The Telegraph, 1st March 2017
There’s something quite odd about coming down to breakfast on a Sunday morning, often with a thick head, and glancing at the paper to see that someone else is having a go at the place where you live.
I imagine it’s what it might have felt like to be a spy behind the lines during the war, when newspapers were full of news of your country’s terrible crimes, interspersed with op-eds about how we ought to fight them with all our strength.
I’m not fighting a war, of course, and I might not do any more than have a little chuckle before going back to my fry-up. But there is something oddly obsessive and single-minded about the way news of Oxford, and our fenland counterparts, reaches the press.
From consulting the papers, you might be forgiven for thinking that we spend most of our time celebrating the empire, campaigning against people who celebrate the empire, getting drunk in eighteenth-century period dress and burning money in front of homeless people.