It's Oxford in the University Boat Race.

It's Oxford in the University Boat Race.

Ah! The dreaming spires, those handsome red bricked buildings, the cultured colleges and cultivated cloisters with their centuries old of history and tradition. Oxford have won the annual University Boat Race and Britain sighed happily in the knowledge that once again the rituals of Spring had been respectfully observed and admirably carried out. Oxford seemed to win by several oceans, gushing tributaries, endless mountain streams and a couple of reservoirs.

 Victory for Oxford in the University Boat Race must have felt just as enjoyable as Celtic's League title runaway train triumph. Sometimes it just feels very good to be far and away the best in the land. In fact you may just want to brag about it from the highest rooftop with the loudest megaphone. Oxford are in front and aim to stay there for the duration. This is your day of rejoicing and Cambridge would be well advised to stay at home and perhaps watch Cambridge United.

Yes Oxford had won the Boat Race. Oxford is that wonderfully well mannered bastion of learning and academia, where Inspector Morse, played by the superb John Thaw, serenely supped  his warm beer in timber beamed country pubs, listened to the most sombre of classical music and then finished off the Times crossword with almost consummate ease. Oxford beat Cambridge by a length in the 163rd University Boat Race and in universities and colleges around Britain, approving voices in wood panelled libraries could be heard murmuring their respect and then pouring themselves a glass of the finest port or brandy.

And yet there were those in this fair and enchanted isle that is England who might be consumed with just a hint of jealousy and to some extent, a sense of alienation. Why, they may rightly claim, weren't they picked for inclusion in this yearly University rowing fest. What harm had Nottingham, Sheffield, Manchester, Portsmouth, Norwich university ever done to deserve this snub? Oh for English elitism and exclusivity. Why do Oxford and Cambridge always reach the same stage of a University rowing race every year at roughly the beginning of Spring? It's one or the other and not much of a contest when you think about it. Still it does give the sporting calendar something to look forward to every April and that can be no bad thing at all.

But here we were on the River Thames where the great minds of Britain lock oars on quite the most placid stretch of water in the whole of the country. There goes old Father Thames winding and meandering all the way under commanding bridges and then reaching Hammersmith and Putney before getting very excited in those final, aching miles where two sets of rowers give it all they've got. Rarely has one race in April meant so much to two cities on one very distinguished day on the sporting calendar.

Say what you like about London and Britain. Nobody does rowing as well as the British. For well over 20 and perhaps many more years than we would care to remember Great Britain have just bossed and dominated the Olympic Games with a jewellery shop of gold, silver and bronze medals to add to their collection. Sir Steve Redgrave and latterly Matthew Pinsett have just cleaned up on those Olympic medals with an almost unashamed brilliance and virile virtuosity.

But on the day after April Fools Day there could be no doubt that deep inside the Oxford rowing  crew nobody was in the mood for joking. From the very start Oxford made it quite clear that they meant business, surging out emphatically into the front and never really looking threatened by winds or incompetent rowing. They pulled and heaved, pulled and heaved, puffing out their cheeks with purposeful intent and all the extraordinary power that their shoulders and muscles could exert.

Here I must tell a personal story. My wonderful and late dad always rooted for Cambridge on Boat Race Day. The irony was that he hated sport and everything associated with any sporting exertions. But on the day Oxford and Cambridge came face to face with each other he just wanted Cambridge to wipe the floor with Oxford and take them to the cleaners.

To this day I'm not sure why his Boat Race allegiances lay with Cambridge but for no particular reason at all he pinned his colours to the Cambridge crest. Over many a kitchen meal discussion my dad would suddenly blurt out his Cambridge loyalties. There was something wonderfully endearing about such an honest admission and that's one of the many reasons my dad will always remain in my heart.

Anyway before I wipe away a sentimental tear again there was one other reason why my dad felt such a strong affinity with the University Boat Race and Cambridge. This was because the race passed through Hammersmith, his childhood playground during the War. He would often tell me about those happy wartime days at the Hammersmith Palais where whole nights would be spent dancing the night away in some delirious dreamworld.

Today though Oxford snatched the university bragging rights in the University battle of the oars. Cambridge were lagging behind almost desperately in the end and I suspect that my dad would have been privately disappointed but quietly philosophical because that's the dad he was, a loving and warm man with the warmest heart of gold.

So what is it that turns the University Boat Race into some personal grudge match. Before this year's race there was just the briefest of commotion. A Second World War unexploded bomb had been discovered near Putney and what could have postponed one of the most iconic boat races in the world, now passed off without any incident. There was a sharp intake of breath and we could all brace ourselves for the great rowing event of the year. So what that only Oxford and Cambridge could be bothered to make the effort. It does show their dedication to the cause, willingness to take part and this is the way it's supposed to be, two famous universities spraying each other with water in the name of glory and the satisfaction of being the best rowing crew of this year.

The body language in the Boat Race is almost self explanatory, a fusion of whole hearted, full pelt athleticism and rippling muscularity, fiercely competitive men with stern faces and stunning stamina. This is one of the greatest endurance events in world sport and only the Marathon could claim itself to be a worthy rival for global attention. Now it seemed as good a time as ever for the British to reflect their naval and maritime heritage and splash about in a boat with gleeful relish.

For mile upon mile two sets of rowers plough through the Thames, arms heaving and pulling at their oars, muscles stretched to the limit, sinews cracking under the pressure, body slowly wilting and hurting with every haul of the oars. As Hammersmith gives away to Putney and the bridges fade into history, two tired, agonised and anguished set of students dig deep into one final push to the finishing line. It is one of sport's most riveting of spectacles, two boats of men driving themselves beyond the call of duty, blood pumping, heart rate beating like crazy and only victory on their minds.

This year it was Oxford's turn to boast about their university's superiority. At the end there was the now traditional sight of the cox and crew in full larking about mode. There was a general horseplay and tomfoolery before Oxford grabbed hold a member of the crew or cox and chucked them into old Father Thames. Amid much boisterous jollity and joviality bottles of champagne are smashed open and it all gets very middle class and Hooray Henry.

Somewhere in those very thoughtful reading rooms and studious lecture halls, the rowers of Oxford will once again turn their thoughts to the next generation of lawyers, doctors and historians. They will hope that one day a future Prime Minister of Great Britain will walk into Downing Street, look admiringly at those noble portraits of Prime Ministers of yesteryear and just be glad that Oxford are still the University kings of the water.

Cambridge, for their part, may well drown their sorrows with a couple of lingering regrets and beers but still grateful that the viewing spectators by the riverside were still cheering hoarsely, yelling forcefully and generally having a good time. Where would Britain be without its yearly diet of fun by the riverside, bellowing heartily, encouraging, inspiring, making its patriotic voices heard and then just letting themselves go completely? Oh Oxford, this was your day of overwhelming joy, of sweetest revenge for previous years of hurt and then a good old fashioned night of compulsive celebration. Now let's see what we're doing next Saturday. Oh yes it's the Grand National. Does sport get any better? I think not. It's time for my yearly flutter on the horses. A couple of bob you understand.