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. A., 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. (more…)

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.

A long morning. A few people filtered into the flat from 1:00am. Kat, Jocie, C., Dave Watt, Rob and Maria. After having some celebratory champagne with future American immigrant D. P. at around 7:00, I finally got to bed around 8:00am and slept until 11:30am. Half past midday now and I need some breakfast/lunch.

Electoral college of beverages consumed: A California’s worth of tea, a New Hampshire of whiskey, and probably about a New York of beer. And an Alaska of bubbly.

Condi versus Hillary in ’08, anyone? God forbid.

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. (more…)

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”

“I hope his gerbils get better by Septuagesima.”
– E.S.

A palace coup has taken place and I have been forcibly removed from the Committee of the Literary Society. Which is fair enough. Last term I just turned up to their AGM for the free wine and to make fun of David Taylor, and somehow ended up on the committee. Besides, at the Kens club committee meeting last night, I was put on the subcommittee to organize the Christmas charity event, along with Second Lieutenant Cockburn and Herr Wyss.

Had a brilliant time at Rob’s last night on Hepburn Gardens. Maria, “Ishmael”, and I were over for dinner from 8:00 until midnight. Great conversation as always, and laughter barreling through the night. Not to mention the food was excellent. I have the utmost appreciation for those who can cook, owing to my complete incompetence in the field.

I may be taking up gardening, however, as Maria Christina has waggled me into volunteering to help out with the parish garden. I explained I know nothing about gardening, but it really couldn’t hurt to try.

Kat Murphy is a riot. We were playing Scrabble the other day in Sallies and she just said the funniest things. Sadly, I can’t remember any of them. Sic transit gloria.

Sarah Laurence Goodwin is organising a production of Our Town. Grovers Corners meets St Andrews. An interesting combination. I can rather picture the old church ladies from Holy Trin singing ‘Blest Be The Tie That Binds’. Last time I visited that little corner of New Hampshire was at Bronxville High School, with Julie McAllister as the narrator, Emma Haberl as someone, and I’m pretty sure Caroline Gill was in it too (Oh, Caro!).

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). (more…)

At the drinks party for bejants at Canmore the other night, my mind got wandering to whether there are any basilicas in the United Kingdom.

Rob mentioned the Basilica of Corpus Christi in Manchester, and we thought Westminster Cathedral might be a basilica, but it appears not.

Downside Abbey, however, is the Basilica of Saint Gregory the Great. Above can be seen Dom Antony Sutch, the former head of Downside, who had some very cogent criticisms of Labour education policy.

A splendid triptych from this site.

Splendid photo of an old rite mass courtesy of the Latin Mass Society of England and Wales.

An early view, only partially executed to this plan.

If anyone knows of other British basilicas, do inform us.

Links:
Catholic Encyclopedia article
Official Abbey website

UPDATE: St. Chad’s Cathedral in Birmingham — a work of Pugin — is also a basilica.

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. (more…)

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 pancetta 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 National Review, 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, 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. (more…)

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!

Instagram: @andcusack

Most Recent Posts

• Brunel’s Unbuilt Capitol February 3, 2026
• Cricket at Fordham January 27, 2026
• Palacio Barolo Revisted January 14, 2026
• Learning to Love Liguria January 14, 2026
• Crux Alba No. 2 January 13, 2026

Most Recent Comments

• Ann Chiasson Beaton on Cricket at Fordham
• Ann Chiasson Beaton on When Newspapers Were Newspapers
• Michael Eamon Lamb on Cricket at Fordham
• Laura Dilworth on The Last Will and Testament of Louis XVI
• Stephen MacDonald on Learning to Love Liguria
• Walter Lasser on Jesuit Gothic
• J.R. Salazar on Compact Grandeur in Genoa
• Linda Frankel on When Newspapers Were Newspapers
• BT van Nostrand on Churchill’s Beguinage
• Andrew Cusack on Compact Grandeur in Genoa

Book Wishlist

Monthly Archives

Categories