‘Pumblechook’ gets out his red pen.
I was not invited to the service for the Master’s installation. Few of us can match the charm and suavity of Ray Umbrella, of whose myriad conquests no précis is necessary or desirable. But I do have one or two things to say about the Great Gate Gathering. It was no doubt very fine. Still, ‘Dream a Little Dream of Me’ while Great Gate opens to reveal the largest enclosed fellowship in Europe? That was low. Who is that ‘me’, anyway? King Henry? I should not like to dream of him, to dream a little dream of him even less. He was a big man; would he fit? I imagine Anne did like to dream of him, at least till the incident, then Jane did, then Anne did (another one), then Catherine did (fake Catherine), till somehow another incident, then another fake Catherine did. I think the real Catherine even dreamt justly, whatever she dreamed of (Sancta Catherina, ora pro nobis), and anyway her dreams probably did not include much of Henry after a while. The point is, I do not imagine that Sir David Baulcombe, 41st Master of Trinity College (long may he reign), is dreaming of Henry, nor should I wish such a dream on him. Come to think of it, though, it would not be the worst thing to have a dream consisting simply in Henry clasping his hands around his reputedly enormous thigh and exclaiming, My, what a leg! and, Will you look at that thigh! but I think no dream is so blissfully brief, not least where Henry was involved, and so I progress immediately to
My first suggestion: about the music
Jazz is good. Jazz is cool. I gather that many at the university call on whichever brass band was playing on that auspicious October afternoon to play at their little events — little occasions, dos, shindigs. And they played well, almost too well, in that everybody turned and applauded every time they finished playing, and then they played again, and so on, which gave one the disagreeable feeling of attending a leavers’ day at a speakeasy. There was tension, is what I mean, and it only grew as Sir David cycled down Trinity Street on his Brompton bike. The handshake was a nice moment. What if it had been accompanied by the BBC Singers at fortissimo for the Alleluia Chorus? That is what I mean. We need to think big here at Trinity College, Cambridge. Maybe Sir Simon had a spare afternoon. What about all of the Kanneh-Masons going at some bizarre Czech thing set to whatever instruments it is they actually play? Surely we could afford that, if only by turning some poor Tesco into a wharf or an arena or an arms factory or whatever.
My second suggestion: about the drink
My first question upon arriving at the GGG drinks table: ‘Is there anything alcoholic?’ Fateful words, it would appear, because I was assured — not merely told but, it felt, assured — that there was nothing whatsoever alcoholic, not even a smidgen of the Devil’s drop. Now, to say nothing of the college policy choices of recent years, what would William Lort Mansel, wit, writer of epigrams, and satirist of academic rivalries, as well as 25th Master, have said to that? ‘Woke’, I should think. Do you reckon they were drinking elderflower cordial when he was installed in 1798? I sincerely doubt it. (Incidentally, Mansel was Master for 22 years, till 1820. Richard Bentley was Master for 42 years. Long they did reign. The term limit is a bit silly. Masters get better as they go along, or at least fellows and students learn to like them better. One senses that there is more academic vanity than prudence at issue in the limit. For my part, anyway, I hope Sir David takes as long as he wants. I like the cut of his jib.) Why not crack the college champagne, or at least the English sparkling wine — really go wild? Dispense with the term limits (vide supra), and you have even more budget. Each of us could receive a Brompton bike, but only if we down a bottle of Coates and Seeley and then beat the Master-Elect in a race down Trinity Street. Think of the fun we’d have.
My third suggestion: about the phones
This is a simple one. Station the Great Court Sniper in the rooms off Whewell’s, where there was already a chap recording the proceedings. If anybody raises a hand with a phone to additionally and superfluously record something that is already being recorded, bang, no more phone. If anybody raises a hand but without a phone, well, also bang, no more hand, just to be safe — but you had been warned. There is little more dispiriting than the absurd spectacle of dozens of students at the finest institution of higher learning in the world bovinely tendering their phones before this great and traditional ceremony, the exceptions possibly including the still-more-absurd spectacle of publishing photographs of said students with their phones out. Does it not just feel bad to you?
My fourth suggestion: about the stanchions
The tone of these modest proposals might make it sound like I am simply taking out my bitterness at not speaking to Sir David on the work done by the great folks who organised the ceremony. I really do respect those people, and as far as I can tell I am not bitter. But I do think it would have been swell if we could have all rushed the Master-Elect, the Iroquois-against-St-Jean-de-Brébeuf style, or at least jumped up and down a bit with him, or thrown him up into the air and caught him while singing ‘For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow’ or something. The tourists had a better view, and I favour giving the tourists less than nothing; maybe we could have erected another one of those hoarding walls that got those campers out so quickly, possibly with the nice little plexiglass square. What if the first one through Great Gate becomes the Master, no matter who? Now that would have gotten the people going. It might even have made a pleasing short video. Shot by the professionals tasked with doing so.
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