I go to Oxford. I study history. I am shit at it. At least, that is the impression I got after one term here. My tutors seem to stare at me as if I am some moronic pest in every tutorial. I get comments like: “superficial at best” and “not devastating.” To be honest, it’s not their fault; in most of my tutorials (and whilst preparing work for them) I’m quite inebriated. It’s not a problem I promise Mum – It’s just that I feel everyone at Oxford is much cleverer than I am. Call it a coping mechanism if you want. The biochemists might as well be studying History for all I know; they know a lot more about my subject than I do. Henry II, is he really all that different to Henry I – let me check with Wikipedia.

I am shit at History. The only reason I picked this stupid subject was because it has fewer contact hours than any other course, and, I am the dictionary definition of sloth. I spend most the day in the library hoping that some process of osmosis will allow knowledge to transfer from the books to me. The highest score I have got all term was on the NHS alcoholism survey.

I did dream of coming to Oxford; it seemed like some mystical academic place. If it was so special I wouldn’t be here, so why am I? How on earth did I slip through the interviews then? It is because I only got good grades at A-level. My school was an exam house. Everything I shat out in my exams was spoon fed to me in lessons. They tutored me for interview by coaching my lying skills. If there is one thing that I have achieved, it is proving the fallibility of the Oxford admissions process.

The bizarre truth is that many I have met in Oxford are in the same position as me: an unending path of self-doubt. If you truly and undoubtedly think that you belong in, or have the right to be at, Oxford, without a single moment of hesitation, might I suggest that you seek imminent medical attention to remove your own head from being so far up your own arse. I don’t feel clever, maybe I am not, but perhaps this feeling is nothing but a result of the pressure Oxford bears on us all. By fifth week a fresher in my college had already rusticated and, more telling than anything, ten percent of the Oxford student body seeks counselling every year. The problem, therefore, is not you. You might feel like little more than a crippled wreck but this is something born of both your expectations of the university and it of you.

At the bottom level, most of the people here are, like you, distinctly normal. I feel Oxford creates this unrealistic and unhealthy necessity for success. Stop treating university like a means to an end. You are studying at Oxford. That alone is fucking fantastic. You have earnt this and don’t need to prove anything anymore. 

Our visit to St Cross bar didn’t start on a promising note, stumbling around Pusey Lane, vomming at the sight of the Oriental Institute, mistakenly wandering into Regent’s Park, and then wondering whether St Cross does in fact exist at all. Luckily it turns out it does – behind a clusterfuck of scaffolding and shattered dreams. We managed to find an access door designed for construction staff and tailgated some rando postgrad on a bike into the hallowed college. Our first sight was of an abandoned supermarket shopping trolley casually left round the back of the chapel – maybe some masters students got a bit too smashed on intellectualism while writing their irrelevant theses on thirteenth-century Lithuanian puppet theatre and decided to go to Tesco and loot the place dry. Or maybe not.

Once inside, we were briefly distracted from our mission by the surprisingly pretty archways, and got lost in one of their quads. When we eventually managed to break in without a key card, we found the bar tucked away down a stone spiral staircase. The bar’s décor is striving to be Titania’s leafy Midsummer’s Night Dream glen or Poison Ivy’s lair, with sprigs of fake greenery and parsley hung from the beams. Instead, it hits the note of a cheap shitty Italian chain that you used to go to with your mates when you were fourteen (they just need Frank Sinatra playing on loop), and the token plastic plants are as impressive as bop decorations. The floors were tiled with cheap red tiling that would seem more at home in a public lavatory than in an establishment that supposedly serves the neeky elite. In one corner sits a crummy-looking upright piano reminded you of a tragic low-end backpackers pub going out of business. This is the only bar to have a piano, although maybe that speaks volumes about the clientele.

On to the positives – they serve two pound cocktails that include Dark ‘n’ Stormys, margaritas and daiquiris. And to be fair, they were the best cocktails we had ever had outside of Raoul’s. The beer selection is akin to the Turf Tavern – a selection of IPAs, all your classics, and even a couple of local brews. Lagers and ciders are in the mix too so we’re all happy, even your decrepit aunt. Trying hard to fit in with the geriatric vibe and pretending to be boring post grads, we ordered their drink of the month, a Singapore Sling, which was fantastic. On Sundays they also do brunch, a welcome respite from breakfast.

