Tuesday 5th August 2025
Blog Page 1126

I Tried Burger King’s Black Burger

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“Burger King brings its infamous black burger from Japan to the UK just in time for Halloween!” The Daily Mail headline read. “Bloody hell,” I thought. “What’s all this?” Turns out Burger King are now selling a limited-edition Whopper Burger that in a bizarre twist sandwiches its fillings between two coal-black buns. The article’s images invited me to gaze upon what was undoubtedly one of the least appetizing things I’d ever seen. I had to try it.

 

Who knows why? Latent self loathing most likely. And so once again I found myself in a familiar position, contemplating putting something truly, deeply repellent into my mouth. So off I sauntered to locate the prime Cornmarket real estate currently being devalued by the sticky-floors of a Burger King.

 

What a fucking let down this burger was. I should have known from the defeated stare of the woman who served me as I placed my order. “Do you want to go large on the meal?” her mouth had asked; “wage labour is a process of alienation from ourselves,” her eyes silently screamed. But the queue had been so long and a guy on a different till had already yelled at me, that I was just thrilled to be handed a warm meal.

 

So, tray replete with 7 Up (lemony), fries (disappointingly unsalty), and mysterious hamburger, I made my past the disconcertingly large wall-mounted panorama of the rad cam (because it’s burger shaped!?) and over to a surprisingly debris-free table. I seized my burger from its wrappings. It looked kind of … deflated? Photographs of fast food consistently rank amongst the most deceitful images in the world, so I can’t say I was particularly surprised. At a glance it looked a bit like a black sock sitting atop a multicoloured shirt in someone’s dirty laundry. Anyway, in the interests of journalism I soldiered on, taking a tentative bite that still managed to include most of the ingredients. It wasn’t bad I guess. The bun was bbq flavoured, but in the way that a blue Slush Puppy supposedly tastes like raspberry. Anyway, long story short it tastes a lot like a normal fast food burger but with some bbq sauce added. Fine as long as you know what you’re in for I suppose.

 

Also, black is supposedly slimming but I checked online and there are at least 50 more calories in this than you’d find in a standard Whopper.

 

Still, I finished the burger. Thankfully, my bodily functions seemingly remained in stasis, which I attribute to the powers of positive thinking and a history of eating truly foul foods in large quantities. To be honest, I’d have appreciated the confirmation that it had in fact exited my digestive tract.

 

Yet the real disappointment was not the burger itself, but that for a few fleeting moments, I’d allowed some twat in a marketing department to succeed in getting me excited to inhale a mass-produced burger just because they lobbed in an extra handful of e-numbers.

 

Perhaps the true horror of this burger and its unnatural perversion is the depths to which we’ll sink for ‘new’ experiences inside the materialist prison of late capitalism. Happy Halloween!

A pack of lies: Queuing and The Oxford Union

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The Oxford Union often gets a bad press: phone hacking, sponsorship scandals and accusations of rape are but the tip of a large iceberg of pathetic hackery and woeful incompetence. Yet, I have an inkling that this entire high-octane, low-importance drama is just smoke and mirrors. It acts as a cover for the real disgrace that plagues the Oxford Union, namely its total and utter inability to do what it says on the tin. 

Essentially, the scam runs a bit like this: a snake oil salesman-cum-Union hack introduces himself to an impressionable fresher. The hack then proceeds to paint a picture of the Union to the fresher as some land of milk and honey, using big names like Elton John and Morgan Freeman to persuade the fresher in question that membership of the Union is the best idea ever. The fresher momentarily gulps at the whopping price (currently £248) but buys membership and doesn’t use it for a year.

Then suddenly, some big names get announced and the now former fresher gets excited. Maybe this whole Union malarkey wasn’t as worthless as he thought. He arrives 90 minutes early, confident that he is keen enough to get a seat. 

But, alas, when he arrives, the queue is already far too long. In fact, it wouldn’t even have mattered if he’d arrived three and a half hours early because even then he wouldn’t have got in. 

This is the situation faced by Oxford students today, many of whom want to go and watch the Union debate tonight on the EU with Clegg, Farage and José Manuel Barroso. This event is the sort of reason why they joined the Union in the first place: influential figures debating issues of national importance. This was why they spent over £200 on membership.

Yet, what they did not realise was that the £200 does not buy access to big names on its own – to gain entry, they also have to be willing to queue for five hours in the freezing cold, with all the knock-on effects on their health and work which that entails. When I turned up to check the queue at 3.50pm, it was already well out of the gate, as you can see above. 

