by AnonYMous
‘These wonderful life-enhancing ceremonies will be watched over, dare I say presided over, by this magnificent portrait of our patron saint which is soon to be unveiled. May I introduce to you all our honoured guests, the world-famous philanthropist Mr Thomas Jefferson Porpoise VI and his young protegé, the distinguished portrait-painter Mr Julian Bosey. Thomas Jefferson is a most generous patron of the arts, and it is his wish to donate this portrait to the university. This is an extraordinarily generous gift and each and every one of us who is part of St Sebastian’s is deeply in his debt. I have asked him if he might be willing to say a few words before we actually see the portrait.’
‘Oh God!’ said Magnus, ‘More oratory …’
Thomas Jefferson Porpoise was not backward in coming forward. In his soft Southern drawl he began, ‘Friends. It is a great pleasure for both of us to visit your august institution and Julian and I are surely honoured by the kind things your President has just said about us.’
Magnus closed his eyes. ‘I did not vote for Flanagan for President!’ he said.
‘To my mind,’ Thomas Jefferson continued, ‘this portrait is an inspired work by one of the most talented young artists of our generation. I know my young friend will not be embarrassed if I tell you that he is generally recognised as one of the greatest portrait painters working in America today. It is a particular privilege to be able to give something like this to one of the foremost educational institutions of Great Britain, a country to which we, as Americans, owe so much. I feel real joy to think that this painting will grace this beautiful hall for hundreds of years to come. May it be an inspiration to the young people who study here and, in its small way, contribute to the friendship, the very warm friendship which already exists between our two wonderful nations.’
Then he stepped forward and pulled a purple cord. To my great relief, the curtains covering the portrait parted. There was a hush as the assembled audience stared at the canvas.
The figure of St Sebastian stood in its full twelve feet of glory. It was obvious that Julian Bosie had used his own face for a model. It was a very competent likeness. The body, however, belonged to someone who took a daily dose of steroids and spent every waking hour lifting weights in a gym. Every vein and every muscle stood out in sharp relief from the bright pink flesh tones. At strategic intervals, arrows skewered bank notes to the body and streams of blood glistened redly from the wounds. Behind the head was a gold halo and the face, uplifted to Heaven, bore an expression of orgasmic torment.
‘Bugger me!’ said Magnus.
Patricia and Judith started giggling uncontrollably. I looked over to Pilkington to see his reaction. I was not disappointed. He went purple, spluttered to several theologians standing nearby, and stormed out of the room. Several members of the Theology department followed close behind. I realised something needed to be done fast. I caught Magnus’s eye and together we began to clap. Patricia and Judith followed our lead and soon the whole room was applauding wildly. Bosey swept off his beret and made a tremendous bow. Thomas Jefferson and Flanagan were thrilled by the audience reaction and smiled at each other. Then it was time for the wine and cake to be served.
Afterward, Magnus invited Patricia, Judith and me for a drink in his office. As usual there were books and papers scattered everywhere. I swept a pile of Hebrew grammars off the sofa and Patricia and Judith sat down. Magnus and I took the armchairs opposite. ‘So,’ he smiled as he poured out glasses of sherry, ‘what did you think?’
‘That is the most camp picture I have ever seen,’ Judith pronounced.
‘Bloody marvelous’, enthused Patricia. ‘I’m going to send a photograph to Gay Post. It’ll be a sensation! The university will become a mecca for homosexual and lesbian commitment ceremonies. We’ll be famous everywhere.’
‘You think they’ll like it?’ I asked.
‘Like it? They’ll love it. A twelve foot muscular St Sebastian shot with arrows! It’s irresistable.’
‘I hope you’re right,’ I said doubtfully.
‘Take my word for it,’ Patricia was very positive, ‘there’ll be queues. Ceremonies, three or four of them, every weekend. People’ll come from abroad to be committed in front of that thing. Just think of the photographs! We’ll be world-famous, believe you me!’
‘Not quite the mission our founders had in mind,’ I said.
