Why I hate Hamish McHamish

In a matter of months Hamish McHamish, wise and venerable cat, first amongst gingers and darling of Queens Gardens will be bestowed an honour unparalleled in our historic town. In deference to his manifold achievements in fields ranging from the toleration of petting to being a cat, it has been deemed fitting to immortalise him in bronze. Immortalised in bronze even before his current mortal and furry incarnation has failed.

Despite the Belieber-esque adoration, which seems to surround our furry ginger friend, I am not ashamed to say that I hate Hamish McHamish.

In case you missed it, the Uni has been going for 600 years. During those 600 years, Scotland has produced citizens of such bronze-worthiness that their very flesh turns to bronze instead of putrefying in the earth. Edinburgh can boast David Hume and J.K. Rowling. Aberdeen’s got Leslie Bendies (creator of Grand Theft Auto). Kirkcaldy has Adam Smith. Glasgow produced James Watt and Billy Connelly. Even Dundee gave birth to Dennis the Menace. In 600 years, St Andrews has produced a Prince who has thus far failed to cock up and an inexplicably popular cat.

Oh, but he’s a harmless cat, I hear you say. The dubious honour the town bestows upon him only warrants hatred against the institution itself, which sowed the lies of majestic grandeur in your mind. Or it warrants self-hatred for failing to achieve validation independent of the frankly irrelevant accomplishments of St Andrews alumni. Shut up and listen, my dear interlocutor.

Hamish McHamish tried to kill my roommate! 
It was winter and it was cold. The year was 2010 and the residents of Regs shivered. 
Myself and my roommate were cuddled up in bed awaiting the bleak light of morning. But all was not well. The cat hatched a malicious and devious plan. Perhaps young Hamish was bored of his pampered lifestyle and fancied a little sport. Perhaps he was jealous of my roommate’s luscious red hair and feared losing the status of St Andrews premier ginger. Perhaps Hamish McHamish is just a bad cat. We will never know why that cat did what it did that night, all we know is that none of us are safe whilst he has free reign in this town. 
Like a fluffy ginger rat, Hamish snuck into our hall and, drunk with his own sense of self-importance, he nosed at the door of our room until he was let in by an accomplice/passer-by.  Sure in the knowledge of my dear roommate’s cat allergies (yes, he’s ginger of course he has allergies), Hamish shambled up and snuggled down for the night. As his fatal cat-stuff diffused up my dear roommate’s throat, Hamish chuckled.

Thank God, it turns out that cat allergies rarely prove fatal; my dear roommate recovered. 
But I will never forgive Hamish for what he attempted on that night. Nor should we forgive him for symbolising the witheringly disappointing underachievement of our apparently prestigious university. That is why I hate Hamish McHamish.

Image courtesy of http://scotland.stv.tv/