Cambridge's Tourist Menace
Created | Updated Jul 22, 2002
If you live or work in Cambridge, one of the things you have to get used to is the tourist population, particularly in summer. It makes negotiating the city’s streets a nightmare. Everywhere you go, there are little clusters of slow moving or stationary people blocking the pavement, and spilling out into the road to harass the traffic. French, German, American, Spanish, Russian… sometimes you feel you’re the only English person left in the country. Oh yes, and the Japanese. Why do you never see them in groups of less than twenty?
But of course they don’t have to be any particular nationality to be irritating. As you come to a halt behind yet another gormless crowd, you feel like giving each and every one of them a few quick slaps round the head. “GET! OUT! OF! THE! WAY!! Stop gawping at the buildings. Take my word for it, they’re all very ugly. Don’t you have any old, ugly buildings in your country? You don’t? Feel free to take some of ours. And stop photographing that church. You'll wear it out...”
Sometimes they even stop and talk to you, generally to ask for directions:
“Excuse me, I wish to go to the Royal Albert Hall…”
“That’s in London.”
“Yes, the Royal Albert Hall. It is quite near here, I think.”
“If you call seventy miles quite near…”
“I think it is close to Buckingham Palace, yes?”
“No. And anyway, neither of them are in Cambridge.”
“Yes! Cambridge. The Royal Albert Hall is in Cambridge, I think. Is it this way?”
“The Royal Albert Hall is not in Cambridge and never has been.”
“Yes, I have a map. It is on the map. See?”
“That is an A to Z of London, not a map of Cambridge.”
“No, I think you are wrong. This is Cambridge.”
“And the Royal Albert Hall is in London…”
“The Royal Albert Hall, yes. Where is it please?”
“Oh all right. See that building down there, marked ‘Gents?’ That’s the Royal Albert Hall.”
“Thank you. You are very kind.”
“And you have the brains of a deckchair. Goodbye.”
If you want to buy a travel pass, you should allow a minimum of two days, because there will always be a German in front of you (usually concealed beneath a vast rucksack) who wants a bus ticket to Heathrow for next Tuesday morning. This is a transaction that should take no more than two minutes, but that doesn’t take account of the German’s compulsion to satisfy himself on every detail of the journey: Where does the bus leave from? What time? What time exactly? When is it due to arrive? Is it going to be on time? Are there any major roadworks on the way that might hold it up? Where precisely at Heathrow does it stop? How close is that to the check-in desks? How much luggage may I take? Does that include the ripe cheese I will be cramming into the overhead racks? What’s the driver’s name? Has he got any interesting hobbies? Do you take Euros?
“JUST! GET! ON! THE! BUS! Any bus. Sod off out of the way!”
They might bring millions into the local economy, but do they have to be so annoying while they’re doing it? So here’s a simple solution. They stay at home, send us their money, and occasionally we send them each a photograph of an old, ugly building. Then everybody’s happy.
But of course they don’t have to be any particular nationality to be irritating. As you come to a halt behind yet another gormless crowd, you feel like giving each and every one of them a few quick slaps round the head. “GET! OUT! OF! THE! WAY!! Stop gawping at the buildings. Take my word for it, they’re all very ugly. Don’t you have any old, ugly buildings in your country? You don’t? Feel free to take some of ours. And stop photographing that church. You'll wear it out...”
Sometimes they even stop and talk to you, generally to ask for directions:
“Excuse me, I wish to go to the Royal Albert Hall…”
“That’s in London.”
“Yes, the Royal Albert Hall. It is quite near here, I think.”
“If you call seventy miles quite near…”
“I think it is close to Buckingham Palace, yes?”
“No. And anyway, neither of them are in Cambridge.”
“Yes! Cambridge. The Royal Albert Hall is in Cambridge, I think. Is it this way?”
“The Royal Albert Hall is not in Cambridge and never has been.”
“Yes, I have a map. It is on the map. See?”
“That is an A to Z of London, not a map of Cambridge.”
“No, I think you are wrong. This is Cambridge.”
“And the Royal Albert Hall is in London…”
“The Royal Albert Hall, yes. Where is it please?”
“Oh all right. See that building down there, marked ‘Gents?’ That’s the Royal Albert Hall.”
“Thank you. You are very kind.”
“And you have the brains of a deckchair. Goodbye.”
If you want to buy a travel pass, you should allow a minimum of two days, because there will always be a German in front of you (usually concealed beneath a vast rucksack) who wants a bus ticket to Heathrow for next Tuesday morning. This is a transaction that should take no more than two minutes, but that doesn’t take account of the German’s compulsion to satisfy himself on every detail of the journey: Where does the bus leave from? What time? What time exactly? When is it due to arrive? Is it going to be on time? Are there any major roadworks on the way that might hold it up? Where precisely at Heathrow does it stop? How close is that to the check-in desks? How much luggage may I take? Does that include the ripe cheese I will be cramming into the overhead racks? What’s the driver’s name? Has he got any interesting hobbies? Do you take Euros?
“JUST! GET! ON! THE! BUS! Any bus. Sod off out of the way!”
They might bring millions into the local economy, but do they have to be so annoying while they’re doing it? So here’s a simple solution. They stay at home, send us their money, and occasionally we send them each a photograph of an old, ugly building. Then everybody’s happy.
