The Chairman Will Take Wine

by Dominic Hilton
October 2023

Full transcript of four speeches made by the hastily-appointed Toastmaster at the Annual Oxford and Cambridge Universities Dinner at the Residence of the British Ambassador to Argentina, on Thursday October 5th 2023.

#1

Good evening, Ladies and Gentlemen, my name’s Dominic Hilton and I’m an alcoholi—no, sorry, wrong meeting.

That’s tomorrow.

I must beg your forgiveness tonight, as in my haste to get here, I appear to have picked up the wrong speech notes. These notes are for the speech I gave last Friday at the Buenos Aires Autosexual’s Liberation Dinner, so my apologies to our Chairman, Alan, who’s hearing this for the second time.

I was honoured to learn that I was top of the list to speak to you tonight. Even when I saw that the title of the list was ‘Last Resort’.

Alan said to me, “Listen, Dominic, all you’ve got to do is a few lines.” So I did a few earlier, and I’m happy to report I’m feeling great! I’m buzzing!

Of course, the Keepers of the Book inquired about my credentials for the role of Toastmaster. When I told them they had nothing to worry about, that I once studied for three long years at the world’s most expensive clown school, Alan said, “Ohhh, so you’re an Orx-ford man!”

Someone told me earlier that this is the 71st annual dinner. That’s terrific, really. I can see by looking around the room that the vast majority of you have attended all seventy-one. So it’s truly my pleasure to welcome all of you back here tonight. I’m sorry if I seem slightly below par, a little distracted, maybe, but the truth is I’m feeling rather miserable. What most of you don’t know is that my house was burgled last week. That’s right. Awful. The thieves got away with my entire home library. I’m of course deeply upset about this, because I really loved both of those books.

I hadn’t even finished colouring in one of them.

As Alan suggested in his generous introduction, I’m a writer myself. For those of you not familiar with my work, I’m the author of two children’s books. Just not intentionally.

So, for our first toast tonight, the Chairman will take wine with all those who matriculated at clown school—which, discounting a few of the plus ones, I believe should encompass the lotta ya.

**“My kneecaps have never been the same.”**

#2

“The two great turning-points in my life,” Oscar Wilde famously said, “were when my father sent me to Oxford, and when society sent me to prison.” Well, my father sent me to Oxford. And I guess we’ll see how the rest of tonight goes.

In truth, it was my dear mother who sent me up to Oxford. She lied to me, saying, “Get good grades, get a prestigious degree or two from an elite university, and the world will be your oyster, sonny!”

So, you know, I upheld my end of the bargain. Then, after studying for my Master’s of Philosophy, when I moved back home again to live with my mystified parents, I couldn’t help noticing that my childhood friends who’d failed their GCSEs were all multi-millionaires living in gaudy McMansions with armies of servants and fleets of Bentleys. Meanwhile, my superbrained university mates were all poverty-stricken hobos, living on the streets of Oxford with only their paperbacks and scholarly papers to keep them warm as they screamed at passers-by about Hegelian dialetics.

Now, as an Oxford man, it didn’t take me long to deduce that, contrary to the mantra I’d been militantly subjected to since birth, intellectual acumen did not beget financial success. Quite the contrary, in fact. The smartest people I’d ever known may have been rich with knowledge, but the dumbest people I’d ever known were rich with wonga. And I don’t know how many of you have ever tried paying your crystal meth dealer in knowledge, but take it from me: it doesn’t work.

My kneecaps have never been the same.

And so, for our second toast, the Chairman will take wine with all those who, on account of their vastly superior intellects, find themselves languishing in abject poverty.

**“There were some reports of clerics being scalped.”**

#3

One question I am often asked, especially at events like this, is why I chose Oxford over Cambridge.

Really, there are two reasons, the first being that I never applied to Cambridge.

And the reason I never applied to Cambridge is that I visited the university as a sixth former on a sort of recce, which was the kind of word I thought insufferable Cambridge people used. Luckily, I knew someone at Gonville and Caius, so I stayed in her bed… her room… her halls of residence.

Whatever, that night, I couldn’t sleep, because I was just too… bored. So I sat at her lattice bay window, gazing mindlessly out over the ancient rectangular court, when four naked blokes streaked across the immaculate lawn with enormous carrots protruding from their bottoms.

I never said anything to my friend, or to anyone else, about what I’d witnessed that night. But I do remember thinking, I need to go to Oxford.

