As all Christ Church students, or anyone who has braved Cornmarket street at lunchtime will tell you, Oxford is a veritable tourist haven. Benjamin Franklin made the claim that nothing was certain in life apart from death and taxes. He was wrong. Weekend college brunch, a disastrously alcoholic Halloween bop, and a fight for your life during a stampede on the Bodleian steps: Franklin, take notes on the ‘Oxford inevitabilities’ package deal. Tourists block the pavement when you’re late for a lecture; flatter you with photos on your matriculation day; grant you a derisive snort as you glimpse a punt sailing dangerously close to the Thames. But wherever they are, they are.

 

 

All those firmly aboard the distaste-for-tourists train would admire the banality of the Tourist Information Centre. It lacks any of the boisterous self-centeredness that singles out your average snail-paced dawdler, and any of the pragmatism. Tucked into the same line of shops that houses Cafe Creme and Italiamo, I wager with utmost confidence that you, like me, never took any notice of the plain little shop amidst the wafting smells of a decently priced aubergine and falafel baguette. Until Trinity term of my seconds year I was unaware that nestled in the midst of this bustling street is the home of one of Oxford’s most beloved staples: The Footprints Walking Tour.

 

 

I’ll forgive you, begrudgingly, if you don’t immediately know what I’m referring to. Why should you? Since Oxford welcomes tourists in droves, many different walking companies elbow each other aside on the cramped pilgrimage from Balliol to the Rad Cam. But amongst the megaphones and handheld clipboards, the bleary-eyed schoolkids and the well-tipping Americans, weave the green-jacketed Footprints guides.

 

 

If you’re interested in becoming a guide, there are three basic steps:

 

• You learn a 50-page script. Whilst this might seem daunting it’s actually not too bad. I even have a handy facts Quizlet if you fancy. A mere 252 flashcards… It’ll be a breeze!

 

• You shadow another guide’s tour. Very useful to see how the material links together. It also can majorly backfire if you’re so nervous on your first tour that you introduce yourself as Mark because you’re reciting Mark’s tour word-for-word.

 

• You give a practice tour to another guide. I’ve performed in a lockdown zoom ‘whodunnit’ play and my practice tour was still the most woeful performance of my life.

 

Because that’s what it is: a performance. It’s no surprise that a number of these neon know-it-alls frequent the university’s stages. Being a decent tour guide requires projection, sustained energy, a love of your own voice and an insatiable need for others’ applause and approval. The only difference is that we get paid more for touring than we likely ever will as hopeful professional thespians.

 

 

It’s a refreshingly practical performance too. The job comes with a fabulous number of perks: you work on your schedule; you actually learn about your new city, and this is all whilst getting your 10,000 steps in. A triple threat indeed! Whilst delivering the same material for the 100^th time can grow tiresome, taking two hours out of your day to walk down the city’s most renowned street is a wonderful way to remind yourself of why you came here in the first place. As students, we become so immune to the beauty of the architecture, to the quirks of our traditions, to the weight of the university’s history. In your first few days, you vow never to take this experience for granted, and yet, by Tuesday of first week, you’re bustling through Rad Cam square with the nonchalance only reserved for your local chippie. Seeing the city through the fresh eyes of a tourist is the best way to refresh your gratitude.

 

 

More importantly, welcome to the segment of this Icon of the Week where I recount my best lies that tourists have believed. For your convenience, they are scaled by eccentricity.

 

 

1. I live in the room where Saltburn was filmed. As a Brasenose member, I figure I’m close enough

 

1. I’ve been forcefully removed by security from the Duke Humphrey’s library for touching an old book.

 

1. My tutor ripped up my personal statement before my eyes because I expressed dislike for The Tempest.

 

1. I stole a deer from Magdalen and let it loose inside Brasenose.

 

1. The Rad Cam is named after Daniel Radcliffe.

 

1. Emma Watson and I have struck up a blossoming friendship after meeting at an English lecture.

 

1. I was accepted into All Souls but turned it down to star in an upcoming Netflix show.

The last two I count more as manifestations than lies, but they still make the list.

 

 

It’s also a very anecdotal job, which is an important aspect for me. Every tour, I’m gifted a moment of amusement to jot down into my note’s app for potential future comic retellings. I remember fondly the time I was so hungover that I had to ask a passing student which way the Bod was when I was standing by The Kings Arms. Or the time I was left an Oxlove by a well-meaning but quite intense Australian man who allowed his children to run rampant as he picked my mind about Brisbane culture. I enjoyed how one reviewer felt the need to backtrack and assert that I did ‘an outstanding job… on second thoughts maybe just a decent job!’ I also like the fact that these job reviews, in general, exist. I’m always welcome to any platform that allows people to heap praise on me, even when they remind me that ‘it’s always best to help out students, especially English majors, as they don’t know much around real life work!’ Cheers pal.

 

 

Of course, the one lingering drawback is that dreaded old insecurity: embarrassment. In the safety of The Michael Pilch or the Keble O’Reilly, my performances are contained. They are not broadcast to the outside world, to be observed and heckled by any bored bystander who fancies picking on a luminously dressed nerd who, for all they know, is on a misguided mission to bring eighties neon back. Oxford is small: we know this. What we don’t know is how the universe engineers its mysterious mechanics to ensure that everybody you know in a mile radius walks past you when you’re screeching about how Bill Clinton once smoked weed in Turf Tavern (fun fact). What the tourist shop lacks in distinction, those jackets more than make up for it. I made several attempts in my early days to discreetly tie it around my waist or bag, but it seems imbued with an almost Aegis-like power of repulsion, shiny and uncontainable, pushing back students and traffic alike to guide the masses safely through the 100-metre strip that is our sacred route. Its power and presence glows like a beacon, summoning all your slightly awkward acquaintances; ephemeral friends from Freshers; past situationships that trailed into nothingness. The jacket draws all your old skeletons out of the closet and onto Broad Street. You can walk, but you can’t hide.

 

 

But after two long weeks of denial, I came to my senses. I finally realised that the jacket is so much more than just me. It’s an institution, bringing joy to hundreds daily. You may have sat at those spindly silver tables and wondered why everyone was clustered outside Balliol at 11 in the morning, and it was because, dear reader, they were about to be led on a spiritual journey. A journey through history, myths, stories, ‘hilarious jokes’ (thanks to all my fans in the Tripadvisor reviews) and ultimately, of Oxford. A place we are lucky to call home. So, next time you see hordes of people blocking the streets or entrances to libraries, don’t curse their existence as they delay your quest for a Saturday morning hash brown. Be thankful! Be reminded that they’re excited to experience for one day what you experience every day.

 

 

If anyone has any recommendations for colours that go with neon green, I’m all ears. ∎

 

 

Words by Susie Weidmann. Image Courtesy of Gruffydd Price and Alice Robey-Cave.