I FARTED SO I'LL FINISH

Oxford is a city that has to worm its way around a collected mass of some 39 colleges, like polyfilla working its way between the cracks. In a recent article, The Econonomist said: "The university is essentially a collection of medieval monasteries run like a workers' co-operative." I don't really associate grandiose end-of-ear party mayhem with monkish behaviour. There was no dark age solemnity here, just first and second years wandering around ridiculously dressed up to the nines for their end of year exams, followed by some beer-soaked after-party revelry. From this vantage point, you could see people who a few hours before looked like thay were classically trained to reingest potential farts, degenerate into a gaseous escape of chaos.

I stood on the sidelines and observed the local customs, as part of the tweedy conference entourage. Oxford city is actually a giant campus, with highly condensed landmarks within a small radius. It was a tourist dream, and I had to do something a bit touristy within the small window I had available. So I went on the Oxford Story, a Dvblinia type of exhibition. There was no-one about so I felt a bit like Britney Spears, having to shop after hours to avoid mixing with the "normies" of society. The tour began by having to sit in this old fashioned student's pew, that turned out to be in fact a car on what was a fancified ghost train. Through my earpiece I could hear Mastermind's Magnus Magnusson explaining the sights around me. The "train" takes you up a type of winding staircase, and gave me the sheer willies as it creaked and cranked my 12 stone frame up its steep incline. I wasn't so self conscious about my weight as I was then, especially as Magnus seemed to explain stuff quicker than the feeble mechanics seemed to be able to pull me. I was afraid for a while he'd be talking about Oxford's 20th century alumni while I was still looking at Roger Bacon (13th century). To make matters worse, I envisaged a catastrophic snap, leaving me spindle down the track Temple of Doom-style
having to fist-fight some Indian demonic cult members as I did so, before crashing dramatically out the front door, plowing through a heap of ridiculously-dressed-up exam goers, and eventually getting lodged in some 15th century bookshelf in the Bodleian library.
But wait, what was that? Magnus Magnusson, the bloke with the learned air from the brainiest programme on telly just said: "in the Middle Ages, people thought the Earth was flat..."
Tut, tut tut. That is one of those myths that just won't go away. This offensive miscarriage of history was perpertrated by Legend of Sleepy Hollow author Washington Irving in the 19th century, in a single sentence. Let the word go forth. Think about it though, how can any civilisation that observed the stars possibly not give the Earth a spherical shape? Ah Magnus, you're only a tool.

Magnus Magnusson
Look at him there. What a spa.