A LITTLE SOMETHING for our good friends from university who've just moved to London from the countryside. I hope that when they are in the Cathedral they will pop into our patron's chapel, glance at the mosaic of our dear old Royal Burgh of St Andrews, remember good times, and say a prayer for us all.

AMONG THE CURIOSITIES held in the St Andrews University Museum is the death mask of Pedro de Luna (1328-1423), one of the Avignon antipopes, who styled himself Benedict XIII. De Luna issued bulls granting university status to the group of scholars at St Andrews, and thus the Universitas Doctorum Magistrorum et Scholarum Sancti Andreae apud Scotus was born. The bulls were later confirmed by Pope Martin V, whose election ended the Great Western Schism. De Luna's name lives on at St Andrews in the University's coat of arms: the chief of the shield features a crescent, punning on the Antipope's last name, which of course is Spanish for 'moon'.

A number of International Relations students at St Andrews have created this video (5:18) illustrating what is known in that field of study as the 'CNN effect' on a crisis in fictional 'Berniestan'.

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

SOME OF MY best games of Risk were played during my St Andrews days: in Step Rock Cottage, in the A Squadron Mess, and a particularly enjoyable game in Canmore one evening when "Ishmael", Stefano Costanzo, and I united our separate forces to defeat Abigail, whom we had summarily designated as a heathen ruler. (Once we had wiped her forces from the map of the world, we declared perpetual peace owing to our Christian brotherhood, and immediately adjourned to the Russell for a pint). I am glad, then, that the residents of my dear old St. Salvator's Hall have initiated formal games of Risk. A good and wholesome pursuit, methinks. St Andrews is, according to those who know these things, the world's foremost center for the study of "international relations" (the moniker by which the activity of correcting foreigners is known these days).

Herr Hoobler contributes a pithy remark about world domination.

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

by JOHN HALDANE
THE SCOTSMAN | Saturday 9 September 2006

A COUPLE of weeks ago St Andrews was treated to the sight of a colourful parade of heralds, hereditary standard bearers, nobility and clan chiefs, representatives of the University, leaders of the Christian churches, and sundry others, processing through the town to the accompaniment of the pipes. The occasion was the opening by the Princess Royal of the 27th International Congress of Genealogical and Heraldic Sciences, featuring the first meeting of European heralds since the middle ages.

This weekend St Andrews sees another ritual procession: this of Knights and Dames of the Equestrian Order of the Holy Sepulchre gathering for an investiture in the 15th century chapel of St Salvator's College. Once again gowns, insignia, and banners of medieval inspiration will be on view as Scottish members are joined by representatives from abroad and from the Sovereign Military Order of St John - with the pipes again adding a distinctively Caledonian note.

Such events, and the groups and individuals they bring together can easily be seen as part of a world of childlike, or even childish, fantasy. Trying to live as if in a realm of castles, chivalarous knights, noble heroes, fair ladies, courtly love and sacred adventures, all rendered for posterity in chronicles and ballads.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sentenced to life...

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

A degree

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

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

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

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

A bull.

Mr. McMorrin and Miss Dempsey.

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

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

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

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

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

Ask not for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee...

The merriment began at about one o'clock in the afternoon in the Central bar, as have many a session of merriment and good laddery. My good friend Chris C. was visiting the Royal Burgh for the weekend and we decided to head to the Central for a smooth, satisfying pint of John Smith's, which is the preferred tipple for joint C./Cusack operations. Making our way to that public house, we chanced upon none other than Manuel Pantelias Garces, the little fellah who packs a tremendous punch, and invited him to join in our imbibing of Yorkshire ale.

And imbibe we did. We had one pint of John Smith's, followed by another, then another, and then another until I swept over to Step Rock Cottage to be fashionably late for Jon and Abby's engagement party. There, for some unknown reason, I declined copious amounts of Louis Jadot instead deciding to drink down a mighty torrent of Bucks Fizz. In a jocular and celebratory mood, I decided to purchase a ticket to tommorrow's charity polo tournament off Richard Holtum, and discussed various things with Adrian and young Miss Tori Truett who had popped up from London to grace us with her beauty and wit.

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

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

When it comes to favourite beers, the Hen suggests itself as an obvious candidate. Quite accurately advertising itself as a 'strong fine ale', Old Speckled Hen's robust and flavourful taste is perfect when accompanied by a good sandwich (most especially roast ham in my experience). It has been an important part of many a much-enjoyed luncheon here in St Andrews and I do hope I will be able to find it in New York after my triumphant return this June.

After our motley band completed our luncheon, a post-prandial piggy-back cloister race simply erupted. Adrian took an early lead with young Jamie on his back, followed by Miss Dempsey with Michelle. Tom Howard, with friend atop, suffered a late start but quickly swallowed the rear, overtook Miss Dempsey, engaged in a brief kerfuffle with Mr. Moore and swept to victory with a good many lengths to spare. Good man, Tom! Having cleaned up our mess, we gently sauntered back to Canmore along the cliff-side path, stealing an occasional gaze into the broad North Sea which lay before us. I finagled Jamie out of writing an essay (too pretty a day to spend on mere academe!) to continue our saunter on the West Sands, where we made a good many new canine friends and, strangely enough, chanced upon what appeared to be the insect-ridden severed head of a dead deer. Very strange, we thought, very strange.

The fine day wrapped up with a showing of an episode of the animated Adventures of Tintin in the wardenial apartment of Canmore, followed by an Inspector Morse. The Tintin was 'King Ottokar's Sceptre', in which the intrepid reporter saves the ritualistic traditional monarchy of Syldavia from being overthrown by evil totalitarian modernists. The best scene in the printed version (seen below), and likewise the animation, is when the King rewards Tintin's bravery by awarding him Syldavia's highest honour, the Order of the Gold Pelican. When I was younger, these scenes always made me want to visit the Kingdom of Syldavia, but alas it exists only in the mind of Hergé, its creator.

A young lass of Ulster claims I look "adorably marriable" in this photograph.

Owing to the recent installation of the new Chancellor the University's heraldic banner snapped proudly from the tower of St. Salvator's Chapel. Sadly, the flying of this flag is a rare occurence, though I understand that heraldic banners ought properly to be of the proportions 1:1, whereas this one looks more like 3:4 or thereabouts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Tory party leader corrupting the fine young Scottish Conservative lasses of St Andrews 'varsity! Victoria and Bess avec le Cameron.

Our favourite Rev. Dr. Ian C. Bradley...

...leading the conga line.

Tom and Barker: two of the finest damned chaps the British Army ever called its own.

Miss Hannington and friend enjoy the winter scenery.

Connecticut Tim, caught just as he was no doubt going to launch into the Kent School song, as imprinted in the front cover of the 1982 Episcopal Hymnal he nicked from his alma mater's chapel.

Here is physical evidence that I sometimes make overtures towards popular 'culture': yours truly wearing a 'hoodie', as they are known in these parts. It is defensible because the hoodie was free with membership in Fin Fur & Feather (hence the Fin Fur & Feather logo on the back). Good ole Ezra Pierce, at left, was up from Oxford. Ezra, who having whored himself out to the proletariat caught the vicious infection of liberalism, has since acquainted himself with some de Maistre, and appears to be recovering.

Whenever the stink from a certain person's noxious pile of laundry gets too odious, his flatmates are forced to break out the NBC kit and intervene.

In they go!

Gowns and snow. Stole this pic from Herr Lyons.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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?

Well, yours truly has dutifully returned to hallowed Andreanopolis in pursuit of his last Candlemas term ever, to be capped off (Deo gratia) by the awarding of Master of the Arts degree this June. George Ronald Valentine Hastings Irwin picked me up from the airport on Friday morning and expressed his shock that he was graduating on time in the alloted four years and his even greater shock that I too am on course to complete the very same task.

As we drove down the Guardbridge Road towards our ancient seat of learning, the turrets, towers, and spires of the Royal Burgh were completely shrouded in haugh, that peculiar Scottish form of fog that rolls off the North Sea. Returning to dear old Sallies I came upon Dawn and Lisa, the two cleaners responsible for our corridor, chatting in the hallways (as is their wont), welcoming my return while lamenting my longer-than-ordinary absence. Most of the day was spent unpacking my various posessions. Because St. Salvator's Hall was used to host a conference over the break, all the inhabitants thereof had been forced to pack away their belongings in storage. Thus after picking up my key from the porter and turning the lock on my room, I was greeted not by the welcome signs of my inhabitation but instead by a room bare but for the rearranged furniture, a different lamp (which doesn't work, unlike the previous one), and the usual New International Version of the Holy Bible in the desk drawer.

Much to my lamentation, I quickly discovered that the great majority of my cohortem had skipped off to Pluscarden Abbey for a few days. Nonetheless, the trusty Alexander O'Hara was amongst the remaining and we met for a pint at the Whey Pat, just outside the town's remaining city gate, before repairing to the Cellar Bar for a better brew. The following morning I met up with Ishmael for breakfast at the Victoria Café. Various hilarities surrounding the mystery of life were exchanged and we discussed the immature behavior of the outraged mass of European Islam as we glanced at the front page of the Times depicting masked Muslim protesters on the streets of not Karachi, nor Cairo, nor even Gaza, but London, their headbands proclaiming their cruel creed in the eerily-foreign levantine script.

After breakfast, I fell asleep in the library reading La Vita Nuova (apologies to Mr. Aligheri, but I did finish it when I awoke). After a woefully disappointing luncheon in hall, followed by ever-so-slighly less disappointing but more filling microwave meal to fill my empty belly, I watched Passport to Pimlico, the splendid Ealing Comedy in which the bombed-out inhabitants of a street in Pimlico discover an ancient document revealing that their home turf is actually an independent territory of the Duke of Burgundy. (Upon the revelation, the local Police Constable Spiller exclaims "Blimey, I'm a foreigner!"). When Whitehall bureaucrats interfere with the tiny statelet's new-found freedom from pub licensing hours and the post-war remnants of rationing, the people of the district unite to defend their liberties in the long tradition of the English peoples. Quoth one character: "We always were English and we always will be English and it's just because we ARE English that we're sticking up for our right to be Burgundians!"

