Why I Didn’t Apply To Oxford University

Whilst on A2, I deliberated the top ten universities.

Adamant to apply for Oxford, Durham, Warwick and Exeter, I decided to view the campus of each. That was all I needed.

I was predicted admission into Oxford University whilst I went through the gruelling last year of pre-bachelor academia. Two tutors had nominated me to attend a prepaid visit and taster day at Oxford, and just like that, my political career had left the runway. I instantly joined a political party (one which I’d rather not name) and gathered as much information on Oxford as I could. My parents; refugee migrants, hadn’t made much of a fuss after they called much of the entire population of Iraq and Lebanon, so as long as I could get the grades, there was nothing that could stop me. I’d achieved more than enough points first year to give me a head start and easy cruising for the entry requirements, what could possibly go wrong?

Every f**king thing.

The coach journey to the campus was pleasant enough, the summer term meant the sun had made sweet love to my pours and sweat patches resembling the river Avon. However, on the way to Oxfordshire I had googled accommodation prices, at which the prices began at ten thousand sterling per annum. What? No time to have a cardiac arrest rather, as we’d reached the gleaming scenic town.. What? Pretentious, brash, ghastly, boring. What?

A whitewash of Clifford, Richard and Ryan as far as the horizon stretched. I’d read a Guardian post that claimed in the year of 2011, there had been only 14 black students admitted to Oxford courses, which wasn’t very difficult to tell you know. Would I fit in? Why does it matter, its f**king Oxford University!

The campus was ghastly, contrasting and overdone greenery, with leaf-shades ranging from military green to colours I don’t believe had names, let alone grew on trees naturally. Absolutely hideous. We grudged through the outdated corridors consumed with intense heat and even more intense awkwardness. It appeared as if everybody had an exam at every moment precisely on that day. Whats worse, whilst Oxford is world renowned for the Arts, it seems they haven’t discovered air conditioning. Heading to the Politics department it seems the design had been inspired by a Russian gulag. The tutors who greeted us exhibited as much decorum and charisma as a lost snail.

The grass was finely cut, the library was cramped, the town was friendly, the students appeared lost, the canteen was bustling, the rituals were preposterously pompous and best of all it took 45 minutes to crush my dreams. Warwick was worse. Warwick had a campus built three thousand years prior to the Bronze Age, and had more international students (which has nothing to do with the fact they pay treble tuition costs) than UK students which is fine if you’re racketeering but if you want a pleasant experience it seemed Mandarin studies were your best option. Moreover, accommodation began at £10,000 per annum for a cardboard box just outside of Tesco.

Exeter it was. A thoroughly new university, with a re-freshed five story library, double accommodation bedrooms beginning at £4,500.00. A new eco-friendly campus, with beautiful scenery, a variety of students and enjoyable living.

You sweat and bother year in year out through academia, you’d believe it mattered, you trust it mattered. My mother is a housewife with a annual income of approximately naught. My father’s income isn’t substantially more impressive than my mother’s, however the free and fair education system would grant my wishes. It didn’t matter on my background, financial income of my parents, or anything. I gave my all to the education system and the education system f**ked me.

“Get the grades and go to the best university in the country.” Pro patria mori.


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