner under the stars, topiary transforming the house into a stage set, so many beautiful young girls, it was a bit too much for me. I got completely blotto, gave a good speech, and danced all night to Zulu music, something I don't do that often. The newly-weds left as the sun was rising, on Bushido, anchored off in the distance and gave a long whistle goodbye. I thought I saw some dolphins escorting them away, but obviously my eyes were playing tricks. A long summer day and night had ended but the memories will always linger like echoes of the mind.

Click here for a photo of most of the world's reigning monarchs and a number of other royalty, gathered to celebrate the jubilee of the King of Thailand's accession to the throne.

A few weeks ago, Fr. Rutler informed me that the Queen of Thailand, upon acceding to the throne, made a vow never to perspire. No word on whether she's kept her vow.

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!"

This morning I was browsing the front pages of a few of the world's leading dailies and came across the Irish Times. I thought to myself "My, that lady bears a striking resemblence to Dawn Eden." Then I read the headline 'Chastity Can Make You Happier, Says Author' and thought to myself "How bizarre! That sounds just like something Dawn would say." Finally I put two and two together and thought "Crikey! That is Dawn!" C.f. the Dawn Patrol.

Our readers will no doubt recall that Dawn mentioned my comments regarding the Brooklyn Museum's mauling of their own façade in her Daily News column. More recently she's written a book and has been buying refrigerators for nuns.

Knight Grand Cross of Obedience of the Order of Malta

Maj-Gen the 2nd Viscount Monckton of Brenchley, who has died aged 90, was awarded an MC in 1940 and later became director of Army public relations at a time when the Armed Forces' public profile was growing in importance.

At 50 he retired early to run his 350-acre farm in Kent and to join the boards of a series of firms to help pay for the education of his five children. In the House of Lords he became a persistent critic of the neglect of rural and military interests, and took a lifelong interest in archaeology and water divining.

The sole Roman Catholic trustee of a £3 million appeal for Canterbury Cathedral in 1974, Monckton was president of the British Association of the Sovereign Order of Malta, and helped to ease strained relations with its Anglican counterpart, the Venerable Order of St John of Jerusalem, by taking part in ecumenical services.

He also played a key role in forming the Order of Malta Volunteers, who aid the sick at the shrine of Lourdes, and in setting up trust care homes with the Venerable Order.

Since my university years have now come to their scheduled conclusion, there has naturally been much speculation in the learned societies and respectable journals as to what shall become of me. One of our Novanglian fellow-travellers has suggested I follow young Winston Churchill's aim of legislative service, though I'd rather be a subaltern in the 4th Hussars! Colonel Cusack, meanwhile, has suggested the Executive Mansion rather than the House of Assembly. Alas, the future of young Cusack remains as yet shrouded by a misted veil of uncertainty through which not even old Tiresias can portend. My own particular desire is to be rolled around Bronxville in a wheelchair, flannel blanket covering my lap, with a cane to shake in fury at passing vagrants.

Previously: Whither Cusack?

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)

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.

Well I've finally got around to putting up my report of our pilgrimage to Rome in March, with a plethora of accompanying photographs. It was an amazing time; Easter excepted, it was the jewel in the crown of our penetential season. Read about it all here.

BACK DOWN TO the Assembly Rooms of Edinburgh for the annual ritual of the Knights of Malta Ball and I am happy to report that, as per usual, a good time was had by all. We had a larger contingent heading down from the Auld Grey Toon than last year (when it was just Fräulein Hesser and myself), consisting of Abigail, Jon Burke, Stefano, Clare Dempsey, and yours truly. After gliding down from Fife via taxicab, we met up with Zygmunt Sikorski-Mazur, Jamie Bogle (sans Joanna, alas), and Gerald Warner at the Opal Lounge, a little past half six, and managed to pack in at least a round of drinks before heading across George Street to the Assembly Rooms (depicted in the engraving below).

Having dropped off our coats and such, we swept up the staircase to the Ballroom for some champagne before dinner. After mulling about and conversing for a while we bumped into the Cardinal Archbishop of St Andrews himself, H.E. Keith Patrick O'Brien, himself a Grand Cross Conventual Chaplain to the Order of Malta. We apologised for not maintaining his senior cathedral in St Andrews in the same state as his junior one in Edinburgh, but I did thank him profusely for allowing us an indult mass at Ravelston.

Abigail, myself, His Eminence, Jon, Stefano, and Clare.