The other reason for rejecting Cambridge was an event I learned about in my A-level history class at school. I am referring, of course, to the St Scholastica Day riot, which took place in Oxford on the 10th of February, 1355.

Now, I need my glasses for this, because for those of you who’ve never heard of the St Scholastica Day riot, it’s crucial that I get the details right.

“The disturbance began when two students from the University of Oxford, Walter de Spryngeheuse and Roger de Chesterfield, complained about the quality of wine served to them in the Swindlestock Tavern.”
“Insisting that the wine was “sub-standard”, the students quarrelled with the taverner, one John de Croydon; and their demands to be served a better drink quickly escalated to blows. The inn's customers joined in on both sides, and the resulting melee turned into a riot.”
“The violence started by the bar brawl continued over three days, with armed gangs coming in from the countryside to assist the townspeople. University halls and students' accommodation were raided and the inhabitants murdered; there were some reports of clerics being scalped.”
“Around 30 townsfolk were killed, as were up to 63 members of the university.”
“The town was made to pay the university a fine of one penny for each scholar killed [so, it’s good to know how much each of us is worth].”

FURTHER DETAILS:

“The riot began when De Croydon refused to listen to the students’ complaints and, "several snappish words passed" between the men before de Croydon gave them "stubborn and saucy language".”
“As a result of this stubborn and saucy language, de Chesterfield understandably threw his drink in de Croydon's face.”
“Sources differ on what happened next: according to those sympathetic to the university, de Chesterfield threw his wooden drinking vessel at de Croydon's head; those sympathetic to the townsfolk say the student beat him around the head with the pot.”
“Either way, within half an hour the brawl had developed into a riot; with men from both sides armed with cudgels, staves and bows and arrows.”
“Student corpses were buried in dunghills, left in the gutters, dumped into privies or cesspits or thrown into the River Thames.”

All of which is a long-winded way of saying that Oxford is my kinda town.

In the spirit of which, the Chairman will take wine with all those who’d be willing to riot, maybe even scalp some clerics, over the quality of wine served to them at events such as this one.

**“The world is clearly in good hands and undeniably on the right path.”**

#4

Ladies and gentlemen, I was just thinking about the first of these dinners I attended—four, maybe five years ago. Who cares? Some salmon-faced blighter chomping on a miniature scotch egg accosted me beneath the swagger portrait of Her Majesty the late Queen… or Her late Majesty the Queen… or the late Her Majesty the Queen… Whatever, the fish-faced fellow accosted me beneath the thing and asked, “Sooo, what brought you to Argentina?”

And I told him the truth. I told him that I came to this great, insane country to escape dinners like these at which I have to account for myself to chumps like him.

But enough about the past. Here at the Oxbridge Society of the River Plate, or whatever it’s called, we’re forever looking to the future. For example, I was informed only minutes ago that next year we’re planning to invite an AI robot to replace me as toastmaster.

Ah, the future. It’s something that we all need to be mindful of. No, wait, that’s wrong, isn’t it? We need to mindful of the present. So, forget about the future. Screw it.

I don’t know how many of you people follow the news—you know, current events and all that. Do you? Well, whatever. I don’t. But occasionally I overhear things in the city’s bars and boliches, and I merely wish to suggest that, thanks in great part to universities like Oxford and Cambridge, and thus to the kind of elite minds gathered here in this room tonight, I think we can all agree that the world is clearly in good hands and undeniably on the right path.

So, well done everybody. Great job. Let’s give ourselves a pat on the back.

But if you’ll permit me to be serious for just one second. Ladies and gentlemen, in the final analysis, this magnificent room is akin to everywhere else in our world right now, albeit with more beaded chandeliers and priceless tapestries. There’s so much focus on our differences, on our disagreements. So much rah-rah, yah-boo banter about whose tiny cox overcame choppy spume to snatch the most boat races, which future Prime Minister vommed over which future President in which JCR, whose college boasts the most phallic spire, which one of us here tonight mercilessly bullied the most Nobel laureates and violated the most pig’s heads, etcetera, etcetera.

But esteemed alumni, lest we forget the things that our two noble institutions have in common. I am talking, of course, about tossers. Both Oxford and Cambridge have an abundance of tossers—as I hope, in my own small way, I have helped prove tonight.

So for my final toast, the Chairman will gladly toss one back with all those who have contributed to the current state of the world.

Bottoms up, folks. Now bring in the carrots!