After attending the Vigil Mass at St. James, I had dinner at Abigail's, after which a gang of us drank a few bottles of red while watching Bright Young Things, Stephen Fry's directorial debut, which would have been much better if it had ended in the same manner as Vile Bodies, the novel by Evelyn Waugh on which the film is based. After that, we started House of Cards, of which I watched an hour before deciding it was necessary to retire. Woke up rather later this morning, missing chapel, but in time to lunch in hall whereupon I was informed by various chapelgoers that the new hymnal, previously delayed by a strike at the Finnish printing works where it is produced, has been introduced. We mused that since it was printed in Finland and the Muslim hordes are going after anything Scandinavian these days, we're surprised the hymnal's not being burnt in the streets at the moment. (My, how all conversation turns to Muslims on this side of the pond!). We mulled torching the nearest consulate of an Islamic country, but we concluded that would make us no different from the wicked ochlos, and remembered they have recently suffered a terrible disaster. "No doubt," one bejant noted, "were it mostly Christians on the ferry, it would be extolled throughout the Muslim world as God reaking vengeance for the Danish cartoons." After luncheon, I decided to write this post informing you, dear readers, of the latest.

In the mean time, Ezra Pierce texted from Oxford, reminding me of the Feast of the Holy New Martyrs, Confessors, and Passion-Bearers of Russia. Here is an icon depicting the martyrs, who include one of my favorite saints, the Grand Duchess Elizabeth, a widower of the Royal Family who became a nun and a great servant of the poor founding hosptials, convents, and orphanages. After the murder of Tsar St. Nicholas II and his immediate family, the Grand Duchess Elizabeth with a few other members of the Royal Family and their loyal servants who refused to leave them, were hurled down a mineshaft in Alapaevsk by the Communist Secret Police. Despite the great fall, they did not die, and so the Cheka threw grenades down the mineshaft, all of which refused to explode. The victims below could do nothing but sing God's praises, quite literally, as they began to sang hymns and continued as the Communists sealed the mineshaft. When the bodies were recovered they were shown to have died of starvation. The icon in question also depicts the martyrdom of Archbishop Joachim, whom the Communists crucified, upside-down like St. Peter, on the Royal Doors of the Cathedral of Sebastopol in 1920.

These are stories rarely told, let alone heard, in the West where for so long this evil terror was praised in the lecture halls and academic presses of our universities and elsewhere. It is telling that in our nation's capital today there is an entire museum devoted to the Holocaust, and similarly Holocaust memorials are worthily to be found in most major cities, while the victims of Communism are virtually forgotten. Not to denigrate the 10 million souls of the Holocaust, but it was small in comparison to first Lenin and Stalin, then Mao, the greatest mass-murderer of all time, and the dozens of murderous regimes spawned by the Russian Revolution. And unlike Nazism, which has been almost totally defeated, Communism and the ideas behind it have saturated the Western world and, while most (not all) of its despotic regimes have fallen Marxism continues to have great influence today.

Yet, at the end of the day, all that is left for us is to continue to pray and fight Evil wherever it may be found. They can destroy every single thing we hold dear – and rest assured they will try – except for our souls which belong to God. And should we find ourselves as victims of Evil we still have nothing to do but sing God's praises like saints and martyrs of yesterday, today, and eternity.

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

At left: The newly-elected PMC, A Sqn TUOTC, Scotland, 2005. At right: The newly-elected Prime Minister, Italy, 1922. An intriguing juxtaposition.

Though I am still Stateside, I should like extend our slightly belated congratulations to J. Edward Barker, Esq., whom Tom Marshall has described as "the greatest potential cavalryman since Harry Flashman", on his election to the Presidency of the Mess Committee this past December. Mr. Barker is something of a legend in the Auld Grey Toon and the Mess will benefit from his profound wisdom, not to mention his lack of affection for bad music. A pipe smoker, Barker is the donor of the Mess's engraved pipe rack which rests on the mantel below the portrait of Her Majesty.

(Photos courtesy of Miss K. Dilworth)

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

Noblemen
• The Rt Hon the Lord Cullen of Whitekirk: An alumnus of St Andrews and outgoing Lord President of the Court of Session (Scotland's highest court).
• James Douglas-Hamilton, Baron Selkirk of Douglas: Former Tory Member of Parliament, now a Tory Member of the Scottish Parliament, and some relation of Harry Douglas-Hamilton who graduated last year.
• The Most Noble James Graham, 8th Duke of Montrose: The only duke still allowed to sit in the House of Lords after Blair's butchering of the hereditary peer. Actually the Duke of Norfolk sits as well, but that's ex officio since he's the Earl Marshal.
Commoners
• Donald Findlay, QC: Unlikely since he's been virtually blacklisted by the University since he was discovered singing sectarian songs a few years ago.
• George Reid, MSP: Presiding Officer of the Scottish Parliament.
• James Danforth 'Dan' Quayle: Forty-fourth Vice President of the United States and apparently a fan of St Andrews (he came to speak here last year).

Might I suggest:
• His Majesty Constantine II, King of the Hellenes: Exiled King of Greece living in London, Olympic Gold Medalist (Sailing), overthrown by some colonels in 1967, and godfather to William Wales '05.
• Merlin Charles Sainthill Hanbury-Tracy, 7th Baron Sudeley: Chairman of the Constitutional Monarchy Association, Vice-Chancellor of the International Monarchist League.
• Lord Gill: Lord Justice Clerk of the Court of Session and thus Scotland's second-most senior judge, who if elected might possibly be the first Catholic chancellor since the Protestant Revolution.
• His Royal Highness the Prince Andrew, Duke of York: Fought in the Falklands War, son of the Queen, frequent visitor to St Andrews owing to his Captaincy of the Royal and Ancient Golf Club
• His Royal Highness Prince Michael of Kent: Supporter and Patron of numerous charities as well as Romanov enthusiast.
• The Rt Hon Betty Boothroyd, Baroness Boothroyd: Former Speaker of the House of Commons, now sitting in the Lords as a cross-bencher. Alright, she is a woman, but she's still pretty good. At 74, she's at least old enough.

G.R.V.H.I.

W. Calderhead and C. C..

Previously: The West Sands

Despite the ban on students flying flags from their windows, I'm happy to say that four students hung Union Jacks out their windows in St Salvator's Hall today to mark the Battle of Trafalgar. Two were on the front side of hall, two on the back. I took photos of the two on the front side. Mine is above, and the other one below (I don't know to whom the room belongs).

George, Cockburn the Younger, and yours truly were sitting in the pub this evening when George got a text message on his phone from none other than 2Lt. W. Calderhead, currently serving in Iraq. It read something like "Got rocketed today for the first time. Fun/scary/exhilarating. How are things at uni?" Very non-chalant. Very Calderhead. Anyhow, a package of goodies shall be heading Bill's way quite soon.

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.

From the British Students Song Book:

Would you like to see a city given over,
   Soul and body, to a tyrannising game?
If you would, there's little need to be a rover,
   For St Andrews is the abject city's name.
It is surely quite superfluous to mention,
   To a person who has been here half an hour,
That Golf is what engrosses the attention
   Of the people, with an all absorbing power.

Rich and poor alike are smitten with the fever;
   Their business and religion is to play;
And a man is scarcely deemed a true believer,
   Unless he goes at least a round a day.
The city boasts an old and learned college,
   Where you'd think the leading industry was Greek;
Even there the favoured instruments of knowledge
   Are a driver and a putter and a cleek.

Golf, golf, golf – is all the story!
   In despair my overburdened spirit sinks,
Till I wish that every golfer was in glory,
   And I pray the sea may overflow the links.
One slender, straggling ray of consolation
   Sustains me, very feeble though it be:
There are two who still escape infatuation,
   My friend M'Foozle's one, the other's me.

As I write the words, M'Foozle enters blushing,
   With a brassy and an iron in his hand...
This blow, so unexpected and so crushing,
   Is more than I am able to withstand.
So now it but remains for me to die, sir.
   Stay! There is another course I may pursue–
And perhaps upon the whole it would be wiser–
   I will yield to fate and be a golfer too!

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:

1. Were the policy of collaboration and the National Revolution logical outcomes of the Fall of France in 1940?

6. Were the May 1968 events a 'psychodrama' of no real significance? (R. Aron)

8. Was the rise of the National Front chiefly a reaction to the presidency of François Mitterand?

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!

Last night was my very good friend Arabella Anderson-Braidwood's twenty-first birthday celebration, unfortunately timed for the evening before my last exam of the year (9:30 this morning). In the spirit of self-sacrifice, I attended the soirée nonetheless, which, owing to Bella's generosity, raised funds for the newest Maggie's Cancer Caring Centre in London.

Today is the last Sunday of term, so after going to the 9:00 Mass and mulling around the tea-and-coffee afterwards I headed over to St. Salvator's Chapel for the last chapel service of the academic year. Thankfully the final hymn was "Guide me, O thou great Redeemer" which is a classic. Most of the other hymns were good traditional tunes but with different lyrics to suit the touchy-feely Teddy Bear Christianity (if you can call it that) of the Church of Scotland today. But at least the last hymn of the year was a good, solid one. And I had Matt Normington at my right hand and Jenny Maxwell at my left, so I was amongst friends to boot.

Above are seen Sara Lawrence Goodwin (center) and the Rev. Dr. Ian C. Bradley (right), in my mortarboard which he nicked for the purposes of the photo.

Speaking of friends, at the after-chapel sherry I had the pleasure of meeting James Bradley's parents who, despite being scientists the both of them, are absolutely great fun. After the traditional after-chapel sherry, I joined them on the traditional after-chapel pier walk.

