The Inverness IVs Head

Today we had the pleasure of participating in the Inverness IVs Head Race. It brought forth mixed results. The girls did really well, and one of the guys crews did really well. Our boat on the other hand managed to crash. Twice! But, you know, we added a dash of the spirit of Admiral Farragut, full speed ahead, etc., and still managed to finish the race. Only second to last. Pity the poor bastards who didn’t even manage to beat us. They would’ve had to have sunk or something not to have overtaken us.

Inverness is more or less the capital of the Highlands, thus it’s terribly far north. So far north that when we arrived I said “Why on earth would they stick a country so far north?” which most present found to be a generally amusing comment on the northerliness of our current position until one chap said “Well I’ve been skiing in Trondheim”. Mark my words, whenever one makes a salient point, there’s always someone who’s been skiing in Trondheim.

Nonetheless, we managed to return to St Andrews in a shockingly quick under three hours. I found a few minutes to chat online with Allison Burbage, who in conversation emphathised with the feeling that it is sometimes such a burden to be superior to so many people. Allison would know; she’s superior to most. Then she went away to nurse a G&T in the neighboring dorm room. These crazy kids.

Lunch with the Burbage

Today was a productive day. I got a fair amount of the upcoming edition of the Mitre plotted out; hopefully in print by the Feast of St. Ansbert, and looks like it might be a fairly interesting edition. The Saint business will be front page, among other things. Emailed Stuart Paterson, Nicholas Vincent, Dave Vinton, et alia soliciting their work. Hopefully Fraulein Hesser will be providing the fashion column.

The most delightful portion of the day was lunch (at Walter’s, where else?) with Miss Allison Burbage, who simply must be the funniest young lady of our vintage. She regaled me with tales of rage from her first year of college upstate and all the hijinks she has been forced to put up with; from clog theft to Kerry propaganda.

Young Miss Burbage was bordering on apoplexy whilst informing me of an incident at her college when a student was accused of a ‘hate crime’ for displaying a Confederate flag in his window. And with nobility and vigor she verbally savaged the accusers and extolled the virtues of states rights. Brava. Nobody beats Fräulein Burbage.

In other news, Franklin Powers is alledged to have jury duty. And I ran into Julia Carrig yesterday whilst popping into Gillard’s in town to pick up my Sun. She seems as healthy, beautiful, and insane as always, so that’s good. I think her and Miss Burbage are the only fun people to have graduated from Ursuline. Oh, and my sister. Oh and Jacqie Sans while we’re at it. And Clare Leonard. Alright, so maybe there are a few.

And further I shall be travelling to New Haven this Friday to finally get that meal at this much-praised establishment called Mory’s, with a meeting of the Yale chapter of a certain St Andrews society to follow. Tweed and beer… Tweed and beer…

Just talked to Elena Fichtel and she insisted I pop down to NYU on Saturday evening so we can make fun of [redacted]. I’ll put that one high up on the to-do list.

Good times, good times.

In Praise of Hatred

The young Miss Burbage points me to this article in the Crimson on the virtues of hatred, with the comment “I thought as much”. I have observed that some of the most amusing people I know are “haters”. One of the great drawbacks of our politically-correct age is that the most drole and entertaining stories I hear cannot be shared on this webpage for the participants’ fear of prospective employers googling their names and coming up with surly tales of various hijinks.

It’s all in good fun, of course, but some people will just never get it. I’m particularly reminded of an Allison Burbage story which took place at a party in the town of Pelham, which certianly cannot be retold here and now. Nonetheless, just remembering Burbage’s delivery of this story sends me into barrels of laughter.

Someday, I hope to unite all the haters in my life (Miss Burbage, Mr. Ishmael, Mr. Burke, as well as all the closet haters — you know who you are) in one giant transatlantic dinner party where we can verbally savage and profane all the sacred cows of our terrible modern world. It would be a night to remember. Vive le vitriol!