If St Cross was actually interesting, it would make a for a great bar. Shame, to be honest. I won’t be returning.

There’s nothing we love more than slagging off a better-than-average college bar and condemning it into oblivion. Picking holes in the Ikea furniture, questionable playlists, rancid drinks and dreadful atmospheres of such establishments brings a certain sadistic pleasure to the Cherwell bar reviewer. It is with great regret, therefore, that we must report that New College bar so gloriously exceeds its collegiate competitors that even our usually bitchy souls can find little negative to say about this bar. Of course, it helps that New is one of the richest colleges.

The bar itself is decorated with an exceptionally tasteful hybridisation of the ancient castle structure with a modern aesthetic: the interior designers have reason to be proud. As New College is widely known as one of the poshest, it was no surprise to find the kids decked out in a sprightly collection of jodhpurs and Joules. Pity we prefer trackies.

Not only do they serve their ‘college drink’ in a martini glass, they also have three pages of other cocktails, smoothies and a fantastic stock of beers, ciders and spirits. The great first view really started to unravel, however, as we got down to the business at hand. For Cherwell, a good selection is not enough for high marks.

The thing is, it’s all just a bit try-hard and elitist. One major victorious quibble, however, comes with the not exactly cheap £5 cocktails. Despite being laboriously made in a cocktail shaker, more than half the martini glass was filled with cheap, uncrushed ring shaped ice that smacks of amateurism, and to be honest we could have made a better drink at home. I mean, £5 is fine when Daddy is footing the bill – which seems to be the signature aesthetic of this bar, which, to be honest far outshines most of the other Oxford ones because of how much the alumni (?) have spent doing it up. The Cherwell Bar Review Team certainly does not support a bar which is more expensive than the majority of pubs in this expensive town. Marks docked.

The New College Smile, their signature drink, divided opinions – while the putrid purple colour was at first weirdly appealing, the taste was unpleasantly reminiscent of dissolved blackcurrant starbursts, and the overload of blue Curaçao left us unimpressed. It was at this point that we realised New College bar has a slight identity crisis – they’re aiming to compete with the likes of House and All Bar One, and yet are not quite hitting the mark, with corners cut in drink quality and professionalism.

As we march, rushing headlong, towards winter and trees begin to shed their leaves, which fall into the cold wind’s icy grip, soups will become an increasingly important part of your diet. Both warming and filling, a potato-based soup is certainly one of the easiest and cheapest meals you can make. Once again, you will require a hand blender to make this recipe, since chunky soups just don’t cut it here at Cherwell.

Ingredients:

1 large leek, sliced

2 potatoes, peeled and diced

2 stalks of celery, finely chopped

1 onion, finely chopped

2 cloves of garlic, roughly chopped

2 stock cubes

Enough water to cover all the above (depends on pan and potato size)

Generous helpings of butter

Paprika, cumin, salt and pepper for taste

Fry the onion, leek, celery and garlic in butter until the onions have turned translucent. Take this pan off the heat and boil the pan of water before adding the potatoes. I do not normally waste the skin – I peel the potatoes and then fry the skin with the onions and celery, but this is totally optional. Add the buttery veg and the stock cubes, along with the spices and salt and pepper. After about 20-25 minutes, the potatoes should be soft – the key here is to pierce a large piece of potato with a knife. If the knife goes through as if it were cutting butter, then the potato is ready. If not, then boil for a few more minutes. Once the potato is boiled, take off the heat and leave for about ten minutes. Once slightly cooler, the soup is ready for the blitzer. At first use the lower setting so that you don’t get scalded! Keep blitzing until the soup has become much thicker and a uniform light green colour. At this point, it is ready to eat. However, I find the addition of some single cream or crème fraîche makes the soup much more palatable and removes the slightly insipid celery flavour which accompanies its necessary inclusion in this recipe. 

It was totally deserted at 8pm on Thursday night. There are certainly no Bridgegoers in this tragically peaceful haven of cobbled stones and cottage accommodation. We later discovered where the party was, however, as from the bar we spied the library filled to the brim with sexless bleary-eyed postgrads.

Our first impression was one of disgust, as we glowered at the B&Q outdoor garden furniture, tacky plastic sofas and off ensive crimson walls. The criminal choice of paint might have been forgivable if Green Templeton’s college colour wasn’t, unsurprisingly, green. The red radiator only adds insult to an outright injury.