‘Perhaps not,’ grinned Magnus as he refilled our glasses, ‘but a toast to the future nonetheless: let St Sebastian’s bugger the world!’
‘I think it’s a case of the world being buggered at St Sebastian’s!’ corrected Patricia.
Patricia was as good as her word. On the cover of the next edition of Gay Post there was a photograph of the St Sebastian portrait. Inside there was an illustrated article about the beauties of the campus and the Vice-Chancellor’s new venture into commitment ceremonies. Immediately enquiries flooded in from gay couples throughout the country and even abroad. Within a fortnight, the Great Hall was solidly booked for every weekend until Christmas. There was also a sprinkling of week-day reservations.
I soon heard from Flanagan. He was intoxicated with the success of his project. Given the triumph of Mixed Blessings, he had decided to use the Great Hall exclusively for the ceremonies. There would be no room for the new casino even as a temporary measure. Therefore there was pressure to rush through the redevelopment of the old squash courts. He had given instructions to the university architect to complete the final details. Luigi Mancini and Sylvester would lay the foundation stone on their visit for the Founders’ Day Feast at the end of March. I was told to liaise with the Mancini organisation and go about purchasing roulette wheels, blackjack tables and slot machines. Inevitably the Mancinis had their own source and were anxious to facilitate a handsome discount for us.
In the meantime, I was setting up a programme of courses, making use of colleagues in the Economics, History, Statistics and Business Studies departments. It was hard to imagine Divine de la Rue and her fellow-students in their skimpy costumes applying their minds to such subjects as Management Accountancy, the History of Gambling and Classical Theories of Chance, but I persevered.
Amidst all this activity, Magnus arrived in my office one afternoon. He was clutching an email from Harry. The Bishop of Bosworth had sent further news of Brother Chantry-Pigg. Apparently the Friary had held an official ecclesiastical investigation in response to the Private Eye article. Chantry-Pigg had been cleared of all charges of sexual misconduct. It was said that Madame Bousset had been willing to swear under oath that they were not lovers. She insisted that she was trying to support the wonderful work of the chaplain within the university. She had merely wanted to make sure that the friar was properly looked after.
‘In a million pound house on a diet of smoked salmon and caviar!’ said Magnus. I had told him what I had observed in the town’s delicatessen.
‘Poor wretched woman,’ I said. ‘She was a slave to Jacques Bousset during their marriage and I suppose that’s the only relationship she can imagine with a man.’
‘Even if they weren’t sleeping together,’ commented Magnus, ‘it certainly looked as if they were. And the sheer hypocrisy of pretending to be a celibate priest when your living conditions are, at the very least, potentially scandalous, can’t do the Church of England any good.’
‘But did they let him off the hook?’ I asked.
‘No,’ said Magnus with relish. ‘They got him on financial grounds. Apparently the Friary had been paying Chantry-Pigg an allowance for board and lodging. They thought he was renting a simple bed-sit from a respectable local landlady. Instead, he was living on the fat of the land with Mrs Bousset and was pocketing the money. So they’re insisting that that money is to be paid in full to Danielle.’
‘To her that hath shall be given!’ said I.
‘And to avoid further gossip and fulfil the conditions of his stipend, Chantry-Pigg now has to move out and rent a room in a hall of residence. He also has to have his meals in th
e student refectory …’
I giggled. ‘That’ll be a change for him!’
‘Serve him right,’ Magnus declared. ‘Pompous shit!’
‘Well all those nice young men who follow him about will like having him around, but I shouldn’t think he’ll enjoy a student bedroom. It’ll be quite a change. Poor Danielle Bousset! She doesn’t have much fun in life.’
‘Anyway,’ said Magnus, ‘the story is he’s coming back on Monday …’
That Sunday Emma and I got up late. We were having our orange juice and croissants in the kitchen when there was a knock on the front door. It turned out to be Magnus. He was carrying three copies of the Sunday Inquirer. ‘You’ll be interested in this,’ he said, handing over the newspapers.
‘What on earth are you doing with that rag?’ asked Emma incredulously. ‘It’s the worst tabloid of the lot.’
