‘Dundee’ compares and contrasts the first few days at the world’s two universities.
Oh, Michaelmas term, that magical time of year when fretting eighteen-year-olds arrive in these ancient courtyards, clutching trinkets of their soon-to-be- forgotten childhood and a vague belief that university is somehow going to make them interesting.
Having now seen Freshers’ Week from here and the other place, it’s time to compare and contrast the machinations and initiations of these two very similar, yet very different, institutions.
OXF*RD: Like Cambridge, but Different
Oxf*rd freshers are perennially easy to spot—they’re those sheepish souls with a shining morning face who’ve already joined thirteen different societies, half of which involve rowing and half of which involve being friends with people who row.
By the end of Week Zero, they’ve already vomited port all over their subfusc (and their bedel’s subfusc) and attended a deeply perplexing Latin matriculation ceremony in which Noel Edmonds asked them ‘pactum an nullum pactum?’
Their rooms smell faintly of fading ambition and their personalities read like a LinkedIn profile. By the end of Week Three, they will have forgotten what sunlight feels like upon their papery skin.
CAMBRIDGE: Like Oxf*rd, but We Don’t Talk about Oxf*rd
Cantabrigian freshers, on the other hand, are a totally different species. They are the sheepish souls with a shining morning face who’ve already joined fifteen different societies, several of which involve quoting poetry from memory and dribbling blue cheese down their black tie.
Within 24 hours, they’ve learnt to pretend they hate their college, whilst secretly thinking it’s superior to every other one (unless they are at a hill college, in which case they very earnestly hate their college).
CAMBRIDGE II: The Other Other Place
Of course, the true rivalry isn’t Oxf*rd vs Cambridge, but Cambridge vs itself.
Trinity and John’s hate each other, Magdalene still tries to look down on everyone, King’s is doing its own thing, and Girton may as well be commuting all the way from Oxf*rd.
In the dirtiest corners of the dirtiest bars, you may discover Cambridge’s dirtiest secret: there’s a second, better Cambridge. The Cambridge were there’s no 9 am lectures or last-minute supervisions, and the port flows like water and doesn’t give you traumatising hangovers, and no one compares A-level or—shock- horror—tripos results. So how does one find this wonderful institution of work-easy-play-hard? Many have tried to find it at the bottom of a pint glass. But we all know that really it’s just a short cycle away…
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