Along the way on the cliffside path we came across a rather charming Old English Sheepdog named Becks.

We hung out on the end of the pier for a while as Dr. Bradley (not the Rev. Dr. Bradley, nor the Dr. Bradley who is James' mother, but the Dr. Bradley who is James' father) regaled us with tales of India, where James will be teaching orphans for part of the summer.

After it was James' turn to rip a yarn or two we headed back down the pier and into town where the Drs. Bradley very cheerfully bought us not one, but two rounds of drinks and told us very amusing tales of their undergraduate and academic careers.

His Eminence, Keith Patrick O'Brien, the Cardinal Archbishop of St Andrews & Edinburgh visited St Andrews today, and offered the holy sacrifice of the Mass in the ruins of the Cathedral. It was the first time the Cardinal was in St Andrews since receiving his honorary degree last June. Above are Canon Halloran, our parish priest and Catholic chaplain to the University, and His Eminence.

It was unusually cold today and the ruins of the Cathedral were windswept, but we held fast and stayed for the whole mass. (There were about fifty or so in attendance). His Eminence even gave the final blessing and dismissal in Latin, after which he lead us in facing east and chanting the Salve Regina. Then we were all off to the parish hall for some tea, coffee, and cake.

This morning after the 9:00am Mass we learned that Fr. Patrick Burke has been summoned to the Eternal City for a job at the Congregation of the Doctrine of the Faith. Fr. Burke, who was Convener of the University of St Andrews Union Debating Society (f. 1794) and President of the Catholic Society during his undergraduate days, is just about the best (diocesan) priest in Scotland.

Oft-described as a Rhodesian-born English priest of a Scottish diocese who's spent more time in Italy than anywhere else and speaks German to boot, Fr. Burke has a massive following at his alma mater. He is currently a parish priest in Stirling and Bannockburn as well as editor of Faith magazine. We were all elated to hear of his appointment, though the precise details of it are unknown at the moment, though we are saddened that it means he will likely be unavailable for his popular, informative, and hilarious talks at Canmore anymore.

A brilliant academic with excellent pastoral skills as well; not a common combination. We wish him all the best.

Last night was spent in the Mess at Wyvern (HQ, A Sqd, TUOTC), which is one of the most delightful places in St Andrews. They have the cheapest pint in town, and even still it somehow seems you only need to drink half as much as usual to alter your consciousness.

If you are not a member of the Officer Training Corps, and I am not, then you have to be signed in by a member (2LT. Chris C. obliged) and introduced to the PMC, Tom Kerr, who lives a few floors above me and is an admirable man despite having gone to school with Dave Watt. Wyvern's a beautiful house though, and adequately looked after by A Squadron of the Tayforth Universities Officer Training Corps.

Speaking of Mr. Watt, Dave had gone to Wine and Cheese that evening and showed up in the Mess pretty late, grievously attired in a black shirt with red stripes, accompanying tie, a white jumper, and with the obligatory blazer on top. He had hassled along some other OCDT (officer cadet) who had been at Wine and Cheese that evening to come along to the Mess. Now this chap was decked up in the more usual tweed jacket (and riding boots, without explanation) but was lacking in necktie. As one might expect, jacket and tie are de rigeur for the Mess, and once the said tie-less fellow showed up the lack of tie was noted and brought to the attention of the PMC.

Disgrace! What was to be done? A Mess Court would be convened, Tom Kerr presiding. The shameless and inebriated David Watt would provide the defense, the shameless and inebriated Chris C. the prosecution, and George Irwin, Euan Gorford, and I were appointed as jury.

Now, the poor lad in the dock, whom we shall call Oliver George Wilson, since, when asked to state his name for the court, he replied "Oll... Oll... Oliver George Wilson". Well, the poor Oliver George Wilson could barely compose a coherent sentence, most likely due to the imbibing of wine at "Chine and Weese", and seemed to posess very few of his own faculties and certainly even fewer of anyone else's. Nonetheless the Prosecution opened the case charging Oliver George Wilson with entering the mess without a tie by effortlessly pointing to Oliver George Wilson sitting in the makeshift dock (actually a barstool) suffering from a complete lack of any form of neck attire bar the collar of his shirt.

I began to have my suspicions as to the integrity of the court when I, a member of the jury, was called to testify on behalf of the prosecution. Now, the questions interrogated of me and the responses freely, and I dare say deftly, given are not for stating in the public realm. Nonetheless they were of a such a nature as to make the padre blush (or so Gorford told me when I left the stand and returned to the jury), and the denizens of the Mess were rollicking, so in my humble opinion it's all for the better.

The defense was then given the opportunity to state their case, which was lacking. [Note to self: if in trouble, never call on Dave Watt to act as my defense]. Mr. Watt threw out some rambling, barely grammatical sentences in a highly dramatic style which he no doubt hoped would distract the jury from the matter at hand. It was to no effect, as the jury of three ��� and a fine jury it was, mind you, one of the best juries in the land ��� as I was saying, the jury of George, Euan, and I were pretty much convinced by the defense's argument and my own stand in the witness box and thus Oll... Oll... Oliver George Wilson was convicted on all charges. Lord Chief Justice Kerr sentenced the delinquent to an "H.M.S. Wyvern" which involves drinking lots of gin and being turned around incessentantly, this processes being repeated four times in some vaguely nautical fashion while singing, not their own A Squadron ditty, but instead the B Squadron (Dundee University) song, to the tune 'Cwm Rhondda' aka Guide Me O Thou Great Redeemer:

"We dont get an education,
We dont worry about pregnancy,
We just lack imagination,
Dundee O.T.C. are we,
Ugly women,
Joke degrees,
We will probably beat our wives!
We will probably beat our wives!"

Dundee, frightful. Oliver George Wilson didn't even chunder (at least not in the faux German helmet in the Mess designated for such a purpose), and thus a good time was had by all.

Today I:

1. Practically wrote an entire essay in one day and handed it in and I think it was pretty good. I know, that's nothing special, but I've never done it before, and it took up the preponderance of the day.
2. Went to a celebratory birthday brunch for Maria.
3. Participated in the Second Annual Bumblebee Hunt held under the auspices of the St Andrews branch of the Sons of Confederate Veterans. The winning bumblebee was a big one, which was christened Algernon Deathbee. He will be tied to a string which will be tacked to a table at the Officer Training Corps Ball tonight. (I am not attending).
4. Managed to fit in a walk on the beach with Lizzy and Nicholas.

Next on the agenda... get a bit of research done for the next essay, then out for dinner and drinks at the Jigger for Maria's birthday, then hopefully get started on the speech I have to give at a dinner tommorrow night.

The Charity Polo is tommorrow, and it looks like it's going to be a beautiful day, but I'm not sure if I'll go. Vichy France looms on the horizon, and I've got the hush-hush dinner in the evening to boot.

Oh fiddlesticks, I've forgotten to return these short loan books. Got to run.

Once again it is Procession Day here in St Andrews, when we have the annual Kate Kennedy Procession to harken the return of springtime. Unfortunately, like last year, it was on the cold side and rather grey, despite some truly beautiful days previously.

No one quite knows how often the Gifford Lectures are. Some people say they're every three years. I thought they were every year, and they are spread amongst the four ancients of Scotland (St Andrews, Aberdeen, Glasgow, Edinburgh). But we hosted them in my first year and already have them again. And our own Professor John Haldane (alledgedly the only theist in the School of Philosophy) is concurrently giving the Gifford Lectures at Aberdeen, supposedly. Go figure.

Anyhow, on Tuesday commenced the ambigu-annual (ambiguennale, I am told, is the word the Italians use) Gifford Lectures here at St Andrews, by none other than the most-eminent Professor Alvin Plantinga of the University of Notre Dame. Unfortunately, I had to miss this one, as I had work to do. The title was 'Evolution and Design' and it basically demonstrated that there is no conflict between evolution (even Darwinian concepts of evolution) and the idea of design by the Creator as advocated by Christians.

Wednesday, I attended a lecture by Irving Lavin of Princeton University entitled 'The Story of O from Giotto to Einstein'. It tracked the fascinating tale of Giotto's 'O' from the perhaps aprocryphal tale all the way to an etching of Einstein, via calligraphy, Rembrandt, Jasper Johns, and others. Difficult to quite explain it, but most enlightening. Also, it was about an hour and a half but felt more like forty-five minutes.

Yesterday, I did attend, and Platinga demonstrated in his second Gifford Lecture that there is a conflict between the naturalist/materialist idea that the universe is a closed system because there is no demonstratable evidence of such, nor is it even observable. Thus science cannot really have anything to do with the idea of the closed universe, and it is left to metaphysics. So all the silly liberal posturing about the ridiculousness of miracles is, in effect, ridiculous itself, and most unscientific.

Thankfully, Professor Plantinga is a very good lecture, balancing clarity, thoroughness, joviality, and asides quite adroitly. The next is on Tuesday: 'Evolutionary Psychology and Scripture Scholarship: more alike than you think'.

Tonight, I'm off to the theatre to see the late Arthur Miller's 'The Creation of the World and Other Business'. Apparently some sort of retelling of the Genesis narrative. A fellow son of the Empire State, second-year John MacDonald, is among the cast of this production. We look forward to it.

ORDER OF SERVICE

Entrance (silence)

(The officiant then organises the various sections of newspaper into the order in which they shall be read. Frivolities, such as 'Gardening', 'Motoring', and 'Money & Business', are discarded.)

First Reading: The Daily Telegraph, first section

Second Reading: The Financial Times, first section

First Glance: The Daily Telegraph, Weekend section (Rarely anything worth reading inside, but tradition requires at least a glance)

Third Reading: The Daily Telegraph, Property section

Nourishment: A sugar doughring from Fisher & Donaldson's (Members of all newspaper-reading denominations are invited to partake, but are encouraged to abide by the rules of their respective communities)

Fourth Reading: The Financial Times, Weekend section (The best weekend section there is. Short and varied.)

