What a marvelous affair it was! And damn jolly to boot. We all had quite the ball and enjoyed ourselves immensely. But where to start? Right, the beginning…

(more…)

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

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.E.B., 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. J.E.B. 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, J.E.B. 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)

Am I the only one who sees the resemblance between the boisterous character from the television adaptation of Brideshead Revisted and the managing editor of the New Criterion?

Previously: Arafat Joins Team Zissou

The sun was out today which made it ever so slightly warm in a most welcome way. I managed to get all my Christmas shopping done, which brought forth a great sense of satisfaction. That aside, I thought I’d share a few photos of here and there I took today. (more…)

Just when you think you’re about to finish your dissertation, an epidemic of good times breaks out. Here are a few photos of late. (more…)

When Christopher C. was a wee lad, his daddy would bounce him on his knee and tell him of an island in the Indian Ocean named Socotra where the streets were paved with gold.

Lately, after reading the current price of gold on the Paris market in the Yemen Financial Observer, Chris decided to launch an amphibious assault on the island and seize it for himself.

Above, C. is seen leading what Chris Moreland called “the most unimpressive invasion force the world has ever seen”.

Once the expeditionary force made landfall, transportation by big ole Arab rowboat was considered logistically unsound, so the crack squad headed inland towards the capital of Socotra by means of a handy Japanese pick-up truck. Socotra! Where the streets are paved with gold!

Unfortunately, like everything else his father ever told him, it was a lie.

Unless ‘gold’ is Arabic for ‘dirt’ and ‘paved’ is Arabic for ‘unpaved’, which would make Arabic a dashed silly language.

Disappointed with his anticlimactic conquest, Chris returned to the mainland where his rented room awaited.

There, he picked up a bottle of non-alchoholic beer, cursed the Gods, and questioned whether life really had any meaning after all.

G.R.V.H.I.

W. Calderhead and C. C..

Here we observe the wastrel in his natural habitat: passed out on a sofa in a student flat at the University of St Andrews — the institution with the highest per capita number of wastrels in the British Commonwealth of Nations. In actual fact, Rob & Maria made an official visit up to Andreanopolis this weekend, and Abigail, Adrian, and Pamela graciously through a dinner party in their honour at Step Rock Cottage; Rob and Maria are exiled monarchs of the Catholic dinner party circuit.

The sad thing is this photo was taken before the party even started. I was exhausted from having woken up at 7:00am and spent the entire day rowing at Strathclyde Park that I just dragged myself over to the cottage on Gillespie Wynd at the appointed time in the evening and collapsed on the sofa in front of the crackling fire. It was sublime.

Below you can see Father Freddy, the resident chaplain at Step Rock Cottage, garbed in the appropriate chasuble for the liturgical season. He stands on the window sill blessing the herb garden all day long, or at least he usually does. At the moment he’s on his way to Downside for a retreat.

Has our former Gifford Research Fellow spent too much time considering jus in bello? Nay, rather John Lamont, aka Big John, sends these photos as proof of his efforts to combat the avian flu business that’s going round.

There’s the culprit! Duly nabbed by JL.

Looks tasty. Rather envious!

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).

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

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

Sunset from the Cusack chamber. (more…)

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

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

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

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

The view from Nilene’s kitchen.

C. (seen with Telegraph report on latest Zimbabwe tyranny) got the shirt in Alabama. Folks in the States keep asking him if he’s from Rhode Island.

Unfortunately these are basically the only photos I managed to take whilst I was in London.

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!

The summer pretty much began in Caroline Gill’s garden, and thus it appropriately played host to a little gathering last night as the season of leisure winds down. The Gills held a splendid little dinner al fresco including Mr. and Mrs. Gill, Caro, Michelle Carroll, yours truly, Mr. and Mrs. Kellogg and their son Doug, who I believe was Caro’s escort when she debuted. (I was unavailable since I was in Scotland at the time, which has been the cause of perennial complaints by Caro). Young Lizzie was absent for the meal but showed up later on in the evening.

Making fun of Caroline is an honored pasttime of mine, and one in which I revel. The Gill household is one in which friendly banter thrives. Last night I also got a chance to inform Mr. Gill that there are innumerable young men in Westchester who consider him something of an icon, and seek to imitate his leisurely lifestyle. Caro complains that I talk to her dad more than to her, which is only half true of course.

Speaking of dads, the aforementioned Michelle Carroll’s pop took her, Helen Clarke, and I out to dinner the night before ‘Hell’s Bells’ (as we sometimes call Helen) fled back to college in Ohio. He took us to a little gem of a place on the New York side of the Byram river in Portchester. Between dinner and dessert, Helen and I walked over the bridge to Connecticut just so I could say as we went back in “sorry we took so long, we went to Connecticut to have a cigarette.”

Doug eyes Lizzie’s match-fiddling with suspicion.

Smiling young Elizabeth about to set her hair alight.

Caroline Gill, brought to you by Poland Spring (“what it means to be from Maine”).

I caught this glimpse of an apartment building on 44th St today, and rather enjoyed the uniform appearance of the glassed-in terraces, later additions I imagine.

A view of yours truly last night at the Leviathan Club taking a stab at the crossword in the New York Observer. It was a vicious crossword which I found impossible to complete. Vicious, wretched crossword.

During the past fortnight, I have been learning to row on the lagoon in Pelham Bay Park, a body of water with which I had no previous aquaintance. “Learning to row?” you ask. “But weren’t you in the University of St Andrews Boat Club during your bejant year?” Yes, dear reader, I was a full paid-up member of said body, but I was too busy avoiding lectures, failing courses, and other such frivolities of one’s first year at university to actually row, and only went to circuit training when Ezra Pierce irritated me enough that I felt obliged to give in and head on over. Nonetheless, at the suggestion of a good friend I decided to enroll in this program and have not regretted it at all. Rowing, in short, is addictive, and it is a grand shame that I shall have to wait until at least September in Scotland to get back on the water. (Above, the Travers Island clubhouse of the A.C. can be seen from the far end of the lagoon). (more…)

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