Oxford + 31 Years

I've mentioned in passing that I used to go to college in Oxford in this blog. I went to Oxford in September 1978 and left in March 1979 - at that point it was Oxford Polytechnic and today it is Oxford Brookes University. I went there to study English and History of Art and left because of the modular nature of the course, doing a bit of this and a bit of that was unsatisfactory, so I left to become a waiter in a little hotel north of Ambleside in The Lake District. My decision-making abilities haven't really improved over the years.

I went back to Oxford on Saturday for the first time in 31 years to see 'The Harder They Come' at the Oxford Playhouse and I'm so pleased I did. Not only was there the expected great performance but I got to see some of Oxford and relive some of my memories. I was only there for six months so it doesn't have the same nostalgia value at Cardiff where I eventually went to university and lived for three years, but it's still been this vision in the background of my memory.

After picking up tickets from the Playhouse we went to the Ashmolean Museum, almost opposite the theatre, to look at the art. Despite its history, it's not that different to most provincial museums, but it does have some nice paintings, including a few by Samuel Palmer, someone you don't find everywhere.

Then out into the streets of a madly full Oxford city centre on a Saturday afternoon. Hardly able to move, the streets were full of tourists - I hesitate to say 'and locals' - with a multitude of languages being spoken. The narrow streets were incredibly full and I ended up walking on the roads more often than not. Heading away from the city centre, past Magdalen College and bridge, turning left up St Clements and we found the Oranges & Lemons pub that I've mentioned in this blog before. In the olden days it was a punk pub. Today it's called the 'Half Moon', a more comfortable pub. I remember the mainly punk jukebox with disco tracks from Donna Summer and Rose Royce. I recall the small stage and regretting missing Patrik Fitzgerald. It's a bit plush now. We didn't have time for a drink of remembrance but maybe next time.

After the afternoon performance of the show we wandered past the Sheldonian Theatre and Radcliffe Camera and ended up on the High Street and popped into the Chequers pub for an early evening meal in the narrow courtyard. That was really nice and harked back 31 years ago when I was last in the pub. And then it was the train home, back to London.

I found the experience rather odd. As I've said, Oxford doesn't hold the same level of nostalgia as Cardiff, but it's still part of my past. I remember my first freedoms from my parents, living alone for the first time, the indirect class war between people at the Poly and those at the 'real' university, despite academic distinctions. It was all so odd, and I wasn't the most confident of people at the time. The visit reminded me of my history of art tutor who had the most amazing gray and nicotine stained hair it was possible to have but I can't remember her name...

The past is a strange land. Some things spring to life and others don't. But does it matter? I think it does. My memories came to life and I remembered walking the streets and visiting the colleges and then I saw a group of male students dressed as monks in brown robes and their girlfriends dressed as nuns in miniskirts - how original. I think the sight of those young people having fun reminded me that I didn't belong there and I don't want to be associated with that aspect of the town. Posh lads and lasses who have no real idea what life is like for the majority of the country and the world. It's not their fault I suppose.

I'd be a different person if I'd stayed in Oxford. I'm pleased I'm me.