Second Glance: The Daily Telegraph, Travel section (Ditto notes on Telegraph Weekend section)

Fifth Reading: FT Magazine

Final flip through the pages: (ruffle, ruffle, ruffle)

Exit. (The assembled then disperse and carry on with their day).

Easter is my favorite day of the year, as it is always infused with a spirit of joy and thanksgiving. Despite cloudy skies, this Easter was still a most enjoyable one.

Ezra, myself, Jon, Abby, Rob, Maria, and Stefano went down to Edinburgh and heard a Tridentine mass at St. Andrew's Church in Ravelston. Why is it that going to old rite masses always reminds me of home, wherever I hear them offered? It was a wonderful affair, as was the five-course six-hour lunch we had afterwards with some of our good friends in Edinburgh.

Yesterday I took a morning off, finally rising about midday to most undesirable weather. Cloudy, rainy, cold, most uncharming. The majority of the day was spent reading (Modern Times, by Paul Johnson, the best history book I've read so far) in Canmore.

Equally dismal weather, but I still roused myself to get to the coffee place on Bell Street to have breakfast with Chris C.. I paid off a poker debt by buying him breakfast. Nonetheless, dismal weather is a good excuse to get some reading done, so off I go.

Resurrexit sicut dixit, Alleluia!

"Thank God for beautiful Scottish girls in pretty summer dresses, for if we cannot give thanks for this we have become more hard-hearted than Pharoah." - Ezra Pierce

Part the First: On St Andrews, Oxford, and Leisure

The past few days have been nice and relaxing, which, come to think of it, are what most St Andrews days are like. I think Josef Pieper would thoroughly prefer the University of St Andrews to the University of Oxford. We are an institution which makes leisure – the basis of culture – possible. Truthfully speaking, Oxford students are so laden with work that they actually do in one week what St Andrews do in an entire semester. As a result, they are stressed out of their minds and worked to an extreme. This situation ideally suits Ezra Pierce, formerly of St Andrews and now a first-year at Hertford College Oxford, who has been up here in town visiting for a few days, sleeping on the sofa in our living room.

For me, therein lies the attraction of the Universitas doctorum magistrorum et scholarum Sancti Andreae apud Scotus: free time in which you are allowed to develop yourself, or not to develop at all, or even to devolve. I may be taking classes titled 'France Since 1940: Politics, Culture, and Society' and 'Art and Piety in Western Europe 1400-1700' but I have ample time to delve into subjects more akin to my interests; Graf von Stauffenberg, the architectural works of Lorimer, the humour of P.J. O'Rourke, or the holiness of Pier Giorgio Frassati. I have always prefered self-learning to formal instruction, and I wish that it was not until my third year here before I realized I have more free time now than I ever will in my entire life.

So I do as I please. I go for leisurely strolls down the West Sands. I read random books about architecture or history or religion or whatnot in the University Library. I muse upon the architecture of St Salvator's Chapel. I mourn the withered ruins of our once-great cathedral. I run something which can approximately be described as a newspaper. I have pints of John Smith's in the Central or the Russell, or a Leffe in the Cellar Bar. I discuss. I go to balls. I read the paper. This and that. Were I at Oxford I would have to read and write and read and write and read and so on and so forth. What a terrible bore! Though I pine to return to the motherland, I much prefer the leafy, lacsidaisical approach to academia which I live out at St Andrews than all that work nonsense they make you do at Oxford.

That said, some part of me (say, my thumb, or perhaps my epiglottis) admires those who, both here and at Oxford, actually work very hard and get very good grades and all that jazz. David Taylor got a twenty on his dissertation. A twenty! Out of twenty! I mean, you've got to give a guy credit for that, especially when he's an affable chap with a decent personality instead of some spoilsport who spends all his time in the library. I sometimes try to start arguments with him over various topics when my cook has him over for tea, but as much as I try to be approbrious to him for his ridiculous Guardian-influenced views we actually get along quite well.

Part the Second: On the merits of Miss Jennings

Speaking of my cook, there are two folks to whom I owe a lot to over the span of my university career, one of whom is my cook, Jocelyn, and the other is my secretary, Miss Jennings (or Personal Assitant to the Editor, as she is officially styled). Miss Jennings is simply amazing. Presented with any Cusackian crisis she faithfully answers the call of duty. Miss Jennings, I need a cell phone. Miss Jennings, I want to have lunch with Tom Leppard sometime next week. Miss Jennings, we need to give disapproving looks to local townsfolk. Miss Jennings, remind me I have a club dinner in the Golf Hotel on Friday. Miss Jennings, how do I get this or that, etc., etc., etc. Without her help, I would not have been able to organise my various responsibilities so that I still am able to spend half my time doing nothing in particular.

Eventually, I was convinced I needed to scale back some of said responsibilites and have done so accordingly. This freed up time for Miss Jennings to persue interests of her own (which are myriad). Nonetheless, we all need a little break sometime, and Miss Jennings has decided that she will not be finishing the semester, but will return in the fall. If anyone deserves a break it's Miss Jennings!

In the spirit of appreciation and celebration, a good number of us gathered at the bar of the Byre Theatre last night to kick back a few in honour of this great young lady. I consumed an appreciable amount of Budvar myself, while White Russians seemed to be de rigeur for most of the ladyfolk. And best of all, since this coming Wednesday is my twenty-first, Miss Jennings conferred upon me a wonderful little gift: a coffee mug marked "His Lordship".

Part the Third: The Evening Previous

Began with the Opus Dei talk at Canmore; a very plain-speaking guy named Jim McFie who lives in Glasgow. (Sr. Roseanne Reddy is coming back after the break, Stefano informs me). Then back home, where one of my flatmates was hosting a Chapel Choir party (pajama-themed). I changed garb to jacket and tie and headed over to the Officers Mess at Wyverne (cheapest pint in town) to enjoy a few Grolschs with Chris C., Matt Normington, and George Irwin, and to discuss affairs of varying importance. Midnight closing time we headed to George Irwin's flat (No. 14 in my building), played some poker, lost £3, headed down to my flat around 1:00 after having a brief conversation in the hallway with George's neighbour Tamsin who's a friend of Piers Thompson.

I have, of late, also noticed the presence of a canine in our beloved Southgait Hall; a West Highland Terrier by the name of Molly. Has she been here the whole time and I've just never run into her? Perhaps. Nonetheless, I held the door open for her when she returned from an evening promenade this very evening and she growled at me! Ah well. They say you should never let the sun go down with an argument unresolved. I disagree. I find that by the time I wake up the next morning, I couldn't give a steeplejack's penknife for any disputes from the day before.

Last night was the St. Mary's College Society ball, held at the St Andrews Golf Hotel on the Scores. A good time was had by all, and was augmented by the presence of our good friend Mr. Stephen Oliver up visiting from Stonyhurst where he teaches.

And a very poor likeness as well. A blind man could draw a wheelchair better than that one. (I think it was Miss Robinson's work). Still, the medium of chalk is a difficult one for portraits, I am told.

Tangentally, I learned last week that the University of St Andrews was home to the 'Hang Nelson Mandela' campaign back in the 1980's.

Snow-covered peaks viewed from Edinburgh Castle.

The busy nature of the past week or so has been the reason for a distinct lack of posting. And the fact that I have an essay for Monday, a presentation for Tuesday, and another essay for Friday means there may not be all that much over the next week either.

We have been graced with two guests in the Auld Grey Toon recently, the first of which was Chris Moreland, a reactionary Catholic friend of Chris C., followed this past week by my cousin Mark Gannon visiting Europe for the first time. I'm pretty sure both enjoyed it thoroughly. It was fun acclimatizing Mark to the various idiosyncrasies of St Andrews; they are legion.

In the midst of all this, Jon and Abby had a dinner party for the feast of St Thomas Aquinas and it was quite a grand affair. We consumed two bottles of champagne, ten bottles of red wine, a bottle of port, and some cognac to boot, ending at nearly three in the morning. There was more wine left and I was ready to carry on til dawn, but I don't think Jon's flatmates would've appreciated it. No doubt the 'Dumb Ox' was proud of our prodigious endeavour in his honor. Unfortunately the conversation was of such a jovial nature that it would not bear repeating on the internet, for fear of the entire slate of participants being banned from positions in most realms on employment. A damn good time; many thanks to Jon and Abby.

Now I've got to get a bite to eat for lunch and head off to rosary. Pray for the conversion of India!

Alex Bayliss?

Or Ed Barker?

Poor Barker. After our group had adjourned, he was seen attempting to gain entry to a rubbish bin in front of Holy Trinity. Bless 'em, the first-years.

Before rosary today, Clare and I sat in the living room of Canmore listening to Rachmaninov's piano concertos on the record player. She read abour Irenaeus, whereas I read the Telegraph. We decided that we were discontented with the state of the world, and that this would be partially remedied if girls wore skirts and men wore collared shirts and ties. (Said despite Claire being trousered and me being collar-and-tieless).

Today, after printing off the Review (which, by the way, is both erudite and informative, as well hilarious, especially "Ishmael"'s contribution) and going to Rosary, I popped over to St. Salvator's Hall (aka 'Sallies', seen above) where Kat and Jocie were watching a dvd of The Office. I sold Kat a copy of the MLR, and she played with a yoyo I found while I was home.

Now, there is a certain misconception going around which has reached almost mythical proportions in the Royal Burgh. It is thus: that I am an infrequent visitor to the Bibliotheca Sancti Andreae, more commonly known as the University Library (f. 1612 by one of the King Jameses). This misconception has spread to such an extent that once, chancing upon Rob and Maria in the stairwell of said insitution, Rob expectorated "Fancy seeing you here!" with the smug tone of a too-frequent visitor-of-libraries and the engaged ensemble burst into laughter.

