In a moment of weakness I bought John Carey's memoir 'The Unexpected Professor' to read on the journey to and from Bristol. I certainly wouldn't recommend buying it - the only really interesting bits are the scraps of literary criticism that are dotted throughout. Gave me my usual pangs about not having gone to Oxford, while simultaneously making me relieved that I didn't. I suppose you wonder, as an egghead that didn't go to Oxbridge, whether you could have had your intellect stretched by going there. Where I went to uni it was rare to find somebody on my course that actually admitted to caring about books.