by Henry VIII watches the Oxford and Cambridge Boat Race and discovers a rivalry more sincerely held than most he started himself
I once settled disputes between rival noble houses personally, usually through marriage, occasionally through considerably more violent means. The Boat Race crowd would not let me remain neutral about Oxford and Cambridge for even a single minute.
The Riverside
I found a spot along the Thames towpath among a crowd already deeply divided by colour, dark blue for Oxford, light blue for Cambridge, a tribal loyalty I recognised instantly from certain distinctions of my own court that occasionally proved similarly, and unnecessarily, murderous.
The Allegiance Question
A woman beside me, wearing dark blue with the fierce commitment of someone who had clearly never once wavered, asked directly which crew I supported, and I attempted a diplomatic non-answer honed across decades of actual international negotiation, a technique that failed entirely against her considerably more direct interrogation, and I confessed, under pressure, to a mild preference for Cambridge purely on the grounds that I once quite liked a bishop from there.
The Race Itself
The race, once it began, lasted under twenty minutes and produced a level of collective screaming from the crowd I found genuinely startling given the modest actual duration of the contest, both crews rowing with a synchronised violence I recognised instantly from certain naval engagements, minus the actual cannon fire.
The Result
Cambridge won by a length and a half, a margin the woman beside me described, through tears of genuine joy, as an absolute humiliation for Oxford, language I found considerably more aggressive than most actual declarations of war I personally issued, and I congratulated her with the sincere relief of a man who had accidentally picked correctly.
The Verdict
I left the towpath having witnessed twenty minutes of rowing generate more genuine tribal passion than several actual wars I started personally, and I have decided that whatever rivalry exists between these two universities, it is held with a sincerity my own court could rarely manage even over matters of actual religious schism. Dark blue, light blue, I remain, officially, undecided, though I did keep the small paper flag.
The Rematch
The woman beside me, whose name I eventually learned was Deborah, exchanged numbers with me purely to compare notes before next year’s race, a friendship I did not expect to form over twenty minutes of rowing. I remain, officially, undecided between the two universities, though I note Deborah has already started sending me considerably persuasive material regarding Cambridge specifically.
Deborah and I have already made plans to watch next year’s race together from the same spot, colours firmly and separately worn. Some rivalries, I have learned, are worth picking a side for eventually. Some rivalries, I have learned, are worth picking a side for eventually, and I fully intend to arrive next year already committed, scarf and all. Deborah’s persuasion campaign belongs somewhere near my six wives, historically speaking. Further reading on the wider chaos of modern Britain: the marriage that quietly relocated itself to zone six, a three person tenancy agreement that started as a quiet drink in Soho, the proper London pub where history finally sat down for a pint.