Well, haw haw! I do visit the library, and have even gone so far as to wander the stacks on occasion, finding upon one such a misadventure, decades of bound Spectators for perusing. But to return to the story, following my visit to Sallies, I made my way towards the main library taking a route which took me through St. Salvator's Quad, reflecting upon the comeliness of which, I decided to take a photograph.

It shows the entrance to College Hall, wherein many important events take place such as examinations, public meetings, champagne receptions, and the like. Moving along from the Quad into Butts Wynd ('wynd' is Scots for alley, ye uninformed), I nearly ran right into 2Lt. Robert Cockburn of the Queens Own Yeomanry, a magistrand (that's a fourth year student, ye uninformed) who happens to be running for the presidency of our Students Union. I told 2Lt. Cockburn to strike a dashing pose, and he gave it his best.

The other candidates are unreconstructed socialist Marco Biagi, future Conservative MP Adrian Galey, and my cook Jocelyn. The real surprise is that Alex Yabroff, a Californian of liberal Episcopalian extraction and member of the Kate Kennedy Club, has decided not to run. Reasons unknown. UPDATE: Alex Yabroff is running.

Anyhow, I went to the top floor of the library and found myself a desk, from which I took the following photos.

The saltire flies from the top of the Town Hall, with the spire of Holy Trinity kirk to the right.

The sun hides behind clouds, with the rooftop and chimneys of the Crawford Centre.

Lizzie popped round to the library to purchase a copy of the Review off me, and I gave her my Spectator as well, since I was done with it. Very good article by some Oxford academic decrying attempts by that University to move away from the traditional tutorial system of education to put a greater emphasis on money-making research. Anyhow, at nearly half past five, I'd had enough of reading various books and egressed our hideous modern library, but just then took a photo of our beauteous College Tower, which I will leave you with.

This afternoon Abby and I ran into Chicago's unwanted child Jamie Branda and Alabama's biggest liability Chris C. on South Street. They were having a "day of whimsy" and decided to purchase some fetching blue caps from Lord only knows where, and thus I felt compelled to record it for posterity.

De temps en temps j'ai une excuse pour écrire une entrée en mon pauvre français, et la visite d'Emelie à St Andrews est une excuse par excellence. La merveilleuse Claire Dempsey était assez aimable pour accueillir un petit événement la nuit passée dans le aumônierie (Canmore).

Nous avons discuté des matières fascinantes comme des pommes de terre (ou "spuds" comme Clare les appelle), dommages du rugby d'Emelie, le fait que des fonctionnaires (civil servants) français sont payés pour ne faire rien, et avec précision quoi appeler la couleur de la chemise de Stefano. (Il s'est étendu des saumons à la fraise écrasée).

Clare, Stefano, et Emelie dans la cuisine de Canmore.

I have taken somewhat ill, so I thought in order to keep the loyal readers entertained, I'd show some photos I took just the other day when we actually had some decent sun. Above is the turret of the Old Union Building on North Street. The building, across Butts Wynd from St. Salvator's College, was constructed in the medieval period and housed the Admirable Crichton during his student years. It was, from the mid-19th century until the 1960's, home to the Student's Union, which was run as a male-only gentleman's club with billiard room, library, cafe, and such, with the Women's Union located in the adjacent Georgian townhouses and a dining hall attached in an 19th century addition to the rear. (The Gymnasium used as a drill hall by the OTC further to the rear along Butts Wynd is now the computer center). The two organisations merged in the 60's and moved into the functional greivous brutalist concrete Student Union building that nobody likes on St. Mary's Place.

This photograph shows the 18th hole of the Old Course. On the far left is the Royal and Ancient Golf Club, then the red-brick Hamilton Hall (currently a University dormitory but being sold off), and at the far right is the Rusacks Hotel (in my opinion, the best in town). For a closer look at the photo, click here.

And this photo is taken from the Scores, looking across the bay towards the West Sands and beyond. At the very center of the photo you can just make out the control tower of RAF Leuchars.

Now I will go back to bed, being miserable, and reading about the Popular Front government in 1930's France. (Boo! Hiss!).

Well. We all had such a Shrove Tuesday that Ash Wednesday was made all the more penetential. The fast was made more endurable by the fact that I only finally rose from my bed about two hours past midday, and upon rising decided to shave off the previously mentioned beard which had seen fit to make its habitation upon my own grim visage.

On embarking upon the rail journey from Edinburgh's Waverley Station, chance had it that my good friend Emma was in the same railway car, and the conversation made the trip pass much more quickly. Emma lives near Oxford, and had flown up to Edinburgh from Birmingham. Anyhow we discussed the troubles and travails of our measly student existences – finding places to live, grades, people, etc — and Nicholas Vincent was kind enough to pick us up from the barren surrounds of Leuchars rail station and transport us to the Royal Burgh of St Andrews itself.

Emma had to run but Nicholas and I then decided to avail ourselves of the very advantageously-priced Sunday luncheon on offer at the Oak Rooms. A decent lunch for a fiver, though the popularity of the offer meant we had to wait a short while for a table. Thus, a pint of Guinness accompanied our wait and we discussed Freddy St. Johnstone's keeness on a United Nations career. This sparked me to go on one of my textbook tirades on U.N. corruption and fecklessness, though were I offered a U.N. job which involved freedom from parking violations, kids' school fees paid, and the effective right to refuse to travel anywhere unless there is suitable accomodation of at least four stars, I wouldn't refuse.

That evening I stopped into the Russell for a pint with Rob and Maria and was filled in on all the latest talk and chatter. They had, the evening previous, dined with a few friends of ours, Mr. Peter Blair (the convenor of the Debating Society) his belle, Miss Sarah Laurence Goodwin (previously mentioned in these pages), as well as California's most eligible daughter, Fraulein Abigail Hesser, and Bristol City F.C.'s biggest fan north of the border, Mr. Jonathan Burke.

Monday morning played host to the first of my two courses, 'France Since 1940: Politics, Culture, and Society', with the ever capable Stephen Tyre (of last term's 'French Algeria 1830-1962') at the helm. Without last term's Fraser, I'm afraid that our discussions in pursuit of higher knowledge will no longer be steered towards banter regarding deep-seated Scottish football rivalries. I very much look forward to the rest of the course though. There are a few old faces amongst the other students in the course.

Tuesday, yesterday, was my other course for the term, 'Art and Piety in Western Europe, 1400-1700' lead by Dr. Bridget Heal, of whom "Ishmael" is an ardent admirer. Though a Modern History course, it leans somewhat towards Art History, which means that Matt Gorrie, one other fellow, and myself are the only chaps in a class of about fifteen. I look forward to hissing Calvinist iconoclasts and urging onwards Tridentine reformers. Margaret Breed, a Brearley girl who defeats the school's stereotype by being interesting, engaging, and just plain generally endearing, is also in the course.

Mrs. Freeburn is introducing me to the fascinating world of Bollywood cinema. Cinema aside, the other day I was thinking what a glorious culture and civilization India has, and how magnificent it would be if it was conquered by the Faith. If orientalism in ecclesiastical architecture is to your taste, you might want to check out the Church of the Immaculate Conception in New Orleans, especially the beautiful altar.

Projected printing date of next Mitre: well, let's hope Friday.

Nick Griffin is not coming to town.

Well the rumours and speculation over this whole debacle are rife, to the extent that it is very hard to figure out precisely what has happened and what the heck is going on.

Talk, Suppositions, and Allegations:

1) The University put pressure on the Union Debating Society to disinvite Griffin, and alledgedly threatened to withdraw permission to use Parliament Hall.
2) Members of the Academic Staff are hugely irate over the failure of the University administration to guarantee the principles of free and open debate.
3) The National Union of Students, which officially does not represent the students of the University of St Andrews and has not for decades, felt the need to call on the Union Debating Society to cancel the debate, and called on every other student union in the country to put pressure on St Andrews.
4) Groups known for violent tactics were making plans to protest the debate.
5) The student body (despite being overwhelmingly, perhaps even entirely, anti-Griffin) appear to be pretty soundly in favor of the debate taking place, and there is a widespread feeling that the University administration has failed us.

How much of it is true? Would it have been better to have the debate go on, risking the possibility of students being violently attacked, for the purpose of making a point? Doesn't it send all the wrong signals to cancel this debate in the face of threats and intimidation? I don't know. But were I the convenor of the Debating Society (Peter Blair), I would not be keen on taking the blame for spilt blood. Peter has put the safety of the members of the Society first, and I certainly won't criticise him for that.

The right to free and open debate has been denied. Wherein, then, lies the blame? Did the University do everything within its power to ensure the debate could take place? Were the Fife Constabulary prepared to take action against any threats, and did they have a plan for securing Parliament Hall? (Parliament Hall has seen large-scale protests before, having hosted Enoch Powell and Rhodesian Prime Minister Ian Smith in decades past, I believe).

It will probably be a while before we know precisely what the heck has gone on.

Nick Griffin, the leader of the British National Party, will be speaking next Wednesday in Parliament Hall at the University of St Andrews. Mr. Griffin was invited to speak on the motion "This House Believes the Multicultural Experiment Has Failed" at the University of St Andrews Union Debating Society (f.1794). The media have decided to cause a little sensation with this (as is their wont) and I really wish they'd just leave St Andrews alone for once.

The University has responded with one of it's thankfully rare bouts of political correctness by sending all the students and staff the following e-mail:

While the views and values of Mr. Griffin and the BNP are – let there be no doubt – odious, I question whether it is the job of the University to be saying so, especially without giving any sort of epistemological basis for their condemnation. As for Mr. Griffin's visit being 'likely to be damage our efforts to promote diversity in St Andrews' I say bulldinky. How directly engaging the enemy is damaging to the almighty 'diversity' I have no idea, and I doubt the University administration do either. They probably just feel the need to make these noxious press releases because it's just what they do. Well they should stop. Mr. Griffin will come to St Andrews, engage in an open and free debate amongst the members and guests of the Union Debating Society and then he will leave.