A little while later we were piped in to dinner which began with a terrine of Shetland salmon with fennel and saffron salad, sweet mustard, and dill dressing. The main course was a rather tasty roasted guinea-fowl with goats cheese, pimento, and rosemary stuffing with bubble and squeak, fricasse of woodland mushrooms and tarragon sauce. All topped off by a chocolate and Drambuie dessert and tea and coffee of course.

Lt. Col. Bogle and Miss Dempsey.

As we sat to dine, all I had to do was tell Jamie and Gerald that Clare's grandpa was a Blueshirt (the much tamer Irish version of Mussolini's Blackshirts) and they hit it off, discussing various matters Hibernical. Later in the evening we all agreed that all this Republicanism business that's been popular of late in Ireland is a load of bosh and that Ireland ought to become a monarchy again with a High King (or Ard-Ri as they were).

The two most conservative men in Britain? Should've had Jon Burke in the photo and made a triumvirate.

I also ran into our good friend Ricky Demarco — it must be over a year since our last meeting — who was brimming with enthusiasm and energy as always. He was attempting to tell Henry Lorimer what he always says with typical (though genuine) hyperbolic abandon: that whenever he runs into me he "remembers not to lose hope in the future" and that if I am "the kind of person the greatest country of our time can produce" then Western Civilization will continue. And of course I always have to retort that it's all nonsense and that it is not I, but rather Ricky's natural boundless enthusiasm (even at 75), that is the source of his refusal to despair.

Gerald Warner with Prof. Richard Demarco.

Your humble scribe and Mr. J.G. Burke.

Myself with Jamie, Clare, Gerald, and the mysterious Alexandra.

One of the more amusing portions of the evening was during the auction (by Bernard Williams of Christie's). One of the items up for grabs was a weeekend in Gozo, I believe, and the bidding was rather hot, finally slowing down when it passed £3,000. Well anyhow, Burke put in a bid at £3,800 in the spirit of keeping the damn thing going (the money goes to charity after all), only to find the gentleman from Christies proclaim "going... going..." — particles of sweat no doubt collecting on Jon's brow and intercessory prayers of saints forming in his mind as he tried to posit the phone call to Mum & Dad — "going... going..." for what seemed like an eternity though in reality was just a few seconds. One could picture, in slow motion, the brief inhalation, the auctioneer's lips about to speak the word "Sold!" when, lo and behold, Sir Tom Farmer put in a final bid of £4,000 and won. They probably felt the sigh of relief at the Burke family abode down in Bristol.

Despite the inbalance in our table (Jon/me/Stefano/Gerald/Jamie/Zygmunt to Clare/Abigail, with the legendary Alec Tod joining us later), it was a most enjoyable evening with good conversation and even some highland dancing. (Miss Dempsey and I joined a bunch of old folks for the Eightsome Reel, at least). Alas, it may be my last Knights of Malta ball for some time, though I somewhat relish the idea of making an annual February pilgrimage to Britain once I return to New York. We shall see, but I am glad to at least had the privelege of enjoying the ones I've attended so far.

Previously: The Knights of Malta Ball 2005

The latest lookalikes: Henry Lorimer, Convenor of the Companions of the Order of Malta in Scotland, and William F. Buckley, Jr., of some reknown.

Lookalikes: J. Edward Barker & Benito Mussolini | James Panero & Boy Mulcaster | Ramsay Colquhoun & Fr. Dougal | Steve Zissou & Yasser Arafat

REACTIONARIES HAVE FOOLED themselves into believing the world has been getting worse and worse, essentially since the Fall. Progressives meanwhile, heartened by fairly recent progress-heralding genocidal masterpieces such as the French, Russian, and Chinese revolutions, believe the world is getting better and better with the March of Time. But we, the happy middle, – conservatives and traditionalists – know that Man is as Man was and as Man will be, and that we will see days of sadness and terror just as we will see days of greatness and glory. It was found to be greatly encouraging, therefore, when I chanced upon the Mess of the Officer Training Corps here in St Andrews last night and was greeted not by the bilious throbbing beats of noxious — dare I say it? — jungle music, but instead by the dulcet syncopations of Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake. Under the attentive ear of J. Edward Barker, new President of the Mess Committee, A Squadron, TUOTC, I am happy to report that bad music has been given the old heave-ho.

