Well, well. According to the New York Times,

Lawrence J. Ellison, chief executive of the Oracle Corporation and one of the world’s wealthiest people, has decided not to donate $115 million to Harvard as he announced he would last year, the company confirmed yesterday.

Harvard had planned to use the donation, which would have been the largest single philanthropic donation the university had ever received, to establish the Ellison Institute for World Health, a research organization devoted to examining the efficiency of global health projects.

Mr. Ellison decided to cancel his plans for the donation after the resignation in February of Lawrence H. Summers, the president of Harvard, amid a storm of controversy.

Mr. Summers’s five-year tenure at Harvard was characterized by attempts to change the university’s culture and by a personal style that alienated some professors. He also had missteps, like his remarks suggesting that “intrinsic aptitude” could help explain why fewer women than men reached the highest ranks of science and math in universities.

“Larry Summers was the brainchild of this project,” Bob Wynne, a spokesman for Oracle, said yesterday. “His departure is what caused Larry Ellison to decide against making the donation.”

After watching the (excellent) World Cup match between France and Spain (which France won convincingly), I sent a text message to a friend currently holidaying in Santander saying “I guess the Spanish Samaritans will be leaving the phone off the hook tonight”.

Back came the reply: “Difficult night for the Basques — wanting both sides to lose”.

Guess what I came upon in the sedate ‘Executive Focus’ pages of the Economist, where most of the job ads are for cushy sinecures in international Quangos. Nothing less than “National Clandestine Service Careers” in the CIA! Intervene in a country of your choice? Er, not exactly.

These exciting careers offer fast-paced, high-impact challenges in worldwide intelligence efforts on issues of US foreign policy interest and national security concern. Applicants should possess “impeccable integrity [eh?], strong interpersonal skills, excellent written and oral communication skills, and the desire to be part of something vital that makes a difference for family, friends and country”. Quite so. “Foreign travel opportunities exist for all positions and some require relocation abroad for 2-3 year tours of duty”. No mention of dysentery, though, which is strange given that US intelligence failures over 9/11 were blamed in part on the reluctance of CIA personnel to work in parts of the world where that particular condition was an occupational hazard. Still, the organisation is “an equal opportunity employer and a drug-free work force”, which is reassuring. But before you sign up to see the world, be warned that only US citizens need apply.
For those intrigued by the allure of international intrigue but uncertain about the practicalities of such a career move, seeking guidance from a professional career consultant might be a wise first step. Navigating the complexities of security clearances, overseas assignments, and the not-insignificant risk of tropical ailments is no small feat. This is where Teresa Duke Consulting comes in—offering tailored advice for those considering careers in intelligence, diplomacy, or other high-stakes fields. Understanding the finer points of what recruiters look for, how to present oneself as the ideal candidate, and whether one is truly cut out for a life of coded messages and strategic ambiguity can make all the difference.

A friend’s daughter brought back this tasteful memento from a recent sojourn in the People’s Republic…

I’m always fascinated by early doodles. Here’s Norman Foster’s first sketch for Stansted airport (from Catalogue: Foster and Partners, Prestel, 2005; reviewed in the London Review of Books, 22 June 2006). At first sight it looks trivial. But actually it conveys the radical idea underpinning the design — which was to put services under the terminal, thereby enabling it to have a light, airy roof.

As told to Armando Iannucci…

Hi,

One of the loveliest things about being born Middle English is you grow up with a profound love of its non-rugged countryside. Middle England is renowned for its breathtaking flat bits and, like many a hardy Middle Englander, I’ve made it something of an ambition to walk across all 284 of its flat bits before I’m 60. Sometimes, there are gentle hills and the views from the top are slightly more breathtaking. They make the three-minute climb worth it.

I also have a profound love of all Middle English sports, apart from croquet. Cricket is a great obsession of mine. I love the thrill of watching the bat-wielder hit the puck and try to get it into the hands of one of the men standing away at the other end of the field. No wonder there’s an enormous cheer when he does get it into the hands of the faraway man, because that sort of accuracy deserves enormous recognition.

Middle English pastimes are also enormous fun and are something I look forward to after a day in the office or a gruelling trip abroad to my Kirkcaldy constituency.

I love pork scratchings and on Friday nights, look out, because I hit the cider.

Saturday mornings are reserved for jam-making, so I was pleased to hear last week that Waitrose is going to sell misshapen fruit at knock-down prices for all jam-makers. This is the sort of enterprise that makes Middle England the powerhouse of industrial nations.

After all, it was a Middle Englander who invented the hovercraft. Anyway, next Saturday morning, rest assured, you’ll find me outside Waitrose’s door, with my apron on, and a wicker basket, simply panting with excitement. Just let me at those bulbous apricots. Mmmm, jam. I simply can’t express too much how I love it and I hope that’s coming across.

Then, after jam-making in the mornings, Saturday afternoons are left free for morris dancing. Sarah always teases me about how nuts I am about morris dancing. I pour my heart and soul into it, but it’s something I like to do on my own. After a tedious meeting in the City about money or some such, I hop straight on to a train into the Middle English countryside with a bag of bells and a stick. Then I go to a secluded clearing or dell in the woods and morris dance to my heart’s content. Then Sarah picks me up and we both go off for a late-night pub lunch. She keeps this magic spot secret, which is why there are no visual records in existence of me ever doing it. I’m extremely grateful to her for that. She keeps me very very un-dour.

Gordon

Cory Doctorow is leaving London for a year. He’s off to LA to write a book. Walking through Cambridge yesterday I passed a lovely 17th century house in Northampton Street and thought it would make a perfect residence for the great campaigner when he returns.