However, some students have expressed fears that the event might be taken advantage of by anti-BNP protesters from the far left, with the possibility of stirring up a riot outside Parliament Hall for the cameras. They can always blame the police for any violence, and as they say, no publicity is bad publicity, so who knows what sort of SSP/SWP/Marxists will come out of the woodwork. Let's hope it doesn't come to that and that it all passes by peacefully, and interestingly.

UPDATE: The Union Debating Society, "due to serious security concerns involving the personal safety of the student body" is cancelling the debate.

The Telegraph: BNP chief to speak at Prince William's university
The Scotsman: Plans for University Debate with BNP Chief Condemned

We had all heard talk and rumors of this crazy site from all our friends who are conventional enough to attend colleges and universities in the Motherland, but now thefacebook.com has arrived at St Andrews. This popular... well, what the heck does one call it? forum, I suppose, has ventured outside North America for the first time and made itself available to students at St A's, Oxford, Cambridge, Trinity Dublin, and the American University of Paris.

I have to say, despite my inherent suspicion of all things new and technological, it's quite a nifty thing. What you do is, you enter your official university e-mail address to verify you are a real student at a particular university and then you make a profile about yourself and your friends do the same and you add them as your official friends and before you know it you have a veritable network of confederates with photos, their birthdays, favorite books and movies, quotes, and everything. You can even poke people (and poking is one of our most formidable pasttimes).

One of my favorite bits is this nifty tally by which you keep account of your official friends at other institutions:

Heck, I just joined last night and I've already got twenty-nine of my friends officially friend-ed on Facebook. In terms of non-St-Andreans, NYU is currently in the lead with 3, the rest all have one, but once I get Will Moller added Kenyon will move to second place with 2. I've got seven or so St Andreans so far. Niftiness.

I'm back off to Caledonia this evening for my examinations. But I'm back to New York by the evening of next Sunday anyhow, so I'm not gone for long.

For a peek at what our exams are actually like, here are the questions from last year's exam for "MO3322 French Algeria 1830-1962". Three questions must be answered in the space of three hours.

The brouhaha over our university's ironically-titled tabloid, the Saint, has made it to the respectable papers.

The Scotsman's Education Correspondent, Kevin Schofield, writes today under the headline of "University challenge to freedom of speech - and Welsh jokes". Slightly misleading since in this instance the challenge is from the Students Union not the University administration, but it was given a mention on the front page of Scotland's national newspaper. The Scotsman also published an opinion piece entitled "New puritanism we last witnessed in '20s Germany" which seems slightly hyperbolic.

Andrew Murray-Watson reports in the Telegraph of "Student newspaper at St Andrews University closed after 'making racist attack on the Welsh'". The most amusing bit from this article is a quote from Saint editor Jo Kerr:

The terms "broadsheet quality" and "sophisticated manner" appearing in an article about the Saint are hilarious! This from a newspaper which feels free to lecture about Christians and Christianity while displaying a wholesale ignorance of the Faith (e.g. referring to St. Patrick as a "biblical superhero" and ridiculous statements about the Christian Union).

The Saint, paragon of social liberalism and this university's other newspaper, has ironically been banned from using the Student Union's facilities (in which their offices are located) for making offensive comments about "LGBT students, dyslexics and the Welsh." How amusing to see infighting amongst the useless institutions of the University!

Oddly enough, despite frequent cause for complaint, there is no mention of numerous offensive comments and innacuracies about Christians. This is probably because most Christians are so used to assaults from the press we don't bother complaining.

Well, you all read the Mitre anyhow.

Students Association President Simon Atkins' letter.
Samizdata reports the ban.

How splendid it will be to return home for Christmas! However, I still have a few days here in St Andrews and a few tasks to get done as well. Breakfast with Nicholas Vincent (Architecture writer for the Mitre) tommorrow. A pint with Chris Pollard sometime in there. Lunch with Tom Leppard, St Andrews' favourite champagne socialist, Thursday. I told Alex Matzdorf and Ed Jackson both I'd have coffee with them sometime, and hopefully I will in the next three days.

Today was my last academic bit, a celebratory affair marking the final seminar for the 'Monarchy, Church, and State' course with Dr. Bradley (seen at right, Kirkin' it up). It was somewhat embarassing as I was about fifteen minutes late since I stopped to buy sherry for the seminar. There is something moderately amusing about walking into of the rooms in St. Mary's quad with a bottle of sherry and getting a round of applause. In addition to my sherry, there were other beverages including non-alcoholic mulled wine (NON-ALCOHOLIC MULLED WINE! That's right, there were Protestants afoot).

We were supposed to be covering what will be on the exam, but that pretty much came down to "There will be nine questions to choose from and you've had nine seminars. Study them all." It may be very well for me, but others have dissertations to write, poor souls! Nonetheless, Dr. Bradley insisted the latest Mitre be passed around as he found our editorial rather intriguing. Of course the triumvirate of young Baptist ladies in the corner went straight for Za-Za Shelly's article on bras. (Have to have something in the Mitre for the fair ones to read). Graham Booth volunteered himself as sports writer.

Already have my first appointment for home. Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols at St Thomas on Sunday. Brenner and I will be going, providing I have any energy left after flying home the previous evening, and hopefully we'll be able to track down James Feddeck – the man himself – to come along. Ah, but I'm not really home until I hear the euphonic incantation of Asperges me at the 11 o'clock Mass at St Agnes.

One of the less attractive aspects of the University of St Andrews is its library. Most people complain that it's ugly, inhospitable, and generally not a nice place to be. My main problem, however, is its greivous inefficiency. Never having been to other university libraries, I don't know if this is widespread or merely a specific case.

I have an essay due on Friday. I want or need books A, B, C, D, and E. So I check SAULCAT, the electronic catalog of the library, and find that D and E have been taken out but that A, B, and C are still in the library. I write down the 'classmark' numbers for A, B, and C, and look them up in the stalls. They're not there. I look on the reshelving cart. They're not there. Then I look on the shelves of books waiting to be reshelved (no joke), which on Level 3 of the Library are 6 or 7 columns of 5 shelves each with books in no particular order so you have to look through the whole lot. They're not there. I look through books left in empty study carrels. They're not there. I look up in the empty carrels on Level 4. They're not there. At 5:00pm they're not there. At 9:30 at night, they're not there. At 1:40 in the afternoon they're not there. In short, they're just plain not there. You can go to the front desk and fill out a missing book form, as I naïvely did the first time I experienced this problem. Nothing will happen.

And there are only 5-12 people in the entire university who are probable taking courses that require these books. Yet nonetheless they're never there. It's something of a hassle.

Now, taking one particular missing book, The French Army in politics, 1945-1962 by John Stewart Ambler, classmark DC404.A6. Right now, SAULCAT says its status is "IN LIBRARY". Yet for the past day it's been nowhere to be found. I could buy a used copy from Amzon.co.uk for £74.95, but obviously that's not feasible. The books that you can get for cheap and within a day the Library usually has enough copies of anyhow. The book is either lost or stolen and Lord only knows the likelihood it'll be found before the end of term let alone in time to write an essay for.

Thanksgiving is one of the things you miss most when you're abroad. Alex, Chris, Dave, Jenny, and Za-Za were kind enough to host a Thanksgiving at their residence on Queens Gardens last Friday, since we don't get Thanksgiving Day itself off.

I don't think I have often used this blog for the purpose of a whine, but in this instance, I shall, for my irritation is searing.

There is very little I despise more than writing essays. I despise writing essays with an unquenchable passion that knows no end. It is an excercise from which I draw absolutely no pleasure or reward at all. I don't even get the feeling of satisfaction or relief one usually gets after having completed an endeavor, and I certainly don't get good grades. (Just good enough to graduate, which is good enough for me).

Once you've finished 2,000 words on French control of Algeria in 1871, then you've 3,500 on the extent to which Church involvement in politics is desireable and appropriate. And a presentation on the Coronation service and its elements.

At least Modern History students aren't required to write 40,000 word dissertations like some departments. We get off with an 8,000 word Special Honours Project or something. I think if I were forced to write 12,000 words I'd sooner kidnap the Chancellor's King Charles Spaniel and hold it hostage until I negotiated an exemption (though Sir Kenneth would probably die of a cardiac arrest if faced with such a situation).

I'm not saying we shouldn't have to do them, or that I particularly deserve an exemption from writing essays (though I certainly wouldn't turn down that offer!). I just absolutely despise writing them.

I very rarely have the mental capacity to sit down and devote my mind to one topic for five minutes, let alone more. (Concentration has never been my strong point). The knowledge that this essay, which I have had to devote useless hours of study and writing to complete, will only ever be read by one (perhaps two) other people, further fills my mind with hatred. What a waste! Anything of any worth I have learned so far whilst at university has been learned either in conversation (be it in the pub or the seminar room) or through individual study, most likely not related to any of my courses.

To heck with them all!

Fr. Emerson will be returning to to Canmore next week to give a talk on the Hapsburgs.

The other day after rosary I realised I had never been all the way to the end of the West Sands and decided to accomplish such a task. For those who don't know St Andrews, I've provided a little map at right. The West Sands is a long stretch of beach that is about a mile and a half long down the coast from the town of St Andrews to Out Head.

Anyhow, I went all the way to the end, and turned around Out Head. There I perched myself into a sand bank, facing the RAF base at Leuchars, and proceeded to read a bit of Evelyn Waugh's Black Mischief. It was just past high tide, so the tide was heading out and as it was a late autumnal afternoon, not many people were on the beach. Though it was somewhat chilly, there was no wind, and I found it quite amenable for reading.

The town as seen from the dunes.

Much further down the West Sands, you can still make out the spires of St Andrews.

The beach.

Reading, with RAF Leuchars in the distance. A few fighter jets landed and took off, I believe they might have been Tornados, and three massive Hercules transport planes.

