Cambridge Student Pranks E-Book

Jamie Collinson

• Herausgeber: The History Press
• Kategorie: Bildung
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 156

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2010

Beschreibung

Cambridge University is famed for the resourcefulness and innovation of its students. However, not all the undergraduates have devoted their talents to academia; instead they spent their time devising ingenious and hilarious pranks to play on the unsuspecting dons. This fascinating volume recalls some of the greatest stunts and practical jokes in the University's history, including: the story of how a group of students fooled the art world with their Post-Impressionist exhibition; the Zanzibar hoax, in which members of the famous Bloomsbury set conned the Mayor of Cambridge (a hoax which sowed the seeds for their later 'VIP inspection' of HMS Dreadnought which duped the Royal Navy); and of course the most famous prank of all – the Austin Seven on the roof of Senate House. This enthralling work will amaze and entertain in equal measure — and may well prove a source of inspiration for current students wishing to enliven their undergraduate days.

Leseprobe

CAMBRIDGE

STUDENT

PRANKS

CAMBRIDGE

STUDENT

PRANKS

A History of

Mischief

& Mayhem

JAMIE COLLINSON

Frontispiece: King’s College Chapel (Linda Hall)

First published 2010

Reprinted 2012

The History Press

The Mill, Brimscombe Port

Stroud, Gloucestershire, GL5 2QG

www.thehistorypress.co.uk

This ebook edition first published in 2013

All rights reserved

© Jamie Collinson, 2010, 2013

The right of Jamie Collinson to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

EPUB ISBN 978 0 7509 5406 8

Original typesetting by The History Press

CONTENTS

Introduction

1.

Welcome to College Life

2.

Things on King’s

3.

A History of Hoaxes

About the Author

INTRODUCTION

I will never forget my first experience of Cambridge – chiefly because for most of it I was lost and mildly terrified. I had come to visit Sidney Sussex College before my interview. Having missed the official open day, the college had kindly allowed me to visit and arranged a meeting with the admissions tutor. I always felt that i received special attention due to my privileged education at a state school. (At the time the University was particularly keen to show that it displayed no favouritism to public schools and I’m sure this worked in my favour.)

I had arrived by train and with youthful high spirits decided to walk into town to get a better picture of the city which I hoped to make my home for the next three years. I would later learn that the city had placed the railway station so far from the centre to make it difficult for students to visit their boyfriends or girlfriends in London. As a result, I had a tedious, long walk in an uncomfortable suit.

Having grown up in a Victorian town I was used to decidedly longer, wider and less winding streets. Later I would look after American summer school students who would often remark with wonder, ‘It’s as if they were built with no thought to cars isn’t it?’ Although I now think them charming and beautiful, I remember vividly my confusion at the time. Before long I was confronted with the University Library. Can there be a more intimidating structure to new and hopeful students? An industrial-looking building, it shares the architect with and bears a striking resemblance to the Tate Modern in London. The immense, dark tower has always made me think of Ozymandias – ‘Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair’.

In spite of this inauspicious start, I made it to my meeting, which went well, and after an interview was offered a place. I soon fell in love with the city; it is a magical place. Among the narrow streets and ancient buildings are hidden halls and homes in which lived some of the finest minds in history. Their essence seems to permeate the place and can be a source of inspiration or fear of inadequacy to visitors. Along with that air of genius is the whiff of mischief. Thousands of great young minds, cooped up together, have produced some of the best practical jokes and hoaxes the world has ever seen. Pranks have varied from the frivolous acts of privileged youth to worthy political statement. For every drunken midnight escapade or case of an obnoxious young aristocrat knocking a policeman’s hat off, there has been a clever and unique joke which has delighted the public.

I must warn the reader that some of the tales in this book may be apocryphal. Parts of it are based on stories passed down from student to student. Academics, like everyone else, enjoy embellishing a good tale and their memories cannot be wholly trusted. I will, however, do my best to indicate what I think dubious. None of this, though, diminishes the ingenuity of the stories. If this has an aim it is to highlight the playfulness of intelligence and the fertile garden it finds in Cambridge.

