The scene: a professor's office somewhere in Durham. First tutorial of the year. The tutor greets his new students and explains the syllabus and how intense the work will be.
"But more importantly," he continues, narrowing his eyes, "what SPORT is everyone doing?"
"I am captain of the rowing team," one student cries, flexing his biceps so hard the muscles tear through the arms of his Castle hoodie. "I'm doing netball and field hockey," another exclaims, then furiously smacks a ball with her hockey stick, sending it flying out the room and smashing through a window of the cathedral. "Great shot!" bellows the professor. Everyone else in the class explains their aspirations towards rugby, football, etc. Everyone... but one.
All eyes turn to the final student, an unassuming fellow sitting in the corner of the room next to the door. He stares back, nervous. "Oh, I'm not doing any sports," he says.
"WHAT," the tutor roars, springing to his feet. "No sport? NO SPORT?" The other students stare in shock at the unathletic outcast. "NO SPORT! WEAKLING! HOW DARE YOU? HOW DARE YOU COME TO DURHAM UNIVERSITY?"
The unsporting student rises also, backing out the door in an attempt to escape. The tutor continues to advance, still roaring. "Pathetic fool! You thought you could get away without doing any sport, did you? You thought we wouldn't notice, that we would not detect your puny punitude? Do you not know what this is? Who we are?! This is DURHAM! DURHAM!" His tutorial group advances behind him, a strange gleam rising in their eyes.
The nonathlete turns to flee, but realises that the tutor's wrath has aroused the rage of all the other classes on that corridor, and the hallway is beginning to fill. Soon he is surrounded.
"No sport?!" bays the crowd. "No SPORT?!?!"
There is a scream, a horrible scream, one far louder than you would expect from such tiny, unathletic lungs, but it is cut off as the victim vanishes under a hail of rugby balls, rugby players, horses, etc. At midnight, the Hatfield's men's rowing team A dumps the body in the Wear, where it floats away, a warning to all others who dare to neglect their extracurricular athletic activities.