It is in this situation that the true pitfalls of the Union become painfully transparent. Essentially, they have lied to us. They claimed that all we had to do was pay a little over £200 and then we would be able to watch all these famous names at the click of a finger. The events of today, and of many other days, show this not to be the case – a whole lot of unsustainable queuing also has to be thrown into the mix. Potentially a good solution to this would be a ballot system, but that will not help us today. One thing we can know for certain though is that much like the deficit, we are not all in this together. For, whilst the vast majority of Union members have to queue for hours to see their  favourite speakers, the rather unpleasant inhabitants of hackworld can just swan in at 8.15pm to their comfortably appointed front row seat. Now, for me, that is one injustice too far. 

Read Cherwell’s report on the situation.

Review: The Master and Margarita

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Screams in the night are difficult to ignore. Days after seeing The Master and Margarita, sinister recollections of the production still pierce the darkness of the imagination. It’s hard to know what it is in this show that cannot be so easily ignored.

Bulgakov’s The Master and Margarita is a whimsical story combining romance, fantasy and light satire in Stalinist Russia. It details two parallel narratives; one involving Pontius Pilate and the other concerning ‘the master’ – a novelist who is writing the story of Pilate. Straddling these two worlds is the very same devil who the Stones immortalized in ‘sympathy for’. The overarching story is thus comprised of the antics that follow when the devil makes a pact with the master’s lover, Margarita, to save the master and allow him to finish his story.

The production, like the novel, gets at a very strange intersection between whimsy, horror, love, religion and comedy. It sounds like the byline for some awful Maddonna album; it is in fact the basis for what may possibly be director Helena Jackson’s magnum opus. That is no small thing.

The production is set in St John’s gardens. Upon arrival, we are taken to the front lawn, puzzling and shivering in equal measure in the hope of warmth and a set. After some teasingly frigid seconds some multi colored lights appear in the distance; gradually materializing into the demonic figures who will invite us to “dance and debate” as their guests. This flurry of indeterminate space and light, sets us up for the metaphysical ambience that will follow.

Among our hosts we have the devil – played by Ali Porteous. His characterization can only be described as the indignant grandstanding of a sardonic Welshman. Porteous has an undeniable magnetism, which would make even his sympathetic lyricist proud. Trailing in his wake, Bee Liese extends the shadows from the expanse before us to the safety between us. She plays the devil’s cat with a combination of unnerving infantilism and overt menace. Also in the entourage is the comic styling of Azazello, brought to life by the facetious aplomb of Josh Dolphin. Having seen the show twice, I’ve seen the sheer scope of Dolphin’s improvisation. It’s clear from the ease with which he can ad lib that either he is this character or he knows this character fantastically well. Finally but certainly not least is Koroviev played by Mary Higgins. Higgins’s refined characterization testifies to how menace and charm can share a scarily intimate relationship.

Seduced thus, the play leaves us stranded in the shadows – at the mercy of what light the cast and crew decide to give us. If the artifice of theatre can be reduced to a form of language, then perhaps it is perhaps no coincidence that in a play where the story is written by one of the characters, that the actors should be the authors of the production’s dramatic discourse. Jackson’s lighting is not some neutral arbiter between audience and actors. The actors themselves illuminate what they want us to see – they are literally writing with light. I wonder if Jackson sees an equivalence between the authorship of the master within the play and her actors’ authorship of the outward form of the play.  In granting this agency what is her position as director, perhaps a position akin to Bulgakov’s in giving the master his agency?

This logic is key to understanding, why I think the play was so effective on us as an audience. As per the form of promenade theatre, we too are given certain autonomy. But like the actors and like the master, in spite of the appearance of freedom, we too only really see and go where we are directed. Like Bulgakov, Jackson’s surface disavowal of control, has pulled of a mighty trick. She gives us a (determined) sense of possibility, openness and mystery. The author is not dead, she is saying I know I am dead – I am therefore very much alive.

This sculpted magic is why the production lingers so much in the imagination. Like Jackson’s direction, we know its not real, but like her direction, we are still under its control. The ‘I know but…’ is the cornerstone of any theatrical experience and it is exactly what a play as fantastical as this needs and indeed does pull of. I guess one could say that this is a sort of postmodern suspension of disbelief. Again – no small thing.

Jackson’s trick owes much to her co-authors including the eponymous master (Jack Clover) and Margarita (Gwenno Jones). Of the few faults is the fact that Margarita was not given more space to expand her character in a meaningful way. At times she is literally treated as a prop by the rest of the ensemble and it is hard to be sympathetic when we don’t really know her. Having said that, Jones does a great job with what she can work with – expressing all the strength and vulnerability that endears her as a character. Fortunately, Clover has a lot of material to get stuck into, bringing a hilarious offbeat innocence to the proceedings. His style also introduced some welcome variety to the tone of the piece. They are in turn helped by the procurator himself played by Alexander Hartley. Hartley gives his procurator a darkly cynical intelligence, a man who knows he is a monster and acts accordingly. He is not quite sympathetic, but certainly not dislikable – a very clever and subtle rendition. His victim, Yeshua (Jesus), played by Daisy Hayes, has an earnest clarity that plays well against Hartley’s perverse self-awareness. Finally Christopher White plays the poet Ivan and Matthew (the evangelist) with the most fantastic comic timing. He knows exactly when to come out with the right line for some very unexpected hilarity. Needless to say he is fantastic when paired with Clover.  

