BLOODY STUDENT

Fly up? Check. Food on face? Check. Stray snots? Check.
Thus, with pretended elegance and great aplomb I delivered my paper at the medieval conference. As I whittled on, I saw some brows furrow in an attempt to grasp what the hell I was going on about, but after twenty minutes these was an appreciative applause. Phew, I had got through it. As one representative of the University of Geneva said: “I liked that book you gave us in twenty minutes!” Okay so I packed a lot in, but it was worth it, when else would I be in a position to address my peers and seniors in such a dramatic background as Oxford? Even the frolicking Lincoln university students could not hamper our collective spirit of erudite playfulness. Even working in such close affiliation with Trinity representatives didn’t seem to matter. It was all a big back-slapping wine-sipping academic love-in, and I was lubed up to the nines. The event degenerated into a faux-sophis drinking session, carrying ten pizza’s from Pizza hut back to the co-organisers apartment, which just so happened to be a former crash-pad of none other than Billy Shakespeare. He was a guy what wrote some plays and stuff.
We polluted the ghostly magnificence of the place with improper table manners and our teaching of the C-word to a Dutch student. I realised I was edging towards the Oxford profanity of debasing the 500-year old majesty of the town with my presence.
Just like a bloody student.
Aw well, more lube anyone?

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.

MY CUSTOMS CUSTOM

Cracking my medievalist whip, I ventured to Oxford. My trip began in the traditional way for me, with me being stopped In U.K customs for a reason I have yet to determine. I can count on one hand the amount of times I've flown into England and I haven't at least been stopped momentarily. It's not as if I wear my "Al Qaeda Aren't So Bad" tee-shirt every time I fly. Or do I have an I.R.A Doppelganger out there somewhere? No wonder I was so nervous going to Belfast, I must have a "quality" that says "This guy's trouble." If not a quality, I do have a tee-shirt that says that. Note to self.
This time I was stopped, taken aside and asked to fill out this questionnare, while the copper flicked through my passport asking me what I was doing in the U.S in 2002 et cetera. I just calmly accepted the drumming of questions with a resigned patience, I felt like one of the usual suspects in a police line-up. Afterwards I heard the familiar:
"Nothing to worry about sir, just a random check," He said as he was cramming an endoscopic camera in a tender place. Okay, so I made that last bit up, but I did laugh to myself about the intrusiveness of this "random check," and wondered about the mathematical possibility that 8 out of ten visits should result in a "random" check. I mean, how long would it be until I heard:
"Sorry Sir, it's just a random strip search."
"Sorry Sir, it's just a random crevice inspection."
"Sorry Sir, it's just a random brutal beating."
"Sorry Sir, it's just a random forced-confession signing."
"Sorry Sir, it's just a random being jailed for 15 years for a crime you did not commit due to a gross perversion of justice."
"Oh, no problem, you're just doing your job!"

Mind you, maybe they're all reading the Flog and have targeted me as a trouble-maker.
Oops.

So let me finish off by saying how much I admire Her Majesty's Police Force. They are consummate professionals, and their helmets don't look in the least bit like breasts. The next time I fly to Englan I know a part of me will be sad if my old friends don't give me at least a quick acknowledging penetrating stare.
"Have you forgotten me?" I'll say, "I feel so, so common..."

THEY ONLY COME OUT AT NIGHT

The next day I found myself in Belfast, a city I've had no reason to visit in my 26 years on this Earth. Clara and Bonnie were shocked, before I explained to them that for the longest time it didn't offer much to the youthful southern male unless you liked getting your head kicked in.
Naturally I was terrified, and the uneasy quiet that descended on the city centre circa eight o'clock in the evening didn't help matters much. It was a bit like the opening sequence to 28 days Later, except spookier. I couldn't shake the feeling of "What do they know that we don't?" whenever I saw a lone individual lurking the streets at night like we were; no doubt they had emerged from their bunkers in order to scavange some food for their trembling terrified families.
"Why is it so quiet?" Clara mused.
The truth hit me.
"Because they come out at night!"
"Who?"
"The Protestants!"

The two Canadians persuaded me to get up the next morning and take one of the Black Cab Tours of Belfast. Now, for those of you not in the know, this a tour that is is scarier than any Ghost Train in existence, it kicks that Ghostbus tour thingy's ass. For the first forty-five minutes, as the driver drove us into the heart of the Shankill road loyalist stomping ground, I couldn't shake off the feeling I was entering the confines of Mordor, or I was a bit like the bit in Star Wars where they infiltrate the Death Star. The Tour guide was great, encouraged the two Canadians to get out and take a few photos, but added with no sense of comfort to me, that he himself was too scared to get out of the cab. So, folks, I dressed in a strormtrooper outfit and walked across the Shankill Road heartland, being sure to keep my mouth shut the whole time. The tour guide had pointed out one mural of interest:
"Notice," he said in apt ghost-story register, "that this painting of a UVF gunman is painted in such a way that the gun seems to be pointing at you no matter where you stand!"
"Look at him!" said Clara in a loud and proud voice, as we were in the middle of the estate, "he knows your Catholic!"
My eyes darted around to see if anyone was pointing at me screaming Invasion-Of-The-Body-Snatchers style, but thankfully no-one had hear her. Nevertheless I was terrified that Clara's not-too-unsubtle voice should boom some secret information to the rather stern-looking locals.
Somehow I managed to get back into the cab trousers-unsoiled. I felt a little more comfortable I have to admit once we had driven into the Catholic side, and especially when the cab driver himself revealed his own particular bias. And when I say more comfortable I felt that for the first time I could actually speak. And just in case we were in any doubt as to the nature of his affiliation, he took us into the Sinn Fein headquarters no less. And further doubt dissipated when he was in the middle of a stirring oration about Bobby Sands and some mate of his opened the cab's passenger door and had a chat with him. Clara thought it was hillarious:
"So Irish!" she said.

So he drove us back to the hostel and I felt like a new man. I was so relieved I felt I was inhaling for the first time that day. I had never been so self-conscious about my accent. Nor had I ever felt so partisan: I couldn't help but look at Clara disapprovingly as she took a picture of Oliver Cromwell, knowing that he dispossessed my own ancestors. Now though, with a shake of the head and with comfort of distance, I am able to divorce myself of the age-old conflict to lament on the tragedy of Northern polictical history, for both sides. Still, being at its crucible of the historical drama, I couldn't help but feel my heart being pushed in one direction.

After the tour, the fear was not over. It followed me all the way up the Antrim coast, along every winding road, at every roundabout and intersection. For being driven by a Canadian - thats a real real trouser-soiling experience.