Forget the dreaming spires, dusty dons, and Latin-quoting lords of Oxford. Let us imagine a world where Inspector Morse didn’t attend the hallowed halls of one of Britain’s most elite institutions, but instead honed his craft at Sheffield Polytechnic, circa 1972. Welcome to an alternate universe where murders are solved not with opera and obscure crossword clues, but with Northern grit, a battered Ford Cortina, and a working knowledge of kettle repair and how to fend off a dodgy landlord with a strongly worded letter.
Setting the Scene: Morse, Reimagined
Gone are the cloisters and the cobbled lanes of Oxford. Enter: Sheffield in the ’70s. Concrete brutalism as far as the eye can see, fog rolling in from the Peak District, and a pervasive smell of chip fat and ambition.
Morse’s flat is a converted bedsit above a Kwik Save, where the ceiling occasionally leaks and the neighbour plays darts at 3am. His local is the King Edward Working Men’s Club, where the quiz night ends in fisticuffs and the jukebox skips if you don’t hit it with a spanner. The landlord, Big Trev, serves pints with a side of political incorrectness and once threatened to bar Morse for asking if they had anything ‘hoppy’ on tap.
The opening credits feature a moody synthesiser version of On Ilkla Moor Baht ‘at, over grainy shots of Sheffield’s skyline, intercut with a steel mill pouring molten metal, a lost ferret on a canal path, and Morse looking broodingly at a cracked mug of Tetley’s.
The Poly Years
Instead of lounging through tutorials in ancient libraries, Morse studied Applied Criminology and Transport Planning in a breeze-block lecture hall next to a Wimpy. The polytechnic’s most advanced technology was a projector that wheezed like a pit pony and once caught fire during a lecture on road signage.
He paid his way through uni with a part-time job at a steel foundry, which left him with a permanent disdain for anyone who called a 9am lecture “early.” He missed his third-year exam after getting stuck behind a slow-moving milk float on the A61 and once submitted coursework late because his flatmate had used the typewriter ribbon to fix his motorbike.
His dissertation? “Socioeconomic Profiling in South Yorkshire Petty Crime”—a masterful 14,000-word rant about dog theft, ferret-related assaults, and illegal pigeon racing. It received a First and a free pint from the Dean, who ran a greyhound on weekends.
Cultural Differences: Oxford vs Sheffield Poly
At Oxford, Morse was imagined as a brooding intellectual with a penchant for Wagner and crossword puzzles, gliding through life in a polished Jaguar Mark 2 and sipping floral ales in mahogany-clad pubs where everyone spoke in riddles and wore tweed without irony. Conversations revolved around metaphysics, literary allusions, and whether the port was a bit corked this evening.
But in the Sheffield Polyverse, Morse’s music taste skews more Status Quo than Schubert. His car of choice? A 1971 Ford Cortina that smells permanently of damp carpets and suspicious takeaways. Where Oxford Morse might quote Nietzsche, Sheffield Morse swears by the sayings of his Uncle Les: “People are scum, lad. Trust no one with clean shoes.”
He doesn’t sip ale with floral notes; he downs bitter from a straight glass, preferably served lukewarm and with minimal head. Dinner isn’t a candlelit affair with dons—it’s a spam bap eaten behind the bins of the student union, ideally with a pickled egg on the side. Black-tie events are swapped for ska nights at the student bar, where he only gets in free if he promises not to dance.
Instead of discussing continental philosophy, he argues passionately about the offside rule with Baz from Catering. His idea of fine culture is a decent meat raffle and a working dartboard. And rather than haunting bookshops for out-of-print poetry, Morse is more likely to be seen in Netto, comparing tinned meat brands.
Morse’s Northern Mysteries
Without the Latin puns and corrupt dons, Morse’s cases take on a different flavour:
- The Case of the Stolen Pigeon Lofts: A turf war between rival pigeon fanciers turns deadly after someone’s champion bird goes missing. There’s a feather trail to follow… and it leads to the allotments.
- Murder at the Chip Pan Factory: The night shift turns sinister. Was it sabotage, or just Brian from Accounts being an arse again? Spud thinks it was Sandra from HR. Morse suspects a disgruntled line manager and a dodgy vat of beef dripping.
