An Imperial Past

This post is really just an excuse for having lots of nice photos of Oxford. Whatever Veliko Tarnovo's architectural charms, Oxford has them in spades. It really was (and no doubt still is) an amazingly beautiful city, with oodles of gorgeous old buildings. No doubt there are more than enough modern monstrosities on Oxford’s outskirts, but fortunately I hardly ever saw them during my four years.

When I first found out that I had a place at Oxford University (the real deal, not the Poly down the road), I would invariably mention it to anyone and everyone, on all possible occasions. Now I try to keep quiet about my Oxford days. Well, they were rather a long time ago and they are more than a bit disconnected with my life in Bulgaria.

I met many rather colourful and / or eccentric characters at Oxford and one that will always remain in my memory is Gerry McHugh. My recollections of Gerry are intertwined with my memories of a certain place of refreshment.

The Emperors’ Wine Bar was on The Broad, opposite the gates of Trinity College (it’s now a sandwich bar), and which was then the coolest bar in Oxford, where all the Bright Young Things used to hang out. It was also almost certainly the smallest bar in Oxford, way too small ever to make any money for its succession of owners. About ten feet wide, if that, walls lined with Osbert Lancasters, with two tiny bars on the ground and first floor and just seating on the top one, although only visiting parents and crowds of more than four went to the top floor, as Everyone Who Knew wanted to be in the middle bar. The middle bar was where Gerry held court, a Mr. Toad-like character who talked and dressed like one of Bertie Wooster’s less reputable friends, and with similarly wonderfully period opinions on pretty much everything, although I later came to realise that this was mostly put on for the tourists and the oiks. Mostly. It also almost concealed his stammer. Gerry often talked in what became known as ‘chapspeak’, which essentially means talking with the minimum of words in a faux Wooster voice. “Chaps go to pub, drink beer, fall over. Hurrah!” That kind of thing. 

The apostrophe in Emperors’ is important, as Gerry would insist on telling impressionable newbugs. It was important because it wasn’t the wine bar of just one Emperor, but several (in fact those that stared down from the railings surrounding the nearby Sheldonian Theatre). But it was more important because Gerry, his fellow staff and the hardcore regulars would generally only tolerate customers who knew the proper placing of the apostrophe. As well as wearing wing collars and bowties (the proper ones you tie yourself, not those elasticated obscenities), Gerry has another claim to fame: he gave me a part-time bar job at The Emperors’.

I have always been fascinated by wine and no doubt this has a lot to do with RTD’s influence on my life. (You may perhaps have read my eulogy of RTD, my old Latin teacher.) In The Emperors’ Wine Bar, matters oenological were discussed, joked about and described in lively detail. In cold weather, alcoholic fumes would waft around the lower bar and drift along The Broad. These fumes were emanating from a large copper pot, in which The Bishop was bubbling. In case you have never come across this sugary and warming drink, I should describe it as a sort of mulled wine, although Gerry would randomly add Cointreau or brandy to liven up the brew. Like little porcupines, oranges with cloves stuck in them bobbed about in the dark red concoction.

Three glasses of The Bishop a prudent man may take:

The first, for constitution’s sake,

The second, to the girl he loves the best,

The third and last, to lull him to his rest.

Yes, I can still recall The Bishop’s advertising blurbs after forty years and occasionally I would spout these verses to unsuspecting American tourists.

 

Bottoms up, for prudence is a bore!

Pursue contentment by imbibing more

And toast The Bishop warmly ’til you’re able

To sleep with him beneath the table.

 

While we are on the subject of sleeping around, I was working one evening, serving in the middle bar. A young lady whose name I cannot remember had a drink (or two) and she started talking to me. To use that well-worn phrase, one thing led to another and, at the end of my shift, she came back with me, to my room at the House of Saint Sergius and Saint Macrina. Yes, it was quite religious setting and it certainly was a revelation.