Oxford

I was reliably informed that my column last week wasn’t funny (it wasn’t meant to be it was informative). So this week I’m not even going to try. If you want to read about the transformation of the Labour party in the 1980’s read on, if you don’t I’ll see you next week.

Sadly what I can tell you about the Labour party in the 80’s isn’t worth knowing as it was taught to me by a supply teacher who didn’t care and all I really learnt was that Michael Foot wasn’t elected as he wore a donkey jacket and glasses held together with sellotape. Amusing now, but you should have seen the look of panic on the permanent teachers face when 18 people write that in a mock A’ level. So my incisive and cutting comment on the leadership contest of the labour party is that Gordon Brown has very nice hair and so should win over those other two.

I went to one of the traditional breeding grounds of British politicians on Saturday. Yes Oxford, land of dreaming spires, amazing architecture and some of the best minds in the world. Sadly it was raining so I really only saw Starbucks and the inside of New Look. I did make an amazing discovery about myself. I am not a snob. For I don’t just hate chavs. I also dislike posh people. And Oxford was full of them. Loads of rahs with too many teeth riding bikes on the pavement and expecting pedestrians to get out the way. There was also some weirdo in full exercise gear doing lunges in the middle of the road whilst traffic hooted, it was obviously vital that he did his cool down that second rather than wait to get on the pavement. Or perhaps being able to read Sophocles in the original Greek makes you invisible (and let’s face it, damn handy). I think my main issue is that I dislike people with loud voices in public places. This particular bug bear has lead to many people thinking I am in a mood as I rarely speak to them in public. In Oxford there was a girl shrieking loudly about some issue or other, I think maybe her Papa wouldn’t give her the money for a new boat. Either way I was forced to stare at her and loudly tutt.

My brother is at Cambridge and I often become frustrated with his way of life. I tell him so, well at least I give messages to his butler to pass on. Although I appreciate it’s an amazing place to live and you’ve done very well to get there I don’t really feel it equips you for life. Dressing up in a cape and saying grace in Latin before having your dinner served to you is nice but having a part time job and paying your own gas bill is slightly more useful.

So anyway. My point is this. Whilst our politicians are handpicked from Oxbridge AND have to look good (my theory falls down when it comes to John Major) things aren’t going to improve. I don’t care which way Gordon Brown parts his hair, but I do care that people earning decent wages can’t afford to get on the property ladder, that you can get mugged in broad daylight and get done for assaulting a robber and worst of all there is VAT on tampax. So perhaps we need to give the man with the donkey jacket a chance. Or put the whole of Oxbridge down a mine for a couple of weeks. They might not learn anything but the rest of us will get a bit of peace in cafes and the coal dust may take the shine off their teeth.