- The Curse of the Do-It-Yourself Conservatory: A man is found trapped beneath 400kg of poorly installed double glazing. Accident or revenge from the local council’s planning committee? A taped copy of Ground Force might hold the answer.
- Death by Henderson’s Relish: A bottle swapped. A stew sabotaged. A family recipe turned fatal. Only Morse can navigate the etiquette of Yorkshire condiments and unpick this culinary crime.
- The Disappearance of Elvis Barry: A local impersonator goes missing just before his big night at Mecca Bingo. Was it jealousy? Sabotage? Or simply a dodgy van with no MOT?
Clues are often scrawled on betting slips, chip shop wrappers, or overheard at the bookies while pretending to read the racing form. Morse solves crimes through a mix of instinct, pint-fuelled deduction, and a dangerously intimate knowledge of South Yorkshire’s bus timetables and the social code of laundrette queueing.
Inspector Lewis? No, Meet Spud
Morse’s sidekick is no longer the gentle, loyal Lewis. Meet Spud—a gobby lad from Barnsley with a thick accent, a fondness for pork scratchings, and a part-time criminology diploma from the Open University. He lives with his nan, drives a rusting Vauxhall Viva, and once broke up a fight in Netto using only a bag of frozen peas and a withering look.
Spud has a nose for nonsense, a sixth sense for stolen mobility scooters, and a deep distrust of any crime scene that smells of Fabreeze. He once tried to arrest a goose for disturbing the peace and has strong opinions about which Greggs in Sheffield makes the best sausage roll (“not the one near the Moor, they burn ’em”).
Together, Morse and Spud represent a new kind of policing: less opera, more shouting at teenagers on mopeds, and the occasional off-the-books interrogation over a game of darts and two pints of John Smith’s.
Would He Still Be Morse?
Absolutely. Still melancholic, still uncomfortable with emotions, and still solving murders with a weary sigh and the occasional existential monologue. Only now, he broods while sat on a broken park bench, drinking lukewarm tea from a Thermos, watching a pigeon walk into a newsagent like it owns the place.
Instead of uncovering dark secrets in elite colleges, he’s investigating housing estate drama, under-the-table chip shop dealings, and the mysterious disappearance of a garden gnome called Terry. His music collection may be 100% less Wagner, but his cassette labelled “MIXTAPE 1980: MOURNFUL BANGERS” still gets regular use.
He doesn’t own a crossword dictionary. He is the crossword dictionary—just with more chip grease.
Final Thoughts
Would Morse still have become a great detective without Oxford’s polish? Probably. But he’d also know how to fix a boiler, spot a forged bus pass at fifty paces, and tell you which local has the best darts team. He’d understand that justice isn’t just found in courtrooms and college chapels, but also in backstreet boozers, launderettes, and snooker halls.
And isn’t that… just a bit more useful?
Next week: Poirot relocates to Wakefield and opens a second-hand suit shop. Maybe.
AJ Wright is a quiet yet incisive voice navigating the surreal world of sociology, higher education, and modern life through the unique lens of a neurodivergent mind. A tech-savvy PhD student hailing from South Yorkshire but now stationed in the flatlands of Lincolnshire, AJ writes with an irreverence that strips back the layers of academia, social norms, and the absurdities of daily life to reveal the humour lurking beneath.
As an autistic thinker, AJ’s perspective offers readers a rare blend of precision, curiosity, and wit. From dissecting the unspoken rituals of academia—like the silent war over the office thermostat—to exploring the sociology of “neurotypical small talk” and the bizarre hierarchies of campus coffee queues, AJ turns the ordinary into something both profound and hilarious.
AJ’s unassuming nature belies the sharpness of their commentary, which dives deep into the intersections of neurodiversity, tech culture, and the often-overlooked quirks of human behaviour. Whether questioning why university bureaucracy feels designed by Kafka or crafting surreal parodies of academic peer reviews, AJ writes with a balance of quiet intensity and playful absurdity that keeps readers coming back for more.
For those seeking a blog that is equal parts insightful, irreverent, and refreshingly authentic, AJ Wright provides a unique perspective that celebrates neurodiversity while poking fun at the peculiarities of the world we live in. Also a contributor at Thinking Sociologically.
Discover more from untypicable
Subscribe to get the latest posts sent to your email.