Here’s to the pranksters, hackers, jokers and phreakers.The cleverest stunts have often come from the cleverest people, and they should be celebrated.

Jamie Collinson, 2010

ONE

WELCOME TO COLLEGE LIFE

INTERVIEWS

I’m afraid that I must start this book with bad news for prospective Cambridge (or Oxford) students. It’s not only students who enjoy a prank, and for Cambridge dons a good source of fun is the round of interviews each winter. Though not pranks per se, it is instructive to take a short look at the admissions process, as it will shed light on the spirit of playfulness evident in the University. Though at times stuffy and old-fashioned (a well-known college joke goes, ‘How many dons does it take to change a lightbulb?’ and is answered in an incredulous tone, ‘Change?’), as a whole the institution is happy to take a joke in good humour, and at times play one too.

Though they’ll earnestly tell you that the interview process is ‘necessarily rigorous to select the very best from the enormous pool of talented individuals who apply, particularly in light of ever increasing A Level results,’ I think we can all see how it might be fun to force candidates to ‘think outside the box’. I’m not saying that the interviews are cruel (in fact my own experience would indicate quite the opposite), but there are many stories of unusual questions being set to test applicants. The most famous example is the logically torturous question to a would-be student of philosophy, ‘Is this a question?’ Incidentally, the brave applicant of the story answers, ‘Is this an answer?’ – exceptionally clever but I fear it is far too quick-witted to be a real response.

The rationale behind these questions is simple. By asking questions which require lateral thinking the candidate can be assessed on how they think, rather than how well they’ve been coached for the interview. Here are a few of my favourite recorded questions:

Q.What is the future of the British coal industry? (Answer: smoke)

Q.Can you write a formula that proves mathematics is interesting?

Q.Would you rather be a novel or a poem?

Q.What would you do if you were a magpie?

Q.How would you poison someone without the police finding out?

EXAMS

For most at Cambridge their student life is book-ended by interviews and exams. The University divides its bachelor’s degrees by Tripos – an undergraduate student of mathematics is said to be reading for the Mathematical Tripos, while a student of chemistry (or any of the other sciences) reads for the Natural Sciences Tripos (and in the case of the chemist chooses courses specific to chemistry). Many mistakenly believe that the word relates to the usual three years of study, and thus their degree was studied in three (‘tri’) parts. In fact the etymology is much more mundane, tracing to the three-legged stool which candidates once sat on to take their exams. One apocryphal legend still very popular claims that students received one leg of the stool for each year of their study, resulting in a complete stool at the end of their degree.

The Tripos system is ancient, having evolved gradually with the University. Until the nineteenth century only one Tripos was available: the Mathematical Tripos, known formally as the ‘Senate House Examination’. It has always been a difficult exam, and along with the interviews has historically been one of the few outlets for Cambridge dons to have a little fun at the expense of students.

By way of example, consider the 1854 Mathematical Tripos – sixteen papers spread over eight days, totalling 44.5 hours and 211 questions. The questions were extremely difficult and even the best would not have time to complete the exam. There is a record of one exam from the 1860s which had a total possible mark of 17,000. The student with the top first (the senior wrangler) managed 7, 634 (a little under 45 per cent), while the next best student scored 4,123 (24 per cent) and the lowest score was 237 (1.4 per cent). Things have got a little better since then as the excessively taxing questions have been discouraged. However, it can still be a shock to new students used to scoring above 90 per cent in A Level exams to be told that their mark of 40 per cent in the Mathematical Tripos has resulted in a first!

With this kind of mental bashing, it is little surprise that during exam term students, like men at war, acquire a certain graveyard humour. An example where students and dons conspired was the awarding of the infamous wooden spoon. Until reforms in 1910 the results of all those taking the Mathematical Tripos were listed in descending order of performance, divided into Wranglers (firsts), Senior Optimes (seconds) and Junior Optimes (thirds). Those who were left scored either an ordinary (a pass without honours) or a fail.