Boy did we have a blast last night! Bishop Rifan of Campos swung by Edinburgh on his tour of the United Kingdom (organised by Una Voce Scotland and the British Friends of Campos), and I was among a number of St Andreans lucky enough to make his aquaintance and receive the episcopal blessing.

It began with a Pontifical Low Mass at the Church of St Andrew in Ravelston, Edinburgh. The church is a wooden structure that would not look out of place in the Catskills or Adirondacks. In fact, it somewhat reminded me of the Chapel at Camp Jeanne d'Arc, where my sister spent her summers growing up. Such a setting in addition to the Mass being in the old rite slightly assuaged my permanent yearning for New York.

Woke up at 9:00 this morning and had 'breakfast' at the Northpoint Café with C.. I put the word in quotations because breakfast ought to imply a meal, but owing to the Northpoint's scant menu, breakfast meant buttered toast and a pot of tea. At least it was only £2.00.

The topics of conversation were of the usual C. n' Cusack ilk: How ridiculous Britain is, how brilliant the States are, delving into meaningless and ultimately feckless points of argument, hoping for the downfall of world Islam, and recalling past misadventures as well as plotting new ones.

I think the only reason we ever have breakfast at the Northpoint is because Afghan president Hamid Karzai had tea there when he was in town last year, and Chris has some sort of bizarre fascination with this.

"French Algeria 1830-1962" was at 11:00am, with Dr. Stephen Tyre. A fascinating class of five students which we usually manage to steer onto some even more fascinating tangent, which itself usually tangentalizes onto football somehow. Today was all about Abd el-Qadir and his jihad. We also discussed an Islamic figure in 1840's Algeria who claimed his goat was the Prophet Mohammed and sparked a brief uprising. Oh those wacky savages and their messianic goats!

Read quite a lot during the afternoon, had spaghetti bolognese from Pizza Connection across the street (since Jocelyn has Mondays off), and then popped down to the Cellar Bar for a pint of de Konick with Robert O'Brien, Maria Bramble, "Ishmael", and Jon Burke – an assemblage which ought to be collectively known as the Inappropriate Joke Squadron. Classic.

"Monarchy, Church, and State" tommorrow with the indomitable Rev. Dr. Ian C. Bradley. I think I shall have to abandon or change my Hapsburg essay plans owing to lack of adequate sources.

Last night I had a few people over for dinner and drinks that lasted until 1:00am. Jocelyn, our trusted agent of culinary perfection, and Jenny, whose ancestors had beastly things done to them by Chinese pirates, cooked up a splendid shepherd's pie. On the receiving end of said pie were fellow American Rob (one of Jocie's choir friends), apostate Catholic and former Literary Society president David Taylor, Mitre associate editor and former Catholic Society president Robert O'Brien, his fiancée and my good friend Maria Bramble, current Catholic Society president Matthew Gorrie, California's prettiest Antiochian Orthodox girl Abigail Hesser (engaged to an Aussie), and Connecticut's prettiest Choate grad, Kat 'Kiki' Murphy.

Jocie and Jenny left for the Byre shortly after dinner to meet up with a friend of theirs. We were then joined by traditionalist/OTC/Old Cliftonian Jon Burke and the legendary Blackpudlian, "Ishmael".

I think we got through four or five bottles of wine if not more, at least one bottle of port, and luckily not too much of my whiskey. We just about went through our entire retinue of politically-incorrect jokes as well. One of the highlights of the evening was getting the former 'most enthusiastic man in St Andrews' on the phone: none other than the great Peter Cox. We had all had a fair amount to drink and decided calling Brussels wasn't a bad idea. True to form, Peter Cox was enthusiastic as ever, explained that he is organising things for the upcoming World Youth Day and working in a youth hostel to pay the bills. The man is brilliant.

We listened to half of Bach's Mass in B Minor, our favourite Breton/French hip-hop/jazz group Manau and the obligatory Smashing Pumpkins.

One of my flatmates left his KK tie lying around, and Jon Burke decided to put it on. Fair enough. Unfortunately, Burke forgot he had it on, left my place and proceeded to Ma Bell's – one of the preferred night spots for members of the Kate Kennedy Club. Of course the first KKer who observed Jon and his illegitimate usage of club neckware gave him a right verbal bollicking. Still, nothing nearly as bad as what happened when Paul Pennyfeather ran into the inebriated members of the Bollinger Club wearing his old school tie which was surprising similar to that of the Bollingers. This, of course, took place at Scone College, Oxford in Evelyn Waugh's Decline and Fall.

David Taylor agreed to write a piece on Derrida for the next Mitre, although it'll probably be fawning. The current crisis in modern poetry was discussed, and it was agreed that Milton is more important than Shakespeare.

"Yeah, Abby. That's about as funny as the sack of Constantinople."
- "Ishmael"

Last night I attended the ordinary session of the University of St Andrews Union Debating Society. It was an altogether so-so debate, (This House Believes Harry Potter is A Danger to sometherother) with the first proposition rather overwhelming the three other speakers.

The most interesting aspect was Mr. Ralph Covino in the Chair, since the Convenor of the UDS, Mr. Peter Blair, was second prop. Mr. Covino showed himself very capable of such a task, and handled the Chair with alacrity.

My only criticism was when he mistook a portrait for Andrew Carnegie for the Marquess of Bute, which is actually all the way towards the back. It hangs approximate to the portrait of Field Marshal Jan Christiaan Smuts, replete with the coats of arms of the University (of which he was Lord Rector) and the Union of South Africa (of which he was Prime Minister — twice).

Of course the heraldic achievement of South Africa has since been replaced by Thabo Mbeki and his gang of ignorant halfwits.

The motto on the old coat of arms (left) is Latin for "From Unity there is Strength". The motto on the new coat of arms (right) is Clickspeak for "Kill Whitey".

Covino Bostoniensis in the Chair.

Lower Parliament Hall packed to the brim.

Great photos courtesy of none other than Mr. David Bean.

Jon Burke (aka 'Little Jon' to distinguish him from 'Big John', Dr. John Lamont, the Gifford Research Fellow) tries out a biretta whilst flipping through an old Mitre at the Societies Fair.

Last week, Robert O'Brien and two of his old school friends from Manchester (or thereabouts) gathered in the Cellar Bar along with the brilliant Miss Maria Bramble (the future Mrs. O'Brien), the inimitable Mr. Donald Renouf (aka Donocle the Monocle), and myself.

A good time was had by all, and I even got to try on the legendary monocle. A bit tricky trying to keep a monocle in one's eye. Donald has had it for years, so is much more used to it.

Today has been altogether a wonderful day. The sky was slightly cloudy and the air had that simply brilliant, crisp, cool autumnal feel to it.

Luncheon with the Kens. Club at Broon's lasted from 1:00pm to 4:00pm. Leek and Stilton soup with bread as a starter followed by a main course of chicken stuffed with mozzarella and wrapped in bacon served with potatoes, and chocolate tart with vanilla ice cream to end it all. Coffee as a finale.

Discussed meta-narratives with the Club's token postmodern deconstructivist Marxist, Mr. Thomas Leppard, as well as Mr. David Vinton's summer on a tea plantation in India stomping around the premises on an elephant every afternoon. An informal motion was passed declaring the blunderbuss to be the official weapon of the Club.

An hour after luncheon had finally ended, there was the Vigil Mass, with the usual suspects over to Canmore for tea afterwards. Mr. Ryan Freeburn and myself discussed the paltry state of the National Review these days (except for John Derbyshire, who is excellent as always), whilst Miss Katya Mouris and I discussed the Viceregal Salute of Canada (a fine country, despite being on the slow road to fascism). Mrs. Freeburn referred to the Great White North by the moniker of "Soviet Canuckistan" which I had not heard before.

Rob and Maria may be coming over late for a showing of Bon Voyage.

Well my godson is excommunicate. Having become a Freemason, he has now decided to attend the high Anglican church in town instead of the Catholic parish (Which at least is preferable to his remaining a Freemason and claiming to be a Catholic).

His godmother (a good friend of mine) and I tried to postpone his entry into the Church because we were afraid just this kind of thing would happen. We didn't think three months of instruction were enough, but at the end of the day, we thought he was completely on board.

Everything else seems to be going fairly well though, minus the grim weather that hangs round these parts this time of year. Ah, to be in New England this time of year, rather than old Scotland.

Also, Tori informs me that Michael Davies has died, so we must all say a few prayers on his behalf at the next opportunity.

On a lighter note, Fr. Patrick Burke's talk last night at Canmore went exceptionally well. The subject was "Can We Prove the Existence of God?" and Fr. Burke handled the matter with his usual alacrity and humour.

For those who don't know of Fr. Burke, he is a graduate of St Andrews, having been Convenor of the Union Debating Society during his tenure as an undergraduate. He then went on to the Pontifical Scots College, I believe, and then the Gregorian. Fr. Burke is currently editor of Faith magazine and a parish priest in the Archdiocese of St Andrews.

Fr. Burke is one of our most popular speakers, evidenced by the fact that the Common Room at Canmore was filled to capacity, with three or four others standing in the hallway outside. Next week is Fr. Luiz Ruscillo, also of the Faith movement, also one of our popular speakers. Also, Fr. Luiz has only recently taken up saying the Tridentine rite.

If any of you receive Mass of Ages, the very well-produced magazine of the Latin Mass Society of England and Wales, you will no doubt have noticed an article on the Schola Cantorum Universitate Sancti Andreae - aka Scusa, Sophie von Hauch's splendiferous chant choir. Definitely worth a read.

That's all for now. There's work to be done...

Well, I have returned to the old gray town and it is much as I have left it. Our apartment is simply splendiferous and I've already got my Stars-and-Stripes, Union Jack, and Rhodesian flag hanging from the walls. It's a bit messy, half-full bottles of absinthe, Bulgarian wine, and empty glasses and the like, but we make do.