‘Just look,’ Magnus grinned.
On the front page was a photograph of my students Mary and Rosalind in evening dresses. They were standing back-to-back under the banner headline: ‘Secret Life of College Chaplain’.
‘Holy shit!’ I said.
‘Read on.’ Magnus was highly delighted.
Brother Chantry-Pigg, an Anglican friar and chaplain of St Sebastian’s University has been harassing his young charges in no less a place than the college chapel vestry.
The Sunday Inquirer has been given a tape recording of his attempted seduction of one of the university’s undergraduates, the lovely Miss Mary Philpot. A second year student, she is as good as she is beautiful. She is an active member of the Chapel Society and the University Choir.
When she rejected the friar’s sexual advances, he can be heard shouting at her on the tape saying: ‘Don’t be a silly girl. You know you want it. You know you do. Stop wriggling. Do what you’re told … Come back you stupid little bitch!’
The luscious Rosalind Hotchkiss – also a second year student – told the Sunday Inquirer that this was not the first time that the randy Brother had attempted to seduce her friend:
‘He did it before. And we complained to the university authorities. Our tutor was very kind ….’
(‘That’s you,’ pointed out Magnus …)
‘But nothing could be done. He said that it was our word against Chantry-Pigg’s and there simply wasn’t enough evidence. But when we produced the tape-recording, in spite of the support of our teachers, the university authorities still refused to act.
‘We complained officially, and there was a hearing. It was presided over by the Visitor of the university, the Provost of St Sebastian’s Cathedral. He turned out to be a friend of the Chaplain and he insisted that tape recorded evidence was inadmissable.
‘He made sure that nothing happened. He even demanded that we handed over the tape and tried to get us expelled from the university.’
However the resourceful Miss Hotchkiss had made a secret copy and she handed it over to the Sunday Inquirer. To ensure its authenticity, your Sunday Inquirer has given it to one of the country’s leading sound laboratories. One of their voice recognition experts has compared the tape with a recording of one of Rev. Chantry-Pigg’s sermons (on the importance of virginity no less!) and has pronounced it a hundred per cent authentic.
‘It would be one chance in two hundred million that the two voices were not the same,’ he told us.
Chantry-Pigg is a member of an Anglican religious order and is the great-grandson of the Second Lord Blanding, a well-known philanthropist in the in the time of Queen Victoria. It is a pity that the friar cannot follow his noble ancestor’s example. There is also madness in the family. The present Lord Blanding is a cousin. He unfortunately is confined to a mental hospital. Two years ago he threatened his gamekeeper with a hatchet.
The Sunday Inquirer has attempted to contact both Brother Chantry-Pigg and the Provost of St Sebastian’s Cathedral. Both were unavailable for comment.
The whole episode raises serious questions about our universities. In good faith and at great expense, we send our sons and daughters to receive the best possible education. We have a right to be sure that they are not molested by lecherous teachers. The fact that Chantry-Pigg is a Reverend makes the situation even worse. It is a betrayal of trust and the Sunday Inquirer wants to know what our institutions of higher education are doing to make sure that this kind of thing never happens again.
As we were enjoying this effusion, the doorbell rang again. Mary and Rosalind were standing on the doorstep looking sheepish holding two more copies of the newspaper.
‘We’ve seen it,’ I said, leading the girls inside. ‘Dr Hamilton just brought us a copy.’
‘We thought you’d better know,’ Rosalind said.
Emma provided more orange juice and gave the girls croissants. Magnus looked quizzical. ‘What I want to know,’ he said, ‘is how the Sunday Inquirer got hold of this disgraceful story …’
Mary looked embarrassed, but Rosalind was quite untroubled. She started on the tale. ‘We saw the article about Father Chantry-Pigg in Private Eye, and I remembered what you said about going to Clifford Maxwell …’
‘You know I handed over the tape at the trial,’ Mary was hesitant, ‘well Rosalind had kept a copy …’
‘And I was jolly glad I did,’ said Rosalind stoutly. ‘So I looked up Mr Maxwell in the Yellow Pages and we made an appointment to see him. He had a really posh office in Mayfair. I got a bit nervous, but he was interested in our story. He thought he could do something with it. He took us to lunch in a fancy resturant nearby.’