The wooden spoon was awarded to the student with the lowest mark to still receive honours – i.e. the person with the lowest third-class degree. The term ‘wooden spoon’ or ‘the spoon’ came to be applied to the recipient as well, and the prize became notorious and quite celebrated:

And while he lives, he wields the boasted prize

Whose value all can feel, the weak, the wise;

Displays in triumph his distinguish’d boon,

The solid honours of the Wooden Spoon.

’The Wooden Spoon’ from The Cambridge Tart (1823)

Many have recounted that being ‘the spoon’ came to hold a certain kudos, particularly with students of a humorous disposition. Some went so far as to claim that students would retake exams to attempt a worse mark and gain the coveted spoon, though of course no-one wanted to score too low and receive an ordinary. The spoons are also well recorded in literature, with the first use in the 1803 Gradus ad Cantabrigiam – ‘Wooden spoon for wooden heads: the lowest of the Junior Optimes’. In Cambridge Memories (1936) Thomas Thornley said of the spoon:

If its recipient was a man of sense, he would seize upon it joyously, and, brandishing it over his head, march off with it as a valued trophy; but if, as sometimes happened, he was timid or nervous and shrank from it as a symbol of shame, it would, as like as not, pursue his retreating rear with sounding smacks.

Given these references, it is likely that the tradition dates back to at least the late eighteenth century, though it may be even older than that. As time passed the spoons themselves became larger and larger. Having originally been decorated wooden kitchen spoons, they became giant constructions, in later years, often being made of oars from rowing eights.

Exam results are read out from the upstairs balcony in Senate House to the students waiting anxiously below. A ceremony developed whereby the wooden spoon would be dangled from the balcony in front of the recipient. As he knelt before the Vice Chancellor two of his friends would each hold a piece of ribbon attached to the spoon and would solemnly walk towards each other, lowering the spoon in the process. Two other friends would cut the ribbon and present the spoon to the individual concerned. Clearly this could not take place without the consent of the establishment.

Unfortunately all good things come to an end, and in 1875 the University added a new statute banning ‘the suspension of objects from the Senate House balcony’ – this was widely seen as a change in the tolerance for the wooden spoon tradition. However, the giving of spoons continued in a more discreet fashion for another thirty-five years until 1910, when reforms to the Tripos system meant results were published in alphabetical rather than merit order, keeping the identity of the spoon secret.

The twilight years of the wooden spoon saw the most extravagant ever produced. In 1892 a student at Queens’ College, Patrick Joseph O’Leary Bradbury, was awarded the spoon. It took the form of a 4ft malt shovel (used in the production of beer) decorated on one side with the arms of Queens’ and on the other with the arms of the University. Thought to be the only spoon ever awarded to a Queensman, it is a proud possession of the family and a great reminder of their ancestor.

The last wooden spoon was awarded in 1909 to Cuthbert Lempriere Holthouse. In an act of grace, the University allowed this last spoon to be handed over at the graduation ceremony, though accounts differ on whether it was lowered from the balcony. An oarsman of the Lady Margaret Boat Club of St John’s College, Holthouse’s spoon was a magnificently modified oar. It was certainly over 5ft long, and from photographs of the time appears close to Holthouse’s height, so could be up to 6ft. At the end of the handle was the large spoon bowl, which was decorated with the St John’s crest and Holthouse’s initials.The blade of the oar was inscribed with an epigram in Greek, translating as:

In Honours Mathematical

This is the very last of all

The Wooden Spoons which you see here

O you who see it, shed a tear.

Surviving wooden spoons are rare. This last spoon is in possession of St John’s College with another kept at Selwyn College library. In 2009 St John’s held an exhibition of five surviving examples, including the last, to mark the centenary of the awarding of the last wooden spoon.