Last night, at about two o'clock, we were invaded by a contingent of the Officer Training Corps which included the infamous Paddy Levack (not sure on the spelling), our man David Watt, and a good few others, including Jen, Charlie, and Emma. A bit insane, but good fun nonetheless.

Have to get out the old gown and give it a good dust off, for there is a debate tonight. It's on some ridiculous topic, but they've got good speakers lined up. Peter Blair and I had to truck up to Safeway today to purchase £61.87 worth of sherry and port for the event. No worries, the Union reimburses us.

Must go!

A band of merrie gentlemen haunt the Lizard Lounge late on a Thursday evening.

Photo: Peter Tweed

Just over a fortnight to go, but a number of things I miss about St Andrews:

The people (too many to mention), wearing academic gowns, torchlit processions, dinner parties, St. Salvator's Chapel, three-piece suits at Chapel, lady preachers making fools of themselves at Chapel, the after-Chapel bit of sherry, tweed, the Kensington Club, tweed, the ruins of the Cathedral, tweed, the Pier, the East Sands, the West Sands, Castle Sands, the Castle, the Castle Tavern, the Central, Broon's, Ma Bell's, not so much the Westport but their beer garden instead, eating at the Golf Hotel, reading the magazines in the common room of Canmore, reading everything else in the library of Canmore, big dinner thursdays, avoiding the Students Union at all costs, Queens Gardens, the Quarto, the Bouquiniste, chips, the late movie on Wednesday nights, anything and everything Richard Demarco is involved in, plotting reaction, writing the Mitre, reading the Mitre, reactions to the Mitre, St. Leonard's Chapel, candlelit compline, the Scores, Boots' meal deal, the evangelists in the streets, Parliament Hall, St. Mary's Quad, St. Katharine's Lodge, St. John's House, the King James Library, the Bunk Room in St. Mary's, Professor Haldane's house, the hallway chat after the daily Rosary, the Parish garden, Fr. Halloran's black vestments and the fact that he still uses them, the Latin Mass in Edinburgh and everything that goes with it, the Telegraph, the Spectator, making fun of people, being made fun of, evensong at Holy Trinity, the Renaissance Group, St. Salvator's Hall, Hamilton Hall, University Hall, Lower College Hall, the Old Union Diner, Butts Wynd, St. Salvator's Quad, North Street, Market Street, South Street, the Pends, the Cemetary, the cloister, the chapter house, driving up and down the Fife coast, awkward people, the Whiskey-tasting Society (oh boy!), unapologetic support for the monarchy, international diplomacy, an appreciation for Chesterton, representing New York abroad, beautiful and charming South African tutors, Dean's Court, champagne, the Royal & Ancient, innocent decadence, Kinburn Park and the lawn bowling club, Bishop Kennedy's tomb, the Buchanan, falling asleep in lectures, doing the crossword in lectures, inscribing the Sacred Heart of Jesus, monarchist slogans, or anachronistic pro-Rhodesian graffiti onto lecture hall desktops, tea after Mass, Country Life, the Kate Kennedy Procession, buying the papers at J+G Innes, formal events, wearing the old school tie, the Annual Boules Match in St. Mary's College, the Younger Hall, plotting to start a croquet club, people willing to sacrifice their lives for their country, my complete inability to write an essay without Jameson's, paninis from Cherries, Luvian's wine shop, all the alleyways, the Byre Theatre, the bar at the Byre, Pimm's on the lawn, Christianity being taken seriously, incessantly amusing people, life in St Andrews. Life in St Andrews!

Behold, the only photo ever smuggled out of a Kensington Club dinner. Alright, I'll admit it's not a terribly interesting photo, but it's the only one, so you'll pardon that. I'm actually somewhat surprised I wasn't fined a bottle of port or two for this, but I felt as a historian there ought to be some proof that the Kensington Club actually exists.

Here Ed Jackson turns to Rob Cockburn who explained some point about something. On the peripheral left is Michael Phillips, and on the dexter, Michael Gaster's right arm (if my knowledge of the seating that evening is correct, which is doubtful).

Kens Club dinners are good fun, usually lasting from about seven-thirty until midnight, and they would be longer if only the Golf Hotel would oblige to keep its dining room open.

A beautiful shot of sunset through the Harkness Tower at Yale. Edward Harkness paid for the Harkness Memorial Quadrangle to be built in memory of his brother Charles, who died during the Great War. In addition to being a significant benefactor of Yale and St. Paul's School, both of which he graduated from, he was also a patron of the University of St Andrews, where he was good friends with Principal Sir James Irvine.

At St Andrews, he built St. Salvator's Hall, the first hall of residence for men since the end of the residential aspect of the colleges, as well as funding the renovation of the St. Salvator's Chapel. His generosity is commemorated by a window in the chapel.

The trust he established also later paid for the restoration of St. Leonard's Chapel, which had been abandoned in the middle of the nineteenth century.

Was feeling a bit nostalgic for St Andrews. Won't be heading back until Sept. 20, so I figured I'd put up a photo of fellow St Andreans and me with jovial countenances.

And the mantle from my room the past year. For a closer up look at the random items including architectural books, John le Carré novels, the program from the Knights of Malta ball, a bottle of cheap red, the Penguin editions of Gerald of Wales, and Alfred the Great, and R.G. Cant's history of St. Salvator's College, click here.

Yesterday, the University officially announced that it has decided to sell Hamilton Hall, the iconic red-brick residence hall that overlooks the Royal and Ancient Golf Club and the 18th hole of the Old Course.

No surprise to Mitre-readers, as we reported this possibility before any other newspaper (university or otherwise) over four months ago, in our edition of March 2, 2004 (see at right).

I have to admit, losing Hamilton is slightly saddening, but having only been acquired in 1949 it is not an historic part of the University, as Finance Derek Watson points out in the press release. Nonetheless, if it does become a hotel, old students coming back years from now will be able to stay in their old rooms.

It's a good move by the university, and the developers who want to buy it have guaranteed to provide newly-built accomodation before the sale goes through. The only trouble with this is that it seems unlikely this accomodation will be in town. Thus we may have another Fife Park/DRH situation on our hands. University Hall was far enough for me when I lived there!

The Royal & Ancient on the left, and Hamilton Hall on the right.

"When in the Course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness."

Two-hundred-and-twenty-eight years ago today, three men with degrees from St Andrews signed the Declaration of Independence, and thus the United States were born. Those three were Mr. Benjamin Franklin (Hon. LLD, 1759), Mr. James Wilson (M.A., 1762), and the Rev. John Witherspoon (D.Div., 1764). Rev. Witherspoon was President of Princeton University from 1768 to his death in 1794, whereas Wilson became a justice of the Supreme Court after it was established. Both Franklin and Wilson went on to sign the Constitution as well, two of only eight people who signed both.

Well they always get a mention in the Mitre so I reckoned it was time the University of St Andrews Clay Pigeon Club got a mention on andrewcusack.com. Seen here are Grant Thomson and Jonny Armstrong displaying the new gun purchased with a grant from the Rector's Fund.

The Rector, of course, is Sir Clement Freud, OBE, who during his long life has been a soldier, restauranteur, dog-food promoter, Member of Parliament, 'relative of most other people named Freud', and of course, the Honorary Chairman of a certain St Andrews secret society that shall not be named.

Jonny, above on the right, is an all-around nice guy and was a source of good conversation at a recent Dashwood Club luncheon, along with the legend of all legends Charlie Lush whose graduation a few days ago marks a tremendous loss to la société des amusantes in St Andrews.

Among Charlie's efforts are his attempts to have Queen Victoria disinterred. Lush thinks she had a bastard child after dear Albert died, I think. Charlie's not the only one who wants to dig up the Imperatrix. Apparently some Hannoverians think she may have been illegitimate herself, which would mean that they are still the rightful heirs to the crown of the United Kingdom. Germans coming over to take the throne of England, again? That thought alone may keep Victoria in the ground.

The greatest university in the world finally gets recognition in American news for granting Bob Dylan an honorary doctorate, of all things. It's only the second honorary degree he's accepted, the other being from Princeton (one of those newfangled schools here in the New World). Nonetheless, there's Sir Ken capping the new Dr. Dylan and Jim Douglas, one of the nicest people I've met, about to give him his doctoral hood. Huzzah for St Andrews. And huzzah for Dr. Bob Dylan, even though I don't like his music. Here is the AP's take on events.

On my last day in St Andrews before summer break, Michelle Romero and I were lucky enough to finagle our way into a private showing of the University's maces to the Kate Kennedy Club organized by the Head Janitor and Bedellus, Jim Douglas, M.A. It was truly amazing. The metalwork on these maces (six in total) is so intricate and beautiful.

The late R.G. Cant said that if he had to put a value to the maces, Bishop Kennedy's mace (made in 1461 in Paris) would be worth £10 million, and the mace of the Faculty of Arts would be £5 million, though in effect they are priceless. I have to admit it was nearly frightening to hold £10 million pounds in your hands.

It's such a shame that the mace for the whole of the University (furtherst left in the photo) pales in comparison to the others, especially since it is the mace used at Chapel and thus the mace used most often. Mr. Douglas told us that the rod of the Rector's mace (not pictured) is actually a broomstick painted black. Apparently, the Principal and Vice-Chancellor, Dr. Brian Lang, is going to have it replaced with a lengthened ebony rod.

I have just checked my results on the Student Portal and it turns out that I have passed every single course this term. "Big deal!" you cry? Well it is a big deal for we, the generally disinclined to work. Especially since I took one more course than usual each term this academic year to make up for the failures of my first year.

This means that I have passed my first two years of university and am now into honours. Thus, God willing, in two years time I shall be Andrew K.B. Cusack, M.A. (Hons) St Andrews.

I'd like to thank all my staff, most especially my secretary, Miss Alexandra Jennings, and my cook, Miss Jocelyn Archer, for selflessly contributing to the Cusack effort and ensuring that Candlemas Term 2004 was a resounding success.