Strap in for my fast-track degree
EVERYTHING IS speeding up in the world: Usain Bolt, Chris Froome, that rocket to Pluto — it only took it nine years! Last Saturday, I took one of the new ‘‘speed’’ degrees they’ve just introduced at Cambridge. It took four hours.
Halfway through my course, I nearly gave up: “Can I handle all this stress for another two hours?” I asked myself. But then I thought: “What would my mother say — ‘You’re leaving Cambridge!? Are you crazy? The greatest university in the world? Where Newton trod… you’re trodding! Where Darwin invented the Beagle. Where Stephen Hawking made that film he got his Oscar for.’’’
I soldiered on courageously for the remaining two hours.
Of course I knew how prestigious my degree would be, the doors it would open, how the friendships I made in those four hours would last a lifetime.
I also knew I would never have got to Cambridge in the first place if I hadn’t been doing 38 mph on my Vespa scooter along the Euston Road six weeks ago and been caught by a speed camera.
I’d received a penalty notice in the post, offering me a £100 fine and three penalty points or the option to take a Speed Awareness Course. “Where do I take it?” I asked the woman on the phone at the awareness centre. “Hackney,” she said. “Where else have you got?” “East Ham”, she offered. “How about somewhere a little more scenic? Got anything overlooking Lake Windermere?” “No, sorry, we don’t.”she said. “How about Cambridge?” I asked. “Yes, we do,” she said . “At St Johns, in their Innovation Centre.’’ “I’ll take it.” I said. So that’s how I got to study at Cambridge.
The evening before my student day began, I checked into my 500-year-old college. ‘‘You’re in room Q10 on the second staircase, sir,” the porter said, handing me a plastic Hallowed: The halls of Cambridge card. “Can you settle your accommodation bill in advance, sir.”
“Look, I’m here to begin my degree course.” I said. “Can’t I pay at the end of my studies ?”
“We’ve got you down as graduating tomorrow morning, sir.”
“Don’t I qualify for a student loan?” I asked. “I’m afraid not, sir,” he said .
At 9am I was sitting in a lecture room at St John’s Innovation Centre with my 20 fellow students (‘‘offenders’’), ranging in age from a surly 18-year-old with his baseball cap back to front, to charming 83-year-old Michael: “I breed thoroughbreds at Newmarket —I told the police officer, ‘I thought I was on a horse.’ ‘At 95mph, sir?’ he said.”
“Right,’’ Mick, our instructor began. “If you’re not who you say you are, it’s a criminal offence; is there anyone here who isn’t who they’ve said they are? How about you, sir? Are you who you say you are?” He stood in front of me . “Could you pass me that mirror.” I said, pointing to the car wing mirror lying on the table next to him. I looked carefully into it. ”Yes, it’s definitely me.” “Good,” he said. “Now: house rules. No abusive remarks; no smoking; if a fire breaks out, jump out of the window; and if you want to go to the toilet just go but if you’re not back after 10 minutes, I’ll call the police. Does anyone have anything to say?”
I put my hand up. “I read that most accidents occur within one mile of your home.” “So what did you do?” he asked. “I moved.” I learnt a lot during my time at Cambridge. For example, we were shown a film of a Top Gear presenter driving a car at speed along an airport runway straight into a life-sized dummy. I learnt that if you hit someone in your car at 120mph, you’ll kill them. Also you’ll have broken the speed limit — which apparently is 70mph.
At the end, Mick asked if there were any questions. “If a car travels at the speed of light,’’ I said, “what speed will the car have to reach for the headlights to go on automatically?” “I’ve no idea,” he said. “And you call yourself a Speed Awareness instructor?”