YET, AS THE commendable is oft accompanied by the regretable, the hallowed pasttime of smoking has tragically been banned in the Mess. This is doubly wounding as the ban has taken place before the Scottish ban on smoking in public places takes effect (March 27), but also because the Mess is Ministry of Defence property and thus effectively exempt from the ban. Alas, the spirit of bureaucracy and nanny-ism has partly infected (some would say taken over) the caverns of the M.o.D. and decrees were handed down from above that smoking would be banned from January 1, 2006. Shameful, as it was one of the best places to enjoy a toke on the old pipe, especially since a pipe rack (donated by J. Edward Barker himself) was dutifully placed on the mantle below the portrait of Her Majesty. Nonetheless, we look forward to continued improvements under the tenure of Mr. Barker, and wish him well.

Previously: The New PMC | A Wednesday Night in St Andrews | The Officers' Mess, Wyvern | Whose Poker Face is Better?

A good number of we happy St Andreans were down in the West Country recently — Somerset to be precise — for the wedding of two of our dear and closest friends [to be covered in a later post]. Being in Somerset, Alec, "Ishmael", Clare and my good self decided to hop over to the little village of Mells last Friday to see the grave of Msgr. Ronald Knox and to sup at what is known as one of the best pubs in all of England.

It is always refreshing to hear a monarch speak his or her mind, especially when it is something quite plain and sensible that the high-falutin' politicos and public servants in their bufoonery would not dream of saying. As such, we were very happy to read some thoughts Queen Margrethe II of Denmark expressed last year:

"We are being challenged by Islam these years - globally as well as locally. It is a challenge we have to take seriously. We have let this issue float about for too long because we are tolerant and lazy.

"We have to show our opposition to Islam and we have to, at times, run the risk of having unflattering labels placed on us because there are some things for which we should display no tolerance.

"And when we are tolerant, we must know whether it is because of convenience or conviction."

I am sure we will all raise a glass to Her Majesty, and wish her many more happy years.

We should note that our good friend Abigail has started Hearth and Home, which recalls the Hilaire Belloc quote:

One thing in this world is different from all other things. It has a personality and a force. It is recognized and (when recognized) most violently loved or hated. It is the Catholic Church. Within that household the human spirit has roof and hearth. Outside it, is the night.

Who else would have links as varied as the FSSP, the DAR, and In Style magazine?

St Andrean Responsible for Hong Kong's 'Economic Miracle'

Sir John Cowperthwaite was the main figure responsible for Hong Kong's economic transformation, lifting millions of people out of poverty. While scholars like Milton Friedman and F. A. Hayek put an intellectual case for the free markets, it was Cowperthwaite who provided the textbook example showing economically liberal policies leading to swift economic development. His practical example provided confidence to the Thatcher and Reagan governments, and was a key influence in China's post-Mao economic liberalisation.

Cowperthwaite read classics at St Andrews and Christ's College, Cambridge. While waiting to be called up by the Cameronians (Scottish Rifles), he went back to St Andrews to study economics. This Scottish education imbibed him with the ideas of the Enlightenment, especially the work of Adam Smith, who had been born nearby in Kirkcaldy. He was a liberal in the 19th century sense, believing that countries should open up to trade unilaterally. In 1941, he joined the Colonial Administrative Service in Hong Kong. When it fell to the Japanese, he was seconded to Sierra Leone as a district officer, before returning in 1946 to help the colony's economic recovery. "Upon arrival," the Far Eastern Economic Review put it, "he found it recovering quite nicely without him." He quickly worked his way up the ranks and was made Financial Secretary in 1961, in charge of its economic policy for a decade.

When he became Financial Secretary, the average Hong Kong resident earned about a quarter of someone living in Britain. By the early 90s, average incomes were higher than Britain's. Cowperthwaite made Hong Kong the most economically free economy in the world and pursued free trade, refusing to make its citizens buy expensive locally-produced goods if they could import cheaper products from elsewhere. Income tax was never more than a flat rate of fifteen percent. The colony's lack of natural resources, apart from a harbour, and the fact that it was a food importer, made its success all the more interesting. Cowperthwaite's policies soon soon attracted the attention of economists like Milton Friedman, whose television series Free to Choose featured Hong Kong's economic progress in some detail.

Asked what is the key thing poor countries should do, Cowperthwaite once remarked: "They should abolish the Office of National Statistics". In Hong Kong, he refused to collect all but the most superficial statistics, believing that statistics were dangerous: they would led the state to to fiddle about remedying perceived ills, simultaneously hindering the ability of the market economy to work. This caused consternation in Whitehall: a delegation of civil servants were sent to Hong Kong to find out why employment statistics were not being collected; Cowperthwaite literally sent them home on the next plane back.

