Porterhouse Blue

“If we are all agreed then,” he continued, ignoring the tittubation of the Dean who had been nerving himself to protest at the Master’s incivility and leave the meeting, “let me outline the changes I have in mind. In the first place, as you are all aware. Porterhouse’s reputation has declined sadly since… I believe the rot set in in 1933. I have been told there was a poor intake of Fellows in that year. Correct me if I’m wrong.”

It was the turn of the Senior Tutor to stiffen in his seat. 1933 had been the year of his election.

“Academically our decline seems to have set in then. The quality of our undergraduates has always seemed to me to be quite deplorable. I intend to change all that. From now on, from this year of Grace, we shall accept candidates who possess academic qualifications alone.” He paused to allow the information to sink in. When the Bursar ceased twitching in his chair, he continued. “That is my first point. The second is to a

“I heard that,” he bellowed, his face radiant as if with divine revelation, “I heard it. Splendid news. Not before time either.” He relapsed into silence. The Master beamed. “I accept your approval, Chaplain,” he said, “with thanks. It is good to know that I have support from such an unexpected quarter. Thirdly…”

“I protest,” shouted the Senior Tutor, half rising to his feet. Sir Godber cut him short.

“Later,” he snapped and the Senior Tutor dropped back into his seat. “Thirdly, the practice of dining in Hall will be abandoned. A self-service canteen run by an outside catering firm will be established in the Hall. There will be no High Table. All forms of academic segregation will disappear. Yes, Dean…?”

But the Dean was speechless. His face livid and congested he had started to protest only to slump in his chair. The Senior Tutor hurried to his side while the Chaplain, always alert to the possibilities provided by a stricken audience, bellowed words of comfort into the insensible Dean’s ear. Only the Master remained unmoved.

“Not, I trust, another Porterhouse Blue,” he said audibly to the Bursar, and looked at his watch, with calculated unconcern. To the Dean Sir Godber’s manifest lack of interest in his demise came as a stimulant. His face grew pale and his breathing less sibilant. He opened his eyes and stared with loathing down the table at the Master.

“As I was saying,” continued Sir Godber, picking up the threads of his speech, “the measures I have proposed will transform Porterhouse at a stroke.” He paused and smiled at the appositeness of the phrase. The Fellows stared at this fresh evidence of gaucherie. Even the Chaplain, imbued with the spirit of goodwill and deaf to the world’s wickedness, was appalled by the Master’s sang-froid.

“Porterhouse will regain its rightful place in the forefront of colleges,” the Master went on in a ma

“There do appear to be one or two problems involved in this… er… transformation,” he pointed out. “Not insuperable, I daresay, but nevertheless worth mentioning before we all become too enthusiastic”

The Master surfaced from his reverie. “Such as?” he said shortly.

The Bursar pursed his lips. “Quite apart from the foreseeable difficulties of getting this… er… legislation accepted by the Council, I use the term advisedly you understand, there is the question of finance to consider. We are not a rich college…” He hesitated. The Master had raised an eyebrow.

“I am not unused to the argument,” he said urbanely, “In a long career in government I have heard it put forward on too many occasions to be wholly convinced that the plea of poverty is as formidable as it sounds. It is precisely the rich who use it most frequently.”

The Bursar was driven to interrupt, “I can assure you…” he Degan but the Master overrode him.

“I can only invoke the psalmist and say Cast thy bread upon the waters.”

“Not to be taken literally,” snapped the Senior Tutor.

“To be taken how you wish,” Sir Godber snapped back. The members of the Council stared at him with open belligerence.

“It is precisely that we have no bread to throw,” said the Bursar, trying to pour oil on troubled waters.

The Senior Tutor ignored his efforts. “May I remind you,” he snarled at the Master, “that this Council is the governing body of the College and…”

“The Dean reminded me earlier in the meeting,” the Master interrupted.

“I was about to say that policy decisions affecting the ru

“Am I to understand that the Senior Tutor has expressed the general feelings of the meeting?” he asked. There was a nodding of heads round the table. The Master looked crestfallen.

“In that case, gentlemen, there is little I can say,” he said sadly. “In the face of your opposition to the changes in College policy that I have proposed, I have little choice but to resign the Mastership of Porterhouse.” A gasp came from the Fellows as the Master rose and gathered his notes. “I shall a