In short, the reason why the screams in the night persist; is because they can reverberate in the invisible enclosure Jackson has given them. The forms and laws that govern this void, are hidden; for they are outwardly disavowed in light of the freedom we are seemingly granted. Thus what feels like a suspension in nothingness, is in fact a suspension in a meticulously crafted abyss. In the end it is our disbelief, not ourselves which has ultimately been suspended and it is for this reason that it is those same laughs, screams and tears that haunt us in Bulgakov that haunted us leaving St John’s gardens on Friday night. 

How can we change the tax credits system?

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Last month, in a shock decision, the House of Lords moved to delay financial measures approved of by the House of Commons:  a reduction in working tax credits (WTCs). A twist of fortunes that is likely to have elicited a smile across the faces of Asquith and Lloyd George’s ghosts, no doubt. Whether we play this off as a constitutional crisis, a triumph for working people or a disaster for fiscal responsibility only but one thing is for sure – the Chancellor has been sent packing. Ignominiously sent packing. And with that, the Treasury finds itself back at the drawing board in Whitehall, ahead of next week’s Autumn Statement. Meanwhile, what’s to happen next is anybody’s guess.

 But let’s take a step back: why the furor?  In an effort to stem the tide of excessive welfare spending the government has sought to rollback on uncontrolled borrowing. And be under no illusion:  with 1% of the world’s population, 4% of the world’s GDP and 7% of global welfare spending it is, indeed, excessive. That is, excessive and/or grossly inefficient. Take your pick.  

Tax credits, in of themselves, have little to do with the payment of tax. Rather, they are a series of means-tested benefits that were introduced under the last Labour government to alleviate the burden on low-paid families. And secondly, they come in two types: the ‘Working Tax Credit’ and the ‘Child Tax Credit’, for those with children. However, now things are about to change. The current Tory majority government has drafted plans that would see this scheme being phased out, and reworked into a newly revised Universal Credit. These proposals, tabled in the name of “a low-welfare, low-tax, high wage economy,” are the latest in an attempt to siphon off £4.5 billion a year in savings from an item that accounts for 14% of our nation’s welfare bill.

Hardly the darling of the Left, WTCs haven’t always had Labourites swooning. Unquestionably, the policy has had its fair share of critics from both sides. Left-wing activists have long claimed that while tax credits are paid to the poor, they really come under the bracket of ‘corporate welfare,’ enabling retail giants to dish out lower wage packets. Similarly, and on the flipside, wage subsidies have enjoyed political popularity as they encourage work over welfare. Credits assist everyday low-earning workers. They make easier the lot of families working tirelessly but still struggling to make end’s meet. Hardworking families. Or, as they’re more commonly known, Cameron’s target audience in the last General Election. That is why the government has come under fire from some quarters, for sweeping the rug out from underneath the feet of those who are “doing the right thing.” A difficult sell.

In a report conducted by the Institute for Fiscal Studies (IFS), it was found that low-earning single parents would be the hardest hit – losing £1,000 a year, as a result of cuts. This covers roughly three million people. Whilst, on the other end of the scale, middle earning couples with no children will be £350 better off. Is this a case of marginal returns and minimal gains? A study from the Census Bureau in America would seem to suggest so. It surmised that tax credits go a long way to reducing want. For instance, if the EITC were to be eliminated, the rate of child poverty would rise from 16% to 23%.

Where tax credits are concerned, the oft repeated refrain of, “if we want to have more money to spend on health, education and national infrastructure, we must be prepared to rein in welfare,” falls on deaf ears. This initiative alone is not enough to run a surplus, of course not. Instead, it is part of a package. A package that includes a National Living Wage, new personal allowance thresholds (£11,000 by April 2016 and £12,500 by 2020) and a doubling of the amount of free childcare for three and four-year-olds. Higher tax thresholds will save basic rate taxpayers £825 a year and lift 3.8 million people out of the tax system altogether. 600,000 families stand to reap the rewards of extended childcare, worth an extra £2,500 a year. So, where’s the catch? The answer: fulltime employment. Anyone who has landed themselves a fulltime occupation will likely notice an appreciable difference in their standard of living. Yet, for those in part-time work – those that make up the majority of tax credit recipients – they are at a distinct disadvantage. That is the sticking point, and that where I depart the train.

