During a recent trip to Clare, I was delighted when a porter came over and gave me a bottle of champagne.
“This is from the Master — he hopes you enjoy our humble college,” she explained.
You’re probably thinking ‘what a lovely surprise’ (it was only Moët, don’t get too excited). But while it was fairly lovely, it wasn’t a surprise. At least, not for me. You see I go to John’s.
Throughout my Cambridge life, I’ve regularly had bottles of bubbly or barrels of crude oil sent to me by people I don’t know who’ve caught a glimpse of the coveted John’s scarf. Once, a well-dressed man offered me a job ruthlessly downsizing charities when I was standing behind him in the queue, while there was another occasion when a gentleman handed me a freshly slain goose as I stepped out of a cab in Grantchester.
Another time, as I was walking through Market Square, I was tapped on the shoulder and presented with a beautiful bunch of money. Even prostitutes frequently shoo my credit card away when I try settle the bill.
And whenever I’ve asked what I’ve done to deserve such treatment, the donors of these gifts have always said the same thing: you go to John’s.
While I’m no Lord, I’m rich, dickish and, so I’m often told, a Johnian. I know how lucky I am. But it’s not all gilded croissants and yacht-based parties; there are downsides to going to St John’s — the main one being that other students hate me for no other reason than my awesome college…
Full article here.