‘Where?’ asked Emma.
‘It was called Maximilian’s. The food was lovely.’
‘He must have thought you were worthwhile,’ said my wife. ‘That’s one of the most expensive restaurants in London.’
‘I wondered,’ Mary was wide-eyed. ‘There weren’t any prices on the menu…’
‘Anyway,’ continued Rosalind, ‘he told us that it was a good story and he wanted to see if he could sell it to the Inquirer. He said he’d act as our agent, but that he would take forty per cent of whatever we were paid …’
‘Forty per cent!’ Magnus was astonished. ‘I’m in the wrong profession!’
‘He called us the same day to say that the newspaper wanted us to be photographed.’
‘And so you were,’ I said.
‘But it wasn’t what they really wanted. They tried to make us go topless, but we weren’t going to.’
‘I should think not.’ Emma was indignant.
‘Well Mary wouldn’t anyway.’ Rosalind was honest, ‘I wouldn’t have minded if the money was good enough, but I thought it would spoil the story. “Innocent young girls molested by a flirty friar …”’
‘Rosalind!’ Emma was prudish about that sort of thing.
‘Well they offered to pay us a lot more if we would.’
Magnus brightened. ‘How much more?’ he asked.
‘Forty thousand each …’
‘Bloody Hell! I’d do it for half.’ Magnus obviously envisaged a new career for himself.
‘I don’t think you quite have Mary and Rosalind’s assets,’ I pointed out.
‘Well, we didn’t want to. So we only got half. We have to give Mr Maxwell eight thousand pounds each …’
‘That’ll pay for your lunch,’ remarked Emma dryly,
‘But we still get twelve thousand each and that will clear our university debts.’
‘Great!’ I said.
‘I’d say it was! Jolly good article! Enjoyed every word!’ Magnus was eating his croissant and his sweater was decorated with crumbs. ‘Can’t see the friar reappearing after this. Scuppered by the press! Just what he deserves!’
‘The Provost is bound to be in trouble, too,’ I reflected.
‘Oh … he’ll get away with it. They’ll promote him again to keep him out of trouble.’ Magnus did not think much of the workings of the Established Church. ‘That type always slides through things. Friends in high places! He’ll be all right! … Ver
y delicious croissants,’ he remarked, reaching for the last one. ‘Does anybody want this?’
The next morning I made an appointment to see Flanagan to discuss plans for the Mancini visit and the new Golden Arrow Casino. The estate manager was anxious to know how the building site should be set out for the foundation stone ceremony.
When I arrived in his office later in the day the Vice-Chancellor was holding a golf club and was trying to putt a golf ball into a glass next to his wastebasket. ‘Want a go, mate?’ he asked. He was wearing a golf hat with the insignia of the St Sebastian Golf Club.
I declined, but was curious about this sudden interest. ‘Had a brain wave,’ he announced as the golf ball missed the glass and banged into the wastebasket. ‘What we need is to expand into Recreation Management. We have all these playing fields which are underused. I thought we could hire them out to various local organisations.’
I resisted the urge to point out that the playing fields were there to encourage our students to play games. We were meant to believe in a healthy mind in a healthy body. But Flanagan was in full flow.
‘I called the Secretary of the Golf Club last Friday and he gave me lunch at the club on Sunday. He was very keen. They could do with more space. I suggested we went into partnership. The university could offer a diploma in Professional Golf. He loved the idea!’
Was there no limit to the Vice-Chancellor’s schemes? The university was no longer offering degrees in Chemistry or Philosophy. Instead we were peddling Casino Management, Celebrity Studies, Professional Golf and Commitment Ceremonies. I wondered where it would end.
‘Anyway,’ Flanagan continued, ‘He gave me the hat and a golf club plus a ball. Can’t seem to get the hang of it though!’
‘But we’ve never done Sports Studies. I shouldn’t think anyone knows anything about Professional Golf.’ I said.