Another example of exam-time humour is the oft repeated tale of ‘Cake and Ales’ (it’s nothing to do with Somerset Maugham). This is a favourite for older students to tell their newer comrades-in-arms. It’s an appealing story for anyone facing an examination, with just the right flavour of getting one up on the establishment. Unfortunately, as we shall see shortly, the tale is almost completely untrue.

The last wooden spoon. (Courtesy of Wikipedia)

We’ve all heard of those archaic un-repealed laws – like the one permitting the shooting of a Welshman with a crossbow after dark, or the other forbidding anyone firing a cannon close to a dwelling house (incidentally a similar law exists in Chico, California, where there is a fine of $500 for anyone detonating a nuclear device within the city limits). With these in mind, an enterprising student scours the University statutes and finds gold.

When it comes to his first exam he sits with the rest of the students, then, just as the exam is about to begin, he pipes up to proctor:

STUDENT:

Before the exam starts please bring me cakes and ale.

PROCTOR:

I beg your pardon?

STUDENT:

Sir, I request that you bring me cakes and ale.

PROCTOR:

Young man you must be out of your mind. I shall do no such thing.

STUDENT:

Sir, I really must insist. I request and require that you bring me cakes and ale to act as sustenance during my examination.

At this point the student produces a copy of an ancient University statute, written in Latin but still nominally in force. He points to a section which translates roughly as ‘Gentlemen sitting for the Tripos examinations may request and require cakes and ale.’ After some discussion, the proctor and invigilator decide that they have no choice but to go along with the absurd request and offer scones and lemonade as a reasonable modern equivalent. The student accepts and happily enjoys his meal while completing his exam.

It is here that the story often differs. Students telling students will often leave it there. While academics, or anyone who has less time for youthful arrogance, will add that as he stood up to leave the exam hall the student was stopped by the proctor and promptly fined £5 for incorrect dress. When he asked what was wrong with his attire he was told that he failed to wear his sword to the examination and shown a similarly ancient piece of legislation.

A comparable tale exists along the lines that, due to the University’s age, a statute exists for the provision of students leaving their studies to fight in the crusades. Under this provision, should an examinee arrive and claim that they cannot complete their exams as they are off to fight in the crusades, they shall be instantly granted a first-class degree for their patriotism. A student bravely attempted this trick with his proctor and was curtly told that he did not have the requisite white horse, sword or armour and should sit down and get on with his paper.

The variations on which item may be requested (e.g. a pint of beer, a glass of port, cakes and ale) and why the trickster loses out in the end (e.g. lack of sword, failure to arrive on a horse, not wearing shoes with silver buckles) all hint that the story may be more legend than fact. Sadly, although the story has been circulating since at least the 1950s, when it was written about in The Lancet, no such statute has ever been discovered. As the University is famous for keeping every minutiae of paperwork, it seems likely that the prank never occurred.

Pleasingly, the story seems to be the inspiration behind a little prank carried out by the great Peter Cook during his final examinations for the Modern and Medieval Languages Tripos. Cook did not enjoy the sweltering heat in the exam hall but was delighted to discover that he was entitled to bring a drink into the hall if he wished, though it was not common for students to do so. He first chose a carton of fruit juice to relieve his thirst, which, according to Harry Thompson’s 1997 biography of Cook, annoyed the invigilating don who was ‘himself sweating in full rig’. ‘Peter kept up a running battle with this gentleman. The following day he openly swigged copious draughts from a bottle of brandy, informing the fuming official that he didn’t want his answers to lack spirit.’

MATHEMATICIANS

On taking my place at Cambridge I joined the ranks of a peculiar species, the mathematician. While it was often remarked that I was ‘quite normal, for a mathmo’, others of my brethren were known for peculiar habits – not least the lecturers. One well-liked fellow would surreptitiously eat a piece of tissue paper at the end of his lectures, and was known for his surreal humour. On one memorable occasion he was filling in for a colleague. ‘Some of the more observant of you will have realised that I am not Dr Beard,’ he announced at the start of the lecture, ‘but don’t worry, tomorrow I will be.’