There is much to be said for promoting employment, especially when it comes at little or no cost to the taxpayer. Cameron has tried to achieve this through raising the minimum wage, but it remains to be seen if this will be enough to guarantee peoples’ security. A lot hinges upon a high-performing economy. And, without that, these policies seem detrimental to a particular, frankly destitute, segment of society. We need assurances. Osborne is right to reform tax credits, he is right to speak of “easing the transition in the interim” but it was also right – ‘equitably,’ if not constitutionally – for the Lords to vote down his plans. Now, the Chancellor has an opportunity to recast his ideas and develop them, in the full light of day and through robust debate. The Tories are still the party of the diligent. While Miliband was happy to kick off about zero hours contracts and “a low wage economy,” Labour seems more than willing to have the taxpayer subsidise low wages. It is unproductive and it is inefficient. Whether or not John McDonnell is on board with “a low-welfare, low-tax, high wage economy” is a little iffy, yet in principle he shouldn’t be. Of the 76p an hour the government forks out in tax credits for someone on the minimum wage, 72-79% goes directly to workers- the rest doesn’t. What a waste! Let’s acknowledge that and sort it out. 

How should we define ‘Britishness’?

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“We have our ancestors looking over us as we endeavour to take their country back, putting our own people first in our own country. Is that too much to ask?” Paul Golding and his herd of entirely white Britain First thugs think they know what Britishness is, and they’ve decided they’re going to fight for it. Unfortunately, no one else seems to have an answer to that question.

David Cameron recently tried to define Britishness as “freedom, tolerance, respect for the rule of law, belief in personal and social responsibility and respect for British institutions”, which doesn’t seem to come to much more than a declaration of support for human rights and a point about British institutions that seems a little circular. Others take a wilder, more fun approach, chucking together Monty Python, PG Tips, Shakespeare and chicken tikka masala. There must be something here, if on a superficial level, but it does feel a bit dishonest in the face of the diversity of the country, across groups of age, class and ethnicity. As for the definition of Britishness that mourns the loss of our genocidal empire, well, that one can make like the economies and collective mental health of colonised countries and collapse catastrophically.

There is such a struggle here. Are you English? British? European? A Londoner? What are British values? How do we fit the royal family in? The Church of England? What’s left? And if you believe there isn’t anything left, that Britain is just a splodge of land with no distinguishing features to its culture, does that really, truly fit the experience of people in this country?

 The problem, the cause of this big impasse, is that we’re still working with outdated assumptions about the nature of cultural identity. One of these is the link between ethnicity, ‘origin’ and cultural identity. It’s always been clear to many British people of colour that there are still misleading and exclusionary links between these things. “No, but where are you really from?” is nearly a worn-out joke in the British Asian community, if not in other communities too. You’ve just met someone new, you exchange names and they ask where you’re from. “Ealing,” I reply, “how about you?” The response far too often fits a neat little formula: “Oh, no, I meant where are you really from?” It’s clear what the disconnect is, and I doubt it would be there if I were about three shades less dark on the Dulux scale.

They rarely, probably never, mean any harm, but the assumption is there. At some level, in some way, the visual parts of my Punjabi Sikh ethnicity – skin colour, the proportions of my face, luxurious thick hair – lead to assumptions about my cultural identity, and that of anyone like me. After all, asking someone where they are really from in this context is really about belonging to a culture – and this is a common, widespread experience. On a sidenote, I’m glad to say that these conversations are rare in Oxford, but it’s worth bearing in mind that many people experience them as well-intentioned but deeply hurtful micro-aggressions, that happening again and again create a real experience of ‘not belonging’.

The whole connection between ethnicity and cultural identity is outdated and irrelevant. There’s a good 13 per cent of the country that isn’t white, most of whom identify as British and most likely are as British as the next person, whatever that’s supposed to mean. Even if we recognise this intellectually, as a country we still haven’t shaken off the remnants of our past mindsets.

The other limiting aspect of our approach to cultural identity is a focus on finding one particular ‘Britishness’, or on trying to reject that concept entirely. We need to understand that cultural identity just doesn’t work in that way anymore – several cultural identities can co-exist in the same person, and identity is something fluid and changeable, dependent on a thousand factors. A good case study of this is this generation of young British Indians. They’re more traditional British Asian when they are around the previous generation, more contemporary British Asian if they’re listening to Panjabi MC, and more vanilla British in a myriad of other situations. There is no fixed identity, and often no particular cultural identity at all other than however much of an identity that person has created for themselves, territory many British Asian novelists have explored.

This new nature of cultural identity, and consequently of Britishness, is most clear in minority communities, but they’re just the flashpoints of a wider change. We’re still looking for a fixed, discrete Britishness, but we just