Cowperthwaite's frugality with taxpayers' money extended to himself. He was offered funds from the Hong Kong Executive to do a much needed upgrade to his official residence, but refused pointing out that since others in Hong Kong did not receive that sort of benefit, he did not see why he should.

Cowperthwaite's hands off approach, and rejection of the in vogue economic theory, meant he was in daily battle against Whitehall and Westminster. The British government insisted on higher income tax in Singapore; when they told Hong Kong to do the same, Cowperthwaite refused. He was an opponent of giving special benefits to business: when a group of businessmen asked him to provide funds for tunnel across Hong Kong harbour, he argued that if it made economic sense, the private sector would come in and pay for it. It was built privately. His economic instincts were revealed in his first speech as Financial Secretary: "In the long run, the aggregate of decisions of individual businessmen, exercising individual judgment in a free economy, even if often mistaken, is less likely to do harm than the centralised decisions of a government, and certainly the harm is likely to be counteracted faster."

His ability to pursue policies which, at the time, were deeply unfashionable, was helped by having supportive Hong Kong Governors, Sir Robert Black and Sir David Trench, who both had free market sympathies. Moreover, Cowperthwaite was formidable at arguing his case: as Dennis Healey recalled: "I always retired hurt from my encounters with the redoubtable Financial Secretary."

From 1972 to 1981, Cowperthwaite was an advisor to Jardine Flemming & Co in Hong Kong. He retired to St Andrews with his wife Sheila and was an active member of the Royal & Ancient. For many years, he spent six months of the year with his wife traveling the world visiting friends and relatives. He was an old school civil servant and, much to the frustration of economists, resisted requests to write an autobiography about his time in Hong Kong, believing that his duty was to serve, not to reveal the minutiae of government business.

- John James Cowperthwaite KBE OBE CMG, Financial Secretary of Hong Kong, born 25 April 1915; died 21 January 2006.

This is the obituary from the Globalisation Institute

Michael Wharton, the genius behind the Peter Simple column in the Daily Telegraph, died on Sunday at 92 years of age. Wharton was "a quietly spoken, cherubic-featured man who ate corned beef sandwiches and drank brandy and ginger ale in a Fleet Street pub every lunchtime" according to his obituary in the Telegraph which provides some background to the man who invented an imaginary realm with which to point out the faults and foibles of the real one. Here we provide some excerpts which we found particularly interesting, amusing, or explanatory.

Wharton's first volume of autobiography, The Missing Will (1984), opened with an evocation of childhood memories: the great house, with its Long Gallery and the smooth green lawns, on the day news arrived from the Western Front that his elder brother, the Viscount, was dead. It went on to recount, however, that he was really born Michael Bernard Nathan, the son of an unsuccessful businessman of German-Jewish origins, on April 19 1913 at Shipley, in the West Riding of Yorkshire.

Young Michael was educated at Bradford Grammar School and Lincoln College, Oxford, where he learned to drink and to be idle. He took on the persona of a Tory anarchist who supported Franco and was determined to be of the Right, even if not a paid-up member. Eventually he was rusticated for throwing an egg at High Table and dismantling a sofa which was then pushed out of a window.

On the outbreak of the Second World War he joined the Royal Artillery, under his mother's maiden name of Wharton. After obtaining a commission, he was sent to India, where he became an intelligence officer, eventually being attached to the General Staff and rising to the rank of acting lieutenant-colonel. Since the threat to India from both Germany and Japan was largely theoretical towards the end of the war, Wharton's restless imagination came into play. He invented the Thargs, a sect of redheaded tribesmen in the Sind Desert, descendants of Alexander the Great's soldiery who were in wireless contact with Hitler's High Command. While studying the few facts available on some dull Japanese generals, he conjured up a one-eyed officer of the Imperial high command who had developed a fierce hatred of England after living in Harrogate where he had learnt the secret of toffee-making.

An advertisement "Learn Etruscan the Way They Did" produced a host of orders which eventually led to an announcement that the Etruscan records were sold out but that there were still stocks of Old Prussian, Aztec and Pictish; several requests inevitably followed.

The Daily Telegraph even devoted a lead editorial to Wharton's passing, entitled 'Death of a Genius'. God rest the soul of this brilliant and hilarious man, who provided thought and amusement for so many throughout his years.

Previously: A Wednesday Night in St Andrews| The Officers Mess | Did You Ever Notice That... | Arafat Joins Team Zissou

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