Paul Kirkley: Tourists? Don’t get me started
So, it’s finally happened. After 18 years in the city, I have finally acceded to true Cambridge resident status – by getting annoyed at all the bloody tourists.
Being annoyed at bloody tourists is a Cambridge birthright I wasn’t sure would ever be available to a johnny-come-lately like me. Because, in my heart, I suppose I still felt like a bit of a tourist myself. But after nearly two decades of paying my taxes in this town, I’ve decided I’ve earned the right to scowl and mutter darkly under my breath every time I’m railroaded off the pavement by a crowd of slack-jawed gawpers.
The other Saturday was particularly mad. I counted at least 30 coaches parked along The Backs, with more of them spilling down West Road and Grange Road, and every square metre of the city centre was rammed with swarms of people shuffling along behind tour guides holding up brightly-coloured table tennis bats.