THE FESTIVITIES

On the last day of the year it is very good to remember the imaginary past, when one was a brother in a modest fraternity at an old university where every student wore scholar's gowns and spoke Latin. While embracing the modern age's pizza, alcohol technology, and clocks. They never got arrested for public drunkenness, indecency, or vandalism.
Because they were well-behaved studious fellows.

The ancient town of Ferusgruniens. The university was founded after the savage slaughter of missionaries in the sixth century as an act of penance. Forgive them, father, because they know damned well what they did, and they actually kind of regret it now. Sort of.

[Well, not really, but, you know. Act like it.]

That same embarassed and self aware regretfulness informs student behaviour to this day. They are polite, quiet, and sometimes pig-out on greasy pizza while drunk, out of sight of the townspeople and churchmen. The campus police are well-practised in saying "tssk, tssk", and "perhaps you should call an Uber".

A famous local specialty is small loaves of sweet lard bread with cherry filing. There are two types; the Honoriuspan, because the cherries look like little flecks of holy blood, and the Albertusbol, because Saint Albertus commented extensively on Aristotle, making that philosopher's thoughts available to all and sundry. They are virtually identical.

It is eaten accompanied by hot chocolate. Never coffee or tea. You heathen.

After which students head to the Quad for the first smoke of the New Year.

A venerable tradition! Even clergymen join in. It is claimed that the favoured brand of fags' name actually refers to the Holy Trinity, though the philosophy faculty claim it actually harkens back to The Elders, The Prophets, and The Men Of The Great Assembly.
Naturally the philosopy students only eat the Albertusbol.
That other one is unthinkable.



SAN FRANCISCO, DECEMBER 31, 2025

Anyway, I shall not be out there celebrating tonight. The last time I did so, I left the bar early enough to catch a bus back over the hill, after only one Scotch (because I am not partial to champagne). Three buses went by and did not stop because they were packed, and there was no fourth one. The Sacramento Street incline is a mighty hard slog at after two in the morning, in frightful cold and rain. Also, I am not fond of inebriated company.
Especially vast rowdy herds of them.


Good luck, all of you.
Have a good year.



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