THE QUACK

When I first became a tour guide, my biggest fear was that my mind would go blank or I would be asked a question to which I didn’t know the answer.  But it didn’t take long into the job to realise these were the least of my worries. Often me and the guides will have lunch on the steps of Weston Library and share the things that have gone wrong on our tours, and I’m going to share a couple with you now: 

The Lion

It’s only natural to want to change your script around after doing the same tour again and again. So, researching new material becomes part of the job. You may flick through a page of a published book about the city or use Instagram.

It was on the morning before a tour. I was scrolling down the Magdalen College feed when I saw a black-and-white photo of a lion cub. The description below read:

Lovely image from the archive of C.S. Lewis’s pet lion Sweetums on the New Building lawns. Sweetums lived happily at Magdalen for three years but was later moved to a private zoo in Cheshire after injuring a student.

I was very excited about this new fact, so when my tour group was by the Narnia Door, I told them all about C.S Lewis’s exotic pet.

“A real lion?” an American asked.

“Yup!” I replied.

It was  at lunch, that I bragged to my fellow guides about my new fact, but instead of being amazed, they looked suspicious.

“Show me,” Jess said.

 I whipped out my phone, scrolled to the photo and held it in her face. She immediately laughed. Something wasn’t right.  

 “Mary…” she said, “look at the date it was posted,” She pointed to the date beneath the photo.

April 1^st.

X-RATED Snow.

Jenny* was working just after a snowfall. She took her tour group to Magdalen College. While walking towards the quad, she noticed a shape carved out in the snow.

“Oh look, someone has drawn something in the snow,” she said, and as soon as she did, she saw what that shape was – a penis.

Jenny wanted to say something, anything, but she couldn’t find the words. Instead, she rapidly ushered her group away, so she could tell them all about the 9 Nobel Prize winners of the college without the backdrop of a bellend.

Broken Record

When you do several tours in a short time, you begin losing track of what you have said and haven’t said to your group.  

Tommy told his group about Tolkien at Exeter College, where he began to explain how Tolkien began writing The Hobbit. A minute or so into his speech, Tommy noticed that his group was frowning at him.

“Is everything ok?” he asked.

The group looked down as if inspecting their shoes. “It’s just…” one of the tourists cleared his throat. You’ve already told us this. Sorry.”

“But do carry on,” the wife of the tourist said. “We’re happy to hear it again,”

Dog vs Cranmer.

The finishing story of the burning of a man named Thomas Cranmer is the climax of the tour.  It’s my favourite part because you can really exercise your amateur performance and impressions of historical figures like Bloody Mary and Henry VIII. 

My stage is always beneath the tree in Christ Church meadows.

“This brings me to the final story of the rise *raise arms* and fall *drop arms* of Thomas Cranmer.”  

From the corner of my eye, I could see the German tourist’s miniature poodle start bouncing about. It had been so good for the two hours, so seeing this sudden burst of energy was a little surprising.

“Thomas would say…” I deepen my voice, “Don’t listen to the Pope, Henry VIII, do what
you like!”

At this point, the dog started digging up the earth, and as he continued to dig, I pretended it wasn’t happening.

“And Bloody Mary is SO angry she brings back the death penalty of being burnt alive!”

One of the tourists laughed, “I think the dog is stealing the show.” I turned to the animal, whose paws were moving at a million miles per hour as mud flew up and out behind it. 

 I faked a laugh and made an, aww, sound behind gritted teeth, then raised my voice…

 “Thomas Cranmer was dragged by his heels to Broad Street…”

By the time I had finished the story, the dog had dug itself a hole deep enough to be standing inside of it, and nobody knew why Thomas Cranmer was burnt in Oxford.