Clocking Off « Redbrick

Clocking Off

LAST weekend I visited a friend at one of those exclusive institutions Britain calls ‘Oxbridge.’ I have been before, and have many positive words for this place.

It is beautiful, certainly. Walking around centuries-old stone courtyards and passageways, the history of each college hangs almost visible in the atmosphere. Vast expanses of immaculate, dew-touched lawns and grand, imposing chapels are interwoven with cobbled streets and tiny houses with doors I barely fit through. Bicycles are everywhere; they are like a second species that has sprung out of the stone to live alongside the human race.

I travelled on Friday to attend ‘formal hall’, a special-occasion dinner at my friend’s college. Unfortunately, I arrived late. Luckily, however, my friend had managed to charm the porter into letting me in, but a more intimidating entrance would have been hard to provide. It was like walking into the Great Hall in Harry Potter – but late. Three long tables and one high table stretched the length of a grand, cavernous hall, lit by candelabra from the decorative ceiling and melting candles on the table. Everyone was wearing black over-gowns (except me) and drinking good red wine.

The illusion was broken slightly as I sat down and a coin was chucked into my drink. As I was informed of the rules of ‘pennying,’ I felt strangely back on familiar ground. Drinking games I could relate to; I shrugged and downed the glass in one. At least it was better than Frosty Jacks.

The evening got better and better. The company was charming, the food delicious, and the whole custom of a formal dinner was, to my unashamedly romantic mind, delightful. When the High Table stood up to leave at the end of the meal, the rest of the hall stood too. ‘Watch the last guy to leave,’ someone whispered to me. All eyes towards them, the older dons filed through a door at the back of the room. When only one was left, he turned and gave the students a grandiose bow, and the whole room burst into raucous cheers and applause. ‘College tradition,’ I was told, as we sat down again. ‘If he didn’t do that he’d probably have plates chucked at him.’

Afterwards, we went on to another college bar, which was also a sort of underground club. A converted cellar with a low brick ceiling, it was a fantastic venue, if extremely hot. We had a fair few drinks, danced to some great music, and got very sweaty – just how I like my evenings.

Although it finished pretty early, at midnight, we went on merrily to another party. The banter continued in the taxi and we tumbled out noisily, and stood swaying and giggling waiting for the door to open, anticipating a great ad-hoc rave awaiting us inside.

What hit us instead was a room of grey fog and slumped bodies. Blank, washed-out faces passed round numerous spliffs with stupidly slow movements. Plastic bags of green stuff and white stuff were opened and put away with intricate, eerily loving care. Lines were being cut with expensive credit cards, by grubby hands attached to designer-clad bodies and blocks of makeup. It was like smashing into a brick wall at high speed.

We left after five minutes. Outside, I exploded to my friend, who felt the same way, about the waste that was occurring in that room. It was unjust, I said, that places at one of the world’s top educational establishments were given to students, who were taking for granted an opportunity that people across the world could only dream of. This situation applies, I know, to universities nationwide, but the tragedy of it all seemed heightened when found amongst supposedly the brightest and most talented young people in the country.

They are probably amongst the richest, too. Blackly funny, to me, was seeing the lines of coke being cut on brand new copies of Penguin Modern Classics. I order mine second-hand from Amazon, but I know which university I’d rather be at.