An Imperial Past
Alistair Swinnerton's excellent blog post about Oxford brought back a flood of memories, but really this piece of mine is 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.
I met many rather colourful and / or eccentric characters while at Oxford and one that will always remain in my memory is Gerry McHugh. My recollections of Gerry are intertwined with those of a certain place of refreshment.
Here in Oxford, exposed eternally and inexorably to wind and frost, to the four winds that lash them and the rains that wear them away, they are expiating, in effigy, the abominations of their pride and cruelty and lust. Who were lechers, they are without bodies; who were tyrants, they are crowned never but with crowns of snow; who made themselves even with the gods, they are by American visitors frequently mistaken for the Twelve Apostles.
We can find this description of the stone heads outside the Sheldonian Theatre in Max Beerbohm's Zuleika Dobson. I am sure that it was this novel that prompted the name for a certain Oxford hostlery.
The Emperors’ Wine Bar was on The Broad, opposite the gates of Trinity College (sadly, 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. The tiny gents' loo was called Nigel, the kitchen's two microwave ovens were named Latimer and Ridley, unwanted food was "ullage" and of course the vacuum cleaner was Henry. About ten feet wide, if that, the walls of The Emperors' were 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. "Fatso" was Gerry's affectionate re-christening for the emaciated Nick Thomas, surely the thinnest person I have ever met. Another McHugh peculiarity was "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 The 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’. (Alistair Swinnerton and his pretty girlfriend Mel were also working there and I am indebted to Alistair for his colourful description of that little place on The Broad.)
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 delicious smells were emanating from a large copper pot, in which The Bishop was bubbling. In case you have never come across this spicy, 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 chatting with me. She might have been at the Oxford and County Secretarial College, more commonly known as the Ox & Cow, or maybe she was learning her shorthand (and other things) at Mrs Thomsett's similar establishment. She certainly added a new meaning to the expression "touch typist". Well, 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.
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