Oxford

Journalists refer to Oxford and Cambridge as if those two towns and their universities were solely devoted to grooming our future rulers, as politicians, bankers or executives of the global corporations which control our lives. I don't know Cambridge very well, but I often visit Oxford. Of course it has the dreaming spires and the amazing mediaeval buildings I love to wander through. But it is also a productive centre of the British motor industry, or should I say used to be. The old Morris works at Cowley, later Austin Morris then British Leyland, BMC etc etc and on it went into decline like the rest of British manufacturing industry. But now BMW (oh dear, BMW, bombed by members of my family turning in their graves), BMW are expanding production of the Mini in Oxford. Danke BMW!

On a recent visit I saw a notice saying, "Domino's delivers pizzas anywhere in Oxford until 5 am seven days a week." Well that should get those £9000 a year students' brains stimulated. Do they do that anywhere else - London? I don't know, don't eat pizzas at any time, certainly not at five am.

Confusing place, Oxford. I was in the White Horse in Broad Street, having a small libation after a lecture at the Bodleian Library. I escape to the Bodleian from time to time, the oldest and most venerable library in Britain (tell you about it in a later blog). The White Horse makes a change from the Warrant Officer in Higham Hill Walthamstow where I usually drink. But of course I don't know anybody in the White Horse Oxford. It's a bit crowded and I'm conscious that I'm occupying a corner of a table for six. So when a man asks me may he sit at my table I say yes. He's big, menacing. I say yes, please, welcome.

He's overweight, or as the current fashion prefers, he's obese, seriously. He is fat faced and sweating, wearing a well creased and very worn shirt, obviously unwashed, open to the waist, diplaying his fat hairy belly. He also wears pseudo camouflaged trousers and large tarnished brass rings in his earlobes. You might generously describe him as a slob. He sits down with two pints of Guinness. Of course I wish I had said no to him sitting at my table, but I would not dare. He is built like Giant Haystacks - remember Haystacks on Saturday afternoon TV wrestling? Then a small, dapper, immaculately dressed gent, spectacles, suit, stiff collar, college tie, gery hair, distinguished looking, joins him. Smart dapper gent raises second pint of Guinness and says, "Thank you Sir, cheers!" Toff calls slob Sir, so who is this guy at my table?

They proceed to discuss in loud upper class accents the criteria for University entrance in such a way that I realise the posh man in the suit is going to make some important decisions for the youth of our country, only if they meet with the approval of this open shirted sweaty slob with Guinness foam all over his top lip. But that's Oxford for you. And the slob does speak with a beautiful accent, and I bet he has a suit when needed. Our elected leaders are inclined to say you should not despise a regional accent, when what they really mean is a working class accent. I agree. So I suppose it is just as reprehensible for me to be put out by a man dressed as a working class slob speaking in a cut glass public school Her Majesty (Princess Elizabeth) in 1947 accent, especially when it is clear he is making important decisions about our vulnerable young people. Rubbish of course. Who cares in what accent he makes the decisions as long as they are the right ones. In fact I had a similar experience in The Village Inn in Walthamstow. You really must not judge people by their looks or clothing. This man wore muddy boots, looked like a builder's labourer. I walked past him as I went to the bar to get a drink. He was reading Euripedes in the original Greek. I thought he must be Greek, but Euripedes was ancient greek. He wasn't Greek. He spoke to his companion, sounding like a person born and bred in Walthamstow. Later I discovered that the Village Inn at 4 pm is a favourite haunt of teachers. I shouldn't have been surprised. Passing the school nearest to where I live I noticed all the children were in smart uniforms, but the teachers were dressed like scruffy louts.

The next table became vacant. Three Japanese pounced on it appearing from nowhere. Oxford is overflowing with Japanese tourists all pointing enormous complicated cameras at everything in sight. These were Mum and Dad and daughter. Daughter spoke perfect English. She read out loudly from the menu, "Beef and Ale Pie," then translated it into Japanese. Mum and Dad nodded OK. Fat slob at my table was saying, "Sorry professor but I cannot possibly sanction that."

Then Japanese Mum at the next table but facing me, put her enormous handbag on the chair opposite me. She pulled the chair away from my table towards herself. Daughter said to me, "I'm so sorry." I said, "That's quite OK, I don't need that chair." Daughter jabbered away in accusatory Japanese to her mother, then she turned to me and said, "Thank you Sir, but I have explained to my mother that someone else might require that chair."

Japanese Mum took her bag off the chair, rummaged in it, and brought out a beautiful gold and jewel encrusted gadget, which she clipped on to the edge of their table, then hung her very large bag upon it. It swung there securely. She looked at me and beamed and said, "My daughter is not aware of technology." I smiled and thought what a splendid old lady.

Left the pub to walk to the station and back to Walthamstow. Long blond haired girls on bicycles swing by along Broad Street, unattainable when I was a student decades ago, certainly unattainable now. Not that I want to attain them. What a relief to be free of all that effort to impress, the need to cajole, to conquer. Lovely to go home to my lifelong wife, my reclining chair and my garden in dear old Walthamstow. Good night.