We should hate more – Cherwell

Oxford students hate C*mbridge. Or at least, we’re supposed to. We call them Tabs, occasionally ‘shoe’ them, and inherit a rivalry as soon as we matriculate. There’s only one problem: most of the time, nobody seems particularly bothered.

The Varsity matches between Oxford and C*mbridge began with men’s cricket in 1827, followed by the first men’s Boat Race in 1829. Today, Varsity takes place across 50 sports and involves thousands of students. 

And yet, 200 years later, the rivalry rarely escapes the sporting world. Sure, we shout “shoe the Tabs” during the Boat Race and teams feel similar disdain when facing ‘the other place’ on the water, pitch, court, or track. But, aside from particular Varsity matches, the so-called hate seems a bit…lacklustre. 

Oxford beat C*mbridge 110 times last year and has recorded more wins than the Tabs in Varsity competitions for the past six years. Did you know? More importantly, did you care? We have two centuries of competition and two institutions obsessed with tradition. It should be impossible to manufacture a better rivalry. 

And yet much of it happens unnoticed.

Contrast this with American university rivalries. Harvard and Yale are perhaps the closest equivalents. Their American football match is simply “The Game”, and the rivalry stays with students throughout their lives.

And of course, that rivalry is tame compared to the heavy hitters. 

Duke students tent (camp outside the stadium) for weeks to win tickets to the game against the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. And it’s not just for the ultra sports fans; some years “more than 2/5 of the student body [have] attempt[ed] to earn a spot” tenting at the most difficult level. The Michigan – Ohio State rivalry presents another classic rivalry, where, during “hate week”, the Ohio State community crosses out every single “M” on campus with red tape.

Of course, these rivalries are a peculiarly American phenomenon and would feel forced here. But Britons do not lack tribal thinking.

Think about football derbies. North London. Merseyside. Manchester. Fans invest emotional significance in beating one particular club that massively exceeds the objective significance of the result. There are uglier manifestations, but there is also wonderfully pointless taunting.

Rivalry operates through agreed irrationality. In 2024, some Tottenham fans even hoped they would lose to Manchester City to prevent Arsenal from winning the league. We don’t need to import the American capacity for hatred. Britons have perfectly good hatred at home.

This is especially crucial at Oxford. For much of everyday life, Oxford isn’t one community. It’s dozens of colleges. We eat separately, live separately, and often socialise separately. It begs the question: what exactly is an Oxford student?

The collegiate structure is wonderful at producing college identity. It is considerably less good at producing Oxford identity. What exactly defines us? The University administration? The Rad Cam? A seal containing a Latin motto?

It can be difficult to work out what a PPEist at Somerville, a Philosophy and French student at Hertford, and a Classicist at Merton have in common. Fortunately, C*mbridge provides an answer: none of them are Tabs. 

Oxford does not necessarily need more spirit. It needs something around which spirit can crystallise. That’s where C*mbridge comes in. 

An ‘us’ becomes much easier to define once there is a ‘them’, and C*mbridge makes an unusually convenient ‘them’. It’s a collegiate university built around small-group teaching, formals, gowns, eight-week terms, and an impenetrable vocabulary – only with supervisions instead of tutorials, Easter instead of Trinity, and enough minor alterations to maintain the pretence of originality. A good rival, after all, must be similar enough that beating them matters and different enough that you can pretend it proves something. C*mbridge fills this role perfectly.

More importantly, there is a liberation in caring so much about something that matters so little. Oxford life offers no shortage of consequential competition: exams, internships, jobs. Hating C*mbridge offers the opposite. There is no rational reason why any of us should care. That’s exactly why we should.

Of course, the rivalry plainly isn’t dead. Rugby matches feature heckling, chants, and a crowd united around shoeing the Tabs. The Boat Race turns London into a sea of dark blue and light blue shirts. The rivalry, however, should not require a fixture. 

We should hate C*mbridge more comprehensively. Stop calling it C*mbridge: it is ‘the other place’. Call its students Tabs without really knowing why. Their shade is not light blue; it is an unfortunate failure to commit to a proper colour. Treat every league table on which Oxford finishes higher as vindication and the rest as methodologically suspect. When a friend announces that they are visiting, offer your condolences. In short, be petty. 

Perhaps, then, we should be grateful for C*mbridge. Every good protagonist needs an antagonist. They give our insults somewhere to land, and dozens of colleges something to agree upon. They can even make Oxford feel like one university.

That is a valuable public service. Obviously, we should never tell them. Instead, regard light blue with suspicion. Be partisan. Whenever you compare us to them, come to the completely dispassionate conclusion that Oxford is better. And if you happen to meet a Tab, be perfectly pleasant. They made a rough decision when they were 18. We’ve all been there.

C*mbridge has spent eight centuries giving Oxford somebody to hate. It would be rude not to take them up on their offer.