At one end lies a hollow space that probably used to hold a TV; now there lies nought but an empty cubby hole with plug sockets. Screaming in a hollow and empty voice, it invites the College once again to liven up the study breaks of its students with re-runs of Cash in the Attic.The industrial furniture has clearly been selected to survive being trashed by rowdy students, although of course no one in Green Templeton ever gets remotely disruptive.

The bar is also home to a questionable vanity mirror set-up, where rather than talking to their peers, students are encouraged to stare at themselves as they sip their vodka soda-and-limes, perhaps inducing narcissistic thoughts and existential crises. The mirrors really do create a horribly sad atmosphere, as they attempt to suggest the bar is much fuller than it is.

And then the artwork. If you like irrelevant geometry and constellations that look like enlarged pictures from your GCSE science textbook, you’ll really dig this style. Apart from their weirdly crested GTC paper cups, there is absolutely nothing to affiliate this bar with Green Templeton, and it’s totally soulless. The beams, also painted red, are in desperate need of an oar or two to create some college spirit. The vibe reeks of a hostel in continental Europe, and is totally uninspiring.

Having three college drinks in an empty bar is an impressive show of audacity. They also have a fantastic array of spirits and bottles of better-than-average Spanish red wine stashed behind the bar, and cheap prices are presumably subsidized in a desperate attempt to lure these hard-working folk into a social arena. As we sipped on the Basilisk, their other college drink, we reflected on the Slytherin vibe of this hellhole, and half-expected Crabbe, Goyle or Mrs Norris to slope their way in. They didn’t, however, and we were left to enjoy our Blue Curacao cocktail in peace. 

If we were in London, in a cool area like Shoreditch or maybe Clapham, The Rickety Press would blend in. It’s got the deliberately-weathered barstools, the kitsch wall decor, and the obligatory pulled pork dish. In Oxford, it’s a treat. Not everywhere here has yet given in to the trendy pub aesthetic.

On entering, one is immediately confronted with a bar from which the friendly staff serve a whole range of drinks. Not being a beer-drinker, I was pleased to find a non-Strongbow cider on tap. Yet the real highlight of the drinks menu is the array of cocktails. Far from the dramatic creations you can purchase further South in Jericho, these feel decidedly grown-up. There’s nothing too sickly that it will put you off your food; the Cider Sour is a favourite (Old Rosie again) and the Gin Fix is delightfully refreshing.

But on to the main event. Whilst it would be perfectly acceptable to have a casual drink at The Rickety Press, trekking into the hidden side-streets of Jericho will work up your appetite for a somewhat meatier reward. 

“Meatier” is indeed an appropriate word in this instance. There are vegetarian options, including a vegan pizza, but the stars of the show are really the burgers. It’s not the kind of place you need to worry about how outlandish to be: just go for the signature Rickety burger and you won’t regret it. Determined to venture a little further in the name of food journalism, however, I sampled the amusingly/cringe-inducingly named Piggy Smalls. Any combination of pulled pork and brioche is a sure way to please me, so they’re on to an automatic winner here. I had to actually stop partaking in the conversation of my group, so intent was I on enjoying my meal.

Overall the menu is fairly simple. The public demand for good food without the frills meets the more palatable aspects of hipster-ism, resulting in a pared-down menu of burgers, pizzas and salads which range from the simple (Margherita pizza) to the fashionable (quinoa salad). It is, unfortunately, one of those places which doesn’t include chips with your meal. When did this become the norm? A proper British pub simply shovels masses of chips onto your plate, with no regard for portion size. Not so in this sort of place. 

Price-wise, we’re talking slightly higher than the chain restaurants on George Street, but not by much. It’s certainly worth it for the difference in atmosphere. A meal for two with drinks and sides will probably come to £30-£40, putting it in the “special treat” area of the Oxford dining scale, which isn’t quite as high as “birthday treat” or above that “graduation treat”. There are a few fun extras if you feel like pushing the boat out; at £4.50 per portion, the cheese ‘n’ truffle chips are a glorious waste of money that I am eager to taste. A “special treat” occasion can be a meal with your significant other at the end of a long week, a lunch with visiting relatives to show off your local knowledge, or an impromptu drink and dinner after a long walk around Port Meadow with friends.

It may be somewhat predictable, but the Rickety Press makes up for what it lacks in originality with an all-round pleasant experience.