kitchens…well
actually they are down below but the steps lead down to the Buttery. Now the
Buttery–’
‘Hold it there. Hold it,’ Kudzuvine said, almost pleading. ‘You mean you got a place you
make your own butter? You mean in wooden churns with fucking handles and milkmaids
and…This is beyond incredible. It’s wayer out than way. Jesus, that I should have been so
privileged. And you said you didn’t use quills.’
‘I don’t, as a matter of fact,’ said the Bursar coldly. He still felt very bitter about
Mr Skundler’s rudeness and the notion that he had to catch a goose every time he made a
single entry. And the Buttery isn’t for butter. It is where the bread and ale, and of
course in years gone by some butter, was kept. Nowadays one buys one’s sherry and wine there
and the undergraduates can order beer or wine with their meals.’
Kudzuvine’s mouth was hanging open. ‘You mean you actually encourage kids to get
alcoholic in there? I don’t know what to say? This isn’t happening. It can’t be.’
‘Not alcoholic Just sensible drinking. It’s all part of their education,’ said the
Bursar, who wished Kudzuvine’s last two remarks had been true.
But Kudzuvine’s short attention span had switched to the Hall itself, where a waiter
had just come through for more coffee. ‘Take a look at this, you guys,’ he said and went in.
Behind him the Bursar cringed. A small number of undergraduates were having breakfast
and looked up in annoyance at the intrusion. Kudzuvine didn’t notice. He was gazing in
rapture at the portraits of past Masters hanging on the panelled walls and seemed
particularly enraptured by Dr Anderson (1669-89) and Jonathan Riderscombe (1740-48),
both of whom were decidedly fat.
‘Shit,’ said Kudzuvine, clearly now on some sort of higher than high. ‘No wonder the
place is called Porterhouse. It’s a wonder it isn’t Porkerhouse the way those guys look.
And we think we’ve got obesity problems. That’s human foie gras up there. I mean you can’t
get that way naturally. You’ve got to be force fed. And what’s with their cholesterol
level? Must been way off the scale like they sweated the stuff. And with pork-bellies like
those they can’t ever have seen their John Henries. Except in the mirror of course. And
look at the roof…’
By the time the Bursar had managed to get them out of the Hall he was in a state
bordering on nervous collapse. ‘We can’t go round the College like this,’ he said weakly.
‘Couldn’t your team go–’
‘Right off first time, Professor Bursar. Man, we need your organizational skills,’
he said and called the team into a huddle. The Bursar mopped his brow and prayed. It was no
use. As the Hartang lookalikes scurried off in different directions, Kudzuvine turned
back to the Bursar with even more terrible enthusiasm. ‘So we’ve got them dancing in the
Hall,’ he said. ‘Where else? You said two bands and…’
‘Actually we lay a sort of wooden stage over the lawn in New Court and the Fellows’
Garden and the marquees…tents are for the buffet and so on and the champagne…’
Kudzuvine listened avidly to the full explanation. ‘Oh boy, oh boy,’ he sighed. ‘Oh
brother. And all dolled up in gowns and tuxedos like it’s Atlanta with Clark Gable and that
Vivien Leigh and it’s still Aunt Jemima Pancake Mix time.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ said the Bursar, as usual most unwisely.
Kudzuvine cringed. ‘No, sir, I beg yours, Prof. You didn’t hear me say that. I meant it was
Afro-American Person time down south which is where I come from. Like Bibliopolis,
Alabama, which I’m mighty proud of. That’s where I was raised, sir, in Bibliopolis,
Alabama, which as you will know is named after the Writer of the Good Book.’
The Bursar rather doubted it. He had never actually thought of the Bible as having
been written by one person but he
actually they are down below but the steps lead down to the Buttery. Now the
Buttery–’
‘Hold it there. Hold it,’ Kudzuvine said, almost pleading. ‘You mean you got a place you
make your own butter? You mean in wooden churns with fucking handles and milkmaids
and…This is beyond incredible. It’s wayer out than way. Jesus, that I should have been so
privileged. And you said you didn’t use quills.’
‘I don’t, as a matter of fact,’ said the Bursar coldly. He still felt very bitter about
Mr Skundler’s rudeness and the notion that he had to catch a goose every time he made a
single entry. And the Buttery isn’t for butter. It is where the bread and ale, and of
course in years gone by some butter, was kept. Nowadays one buys one’s sherry and wine there
and the undergraduates can order beer or wine with their meals.’
Kudzuvine’s mouth was hanging open. ‘You mean you actually encourage kids to get
alcoholic in there? I don’t know what to say? This isn’t happening. It can’t be.’
‘Not alcoholic Just sensible drinking. It’s all part of their education,’ said the
Bursar, who wished Kudzuvine’s last two remarks had been true.
But Kudzuvine’s short attention span had switched to the Hall itself, where a waiter
had just come through for more coffee. ‘Take a look at this, you guys,’ he said and went in.
Behind him the Bursar cringed. A small number of undergraduates were having breakfast
and looked up in annoyance at the intrusion. Kudzuvine didn’t notice. He was gazing in
rapture at the portraits of past Masters hanging on the panelled walls and seemed
particularly enraptured by Dr Anderson (1669-89) and Jonathan Riderscombe (1740-48),
both of whom were decidedly fat.
‘Shit,’ said Kudzuvine, clearly now on some sort of higher than high. ‘No wonder the
place is called Porterhouse. It’s a wonder it isn’t Porkerhouse the way those guys look.
And we think we’ve got obesity problems. That’s human foie gras up there. I mean you can’t
get that way naturally. You’ve got to be force fed. And what’s with their cholesterol
level? Must been way off the scale like they sweated the stuff. And with pork-bellies like
those they can’t ever have seen their John Henries. Except in the mirror of course. And
look at the roof…’
By the time the Bursar had managed to get them out of the Hall he was in a state
bordering on nervous collapse. ‘We can’t go round the College like this,’ he said weakly.
‘Couldn’t your team go–’
‘Right off first time, Professor Bursar. Man, we need your organizational skills,’
he said and called the team into a huddle. The Bursar mopped his brow and prayed. It was no
use. As the Hartang lookalikes scurried off in different directions, Kudzuvine turned
back to the Bursar with even more terrible enthusiasm. ‘So we’ve got them dancing in the
Hall,’ he said. ‘Where else? You said two bands and…’
‘Actually we lay a sort of wooden stage over the lawn in New Court and the Fellows’
Garden and the marquees…tents are for the buffet and so on and the champagne…’
Kudzuvine listened avidly to the full explanation. ‘Oh boy, oh boy,’ he sighed. ‘Oh
brother. And all dolled up in gowns and tuxedos like it’s Atlanta with Clark Gable and that
Vivien Leigh and it’s still Aunt Jemima Pancake Mix time.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ said the Bursar, as usual most unwisely.
Kudzuvine cringed. ‘No, sir, I beg yours, Prof. You didn’t hear me say that. I meant it was
Afro-American Person time down south which is where I come from. Like Bibliopolis,
Alabama, which I’m mighty proud of. That’s where I was raised, sir, in Bibliopolis,
Alabama, which as you will know is named after the Writer of the Good Book.’
The Bursar rather doubted it. He had never actually thought of the Bible as having
been written by one person but he
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