News from Oxford...
Hello,
All is going well in Oxford. There are a number of times when things happen that remind me of quite what a strange place this is. One of those stories, from several weeks back, is below.
I'm finally getting busier with my PhD and working on my own with it a bit more. Outside of that I'm rowing this term, going to a salsa class, and finally managed to get a place on the beginners Spanish course run by the university. Plus doing the usual social stuff.
I'm sorry if this doesn't flow terribly well, it's about 2AM and I'm suffering from insomnia! :)
Cheers,
Ali
Last night was one of those strangely defining evenings, that somehow reminds me of what a place is like. That isn't, you understand, necessarily a positive thing.
The first thing on my schedule last night was to go and investigate "the university club" a new development near college which serves as a centre for graduate students and employees of the university. It has a bar, restaurant, cafe, gym, and some guest rooms you could hire out. I was supposed to be taken on a tour, but so few people turned up, it turned into a quick drink at the bar.
At eight I made my excuses and went to the 'turf tavern' a very nice characterful Oxford pub, where incidentally Bill Clinton 'smoked but didn't inhale'. It's a fun place but quite expensive. I was meeting Rachel there and was delighted to discover that real ale was available for a pound a pint as they were clearing out the kegs that defined the tail end of a beer festival.
Rachel and I sat down on a table with space either side of it. Across to our left were to very serious stubbly-bearded music types who were complaining about all sorts of things musical.
Then a middle aged portly man in a tweed jacket sat down right next to Rachel. When I say right next to her I mean *right* next to her. He could have normally sat a couple of feet away but instead sat just inches from her. He was later joined by a staggeringly drunk middle aged peroxide blonde foreign lady, and a Spanish looking guy in his early thirties with shoulder length black hair.
[geez, I think I'm going to have to go into less details]
Well the conversation they were having was extraordinary and frequently hindered me and Rach from remembering what on earth we were talking about. I went to the lavatory and returned to find Rach frantically pretending to text due to the disturbing behaviour of the people next door. Including a loud declaration by the woman of "I love you. That's why I make the great sex with you." to the drunk man in tweed.
Whilst Rach went and got another round, we managed to slide across a table to get away from the people. However after only five minutes some people joined the stubbly music groupies and we had to move across again. Notably the guy in tweed disappeared and was never seen again. Whilst Rachel was at the bar apparently the blonde lady had been randomly kissing petrified fresher guys. We were probably there another half hour before she just bawled something at me in German. I, perhaps stupidly replied, and she started having a very drunk conversation about the beer I was drinking. After a while the young guy pointed out the reason I was saying pardon a lot was that she was talking to me in the wrong language.
She then gave me the web address of her company of musicians - apparently she and her friend are anarchist musicians from Berlin who are staying in New College as guests of a Professor (the aforementioned man in tweed, now absent). The then tried to engage in conversation with myself and Rachel in English and on hearing we had been undergrads asked whether we were "rich or very smart" as for her those were the only routes into Oxford, despite our attempts to explain the application procedures independence from wealth. A multitude of other wisdoms emerged from her, like the fact she liked Rachel's voice "because it's not like those women on the BBC. They are so up tight, they get no sex". To which I politely muttered something about how repressed they must be.
The lady returned to the bar and asked us to watch her stuff, which was Rachel's and my cue to leave imminently. So we put on our coats and got ready to leave. On her return she was somewhat angry so we decided to make an even sharper exit, and met some poor guy worked there whose biceps she'd just decided to start squeezing.
All in all, extraordinary. What I want to know is who the drunk guy in tweed was: Is he genuinely a New College professor who spends his time bonking drunk German anarchist musicians? Or was he some fraud preying on some fairly insane and drunk people? I must investigate!
The evening reassured me with a jolt of how incredibly bizarre Oxford is. Just a casual drink in the pub brings one in contact with such a weird world.
All is going well in Oxford. There are a number of times when things happen that remind me of quite what a strange place this is. One of those stories, from several weeks back, is below.
I'm finally getting busier with my PhD and working on my own with it a bit more. Outside of that I'm rowing this term, going to a salsa class, and finally managed to get a place on the beginners Spanish course run by the university. Plus doing the usual social stuff.
I'm sorry if this doesn't flow terribly well, it's about 2AM and I'm suffering from insomnia! :)
Cheers,
Ali
Last night was one of those strangely defining evenings, that somehow reminds me of what a place is like. That isn't, you understand, necessarily a positive thing.
The first thing on my schedule last night was to go and investigate "the university club" a new development near college which serves as a centre for graduate students and employees of the university. It has a bar, restaurant, cafe, gym, and some guest rooms you could hire out. I was supposed to be taken on a tour, but so few people turned up, it turned into a quick drink at the bar.
At eight I made my excuses and went to the 'turf tavern' a very nice characterful Oxford pub, where incidentally Bill Clinton 'smoked but didn't inhale'. It's a fun place but quite expensive. I was meeting Rachel there and was delighted to discover that real ale was available for a pound a pint as they were clearing out the kegs that defined the tail end of a beer festival.
Rachel and I sat down on a table with space either side of it. Across to our left were to very serious stubbly-bearded music types who were complaining about all sorts of things musical.
Then a middle aged portly man in a tweed jacket sat down right next to Rachel. When I say right next to her I mean *right* next to her. He could have normally sat a couple of feet away but instead sat just inches from her. He was later joined by a staggeringly drunk middle aged peroxide blonde foreign lady, and a Spanish looking guy in his early thirties with shoulder length black hair.
[geez, I think I'm going to have to go into less details]
Well the conversation they were having was extraordinary and frequently hindered me and Rach from remembering what on earth we were talking about. I went to the lavatory and returned to find Rach frantically pretending to text due to the disturbing behaviour of the people next door. Including a loud declaration by the woman of "I love you. That's why I make the great sex with you." to the drunk man in tweed.
Whilst Rach went and got another round, we managed to slide across a table to get away from the people. However after only five minutes some people joined the stubbly music groupies and we had to move across again. Notably the guy in tweed disappeared and was never seen again. Whilst Rachel was at the bar apparently the blonde lady had been randomly kissing petrified fresher guys. We were probably there another half hour before she just bawled something at me in German. I, perhaps stupidly replied, and she started having a very drunk conversation about the beer I was drinking. After a while the young guy pointed out the reason I was saying pardon a lot was that she was talking to me in the wrong language.
She then gave me the web address of her company of musicians - apparently she and her friend are anarchist musicians from Berlin who are staying in New College as guests of a Professor (the aforementioned man in tweed, now absent). The then tried to engage in conversation with myself and Rachel in English and on hearing we had been undergrads asked whether we were "rich or very smart" as for her those were the only routes into Oxford, despite our attempts to explain the application procedures independence from wealth. A multitude of other wisdoms emerged from her, like the fact she liked Rachel's voice "because it's not like those women on the BBC. They are so up tight, they get no sex". To which I politely muttered something about how repressed they must be.
The lady returned to the bar and asked us to watch her stuff, which was Rachel's and my cue to leave imminently. So we put on our coats and got ready to leave. On her return she was somewhat angry so we decided to make an even sharper exit, and met some poor guy worked there whose biceps she'd just decided to start squeezing.
All in all, extraordinary. What I want to know is who the drunk guy in tweed was: Is he genuinely a New College professor who spends his time bonking drunk German anarchist musicians? Or was he some fraud preying on some fairly insane and drunk people? I must investigate!
The evening reassured me with a jolt of how incredibly bizarre Oxford is. Just a casual drink in the pub brings one in contact with such a weird world.
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