Bingedemic: the Dangers of Oxford
Have been watching the various Oxford detectives on Masterpiece because it is very difficult to find television that is not cringeworthy within minutes. Murder mysteries are at least reliable. The BBC versions of detectives have the virtue of wonderful accents, which elevates the massive amount of exposition the poor actors are challenged to enliven. They are also quite long, ninety minutes or so, which slows down consumption. I am making my way through the Inspector Morse spinoffs, Lewis and Endeavour; it’s hard to find the original Inspector Morse series without having to pay for it by the episode. I’m not that desperate yet. Have come to the conclusion that Oxford town and university are the most dangerous places on earth. Constant murders in the schools, in the pretty parks, in the lovely houses, usually in sets of two or three. It’s amazing that no one in town ever talks about the crime rate. “Hello, Inspector Lewis, and who’s dead today? You don’t say! Another Oxford student. Another Oxford tutor. Another past Oxford student. Another visitor to Oxford.” People are dropping like flies there. And apparently have been doing so for decades. Horrible conspiracies of hidden posh-types to bugger this and that and then slaughter it for a whole assortment of reasons. Revenge, infidelity, poor grammar, failure to know Shakespeare well enough. It’s worse than the pandemic. (Well, not actually. But I need to release some bile.) My advice to everyone is, don’t apply to Oxford, don’t study there, don’t visit the city; in fact, don’t even say the word. You are likely to die horribly. Often by means of a blunt blow to the back of the head. But on the positive side, if you do expire in that wonderfully picturesque city, your murder will be solved by very witty people who like to listen to opera.