We went to Cambridge
last week-end, partly as a week-end break, but with a purpose: to vote in the
election for Chancellor.
My feelings about
Cambridge are very mixed. When I got involved with the Peterhouse society as a
committee member I reacted angrily against the young-fogyishness of it, the
innate sense of superiority which goes with the public school tradition.
Despite this there is still lots to love about the place and especially the odd
eccentric traditions which still have great power.
Nothing could be more
typical of Cambridge eccentricity than this election. It is over 100 years
since they last had an election for chancellor and when the relatively
uncontroversial choice of Lord Sainsbury was put forward as a replacement for Price
Philip nobody expected one this time. However, a local shopkeeper, Abdul Arain,
said “What has Lord Sainsbury ever done for Cambridge town?” and stood against
him. When the election was announced two more candidates were put forward… a
radical lawyer and the student’s choice, Brian Blessed.
A normal institution
would send out ballot papers to all who were eligible to vote, but not
Cambridge University. In this election you have to vote in person in the Senate
house. To be eligible you have to be a member of the Senate and only those with
masters degrees or higher are members. So those with first degrees are excluded
then? Oh no – you can buy a masters degree for £10 if you apply a couple of
weeks in advance. I had taken my masters degree years ago so I am eligible, but
another condition is you have to wear a gown, and if I ever possessed a
master’s gown I certainly don’t now. Problem? – “Oh no sir we can lend you
one.”
The idea of going to
vote became increasingly attractive. Thelma likes Cambridge anyway so she was
very happy to go, and booked a B&B. I got in touch with three of my old
friends from student days: Nick Stern was not going though his son was. Jim
Cuthbert, now resident in Devon, wasn’t either, and Vince Bodsworth couldn’t, but said to call in at Cricklade if we were driving. We stayed Thursday night
in Bristol and got to Cricklade (near Swindon) on Friday morning. It turned out
that Vinnie was in America but Chris was pleased to see us and we had a good
catch-up session before the long drive across country to Cambridge.
The B&B was out
of the centre so we took a bus in. It was surprisingly cold and I didn’t have a
coat so decided to go and vote there and then.
I stepped into a
different world – a world of privilege. I must admit I loved it. As you might expect
from what is at present rated the top university in the world, nothing is too
much trouble for us “alumni”. There are men and women in gowns everywhere being
as helpful as they could possibly be. One even sprinted across the Senate house
quadrangle to pass on a message from Thelma that she would meet me at the “Combination
Room” where they are serving refreshments. First I am lent an MA gown – longer and
more elegant than the “bum freezer” gown we used to have to wear as
undergraduates. Then I am asked my name and directed to the T registration
table. Two attractive young people efficiently and graciously find my details,
give me a little CU badge and direct me to the ballot box. There I put my first
choice as Brian Blessed and my second as Abdul Arain.
All this takes place
in the Senate house the elegant 18th century hall where we used to
sit our exams. The last time I was here was (according to the people with the
register) in 1971 when I was required to hold one of the “praelector’s” fingers
and was led into the hall with 4 others also holding a finger. (OK, seriously
weird, but this is Cambridge University don’t forget). Then I was with my
parents and some foreign girl asked to take my photograph. This time it was
Thelma taking pictures. I was glad to hand back my status symbol and then we
both went to enjoy our refreshments – seriously good coffee, tea and cakes in a
fabulous medieval building.
I got my place at
Cambridge by my own efforts from and ordinary grammar school in Swindon. It
felt as if we were the future of the ancient universities in the sixties. The
next lot of students were no longer required to wear gowns in the town, then
all the colleges went mixed sex – it seemed that this wonderful world of
academic excellence and ancient tradition was now part of the birthright of any
Briton who could pass the exams.
Alas it was not to
be. Cambridge is still a great place for free thinkers, it still welcomes
people of all faiths politics and race, but its radicalism has been smothered
in polite, friendly, liberal elitism. The public school boys have changed their
accents to sound like the rest of us. They are less arrogant, but they still
regard a Cambridge education as their right. They still give huge sums to their
old colleges to keep the system going. (Although the money often enables the underprivileged
to obtain scholarships - see what I mean
about niceness?)
How many of us lower
orders are seriously going to travel to Cambridge to vote for a ceremonial
office? How naïve of me to think that
anyone other than the establishment figure of Lord Sainsbury had a chance? A liberal
lady don writing in the Guardian didn’t even consider voting for the “foul
mouthed” Blessed. Sainsbury took over half the votes with Brian trailing well
behind and the other two nowhere in sight – although the totally unknown Mr
Arain did get over 300 votes.
Half of the next day
we spent in another fabulous Cambridge institution – The Fitzwilliam Museum.
They had an exhibition on called “Vermeer’s Women- Secrets and Silence”. Vermeer
is one of my favourite artists, and although most of the paintings were by his
contemporaries, the whole was a masterpiece of the curator’s art. All those
still domestic interiors, those pensive women going about their peaceful occupations,
turn out to have been charged with intense symbolism. They are full of mystery,
allegory and didactic moralism. They are also wonderfully beautiful.
A second exhibition
on the treasures of the Viennese court was even more surprising. The Hapsburg
princes were immensely wealthy and spent vast amounts of it commissioning the
most intricate craftsmanship imaginable. The skill employed in making some of
the small artefacts on display is so incredible it looks like magic.
Then there are the
permanent collections – it’s too much; our minds were so expanded we were
exhausted and stumbled off to the Anchor pub by the river for some lunch. The town was heaving - thousands of young people mostly non-european looking. What are they all doing here? I don't much like modern Cambridge - it's too big and rich. After
walking a few more miles round the town we got the bus back to the B&B for
a rest before heading out again in the evening.
Evenings when we are
away from home are a huge problem for me. I’m hungry before 7 but don’t want a
big, long drawn out meal. If I go to bed before 11 I’m awake at 5 and have to
face the prospect of 3 hours of tedium before I can hope for breakfast.
Live (amplified) music
is OK if it’s in the right environment and something I can feel an involvement
with. I used to be able to enjoy the theatre if it had a loop system, but that
doesn’t work for me any more. Meetings, lectures and conferences are pretty
hopeless. What’s left? Well cinema showings with subtitles are great but very scarce.
If I watch telly in the bedroom I fall asleep even if it does have subtitles,
and many hotel TVs do not.
Sometimes I can
manage to get a reasonable amount from films if there are lots of visual clues
to what is going on. I should have known however that “Tinker Tailor Soldier
Spy” would be almost the model of what not to watch if you are deaf. After an
hour I couldn’t bear it any longer and had to get out. I wandered around the
bit of Cambridge which contained the “Grafton Centre”. The shopping centre
itself is horrible, but the area around, despite some typical shopping centre
type shops, is one of restored old terrace streets with a few really
interesting looking pubs and restaurants. We could have had a decent meal in
good surroundings, but we had to eat quickly before the film, so went into the only
proper restaurant in the Grafton Centre – a very pseudo-Italian place which
served a horrible cardboard pizza.
It was a grim and
depressing evening which rather spoilt the wonder of the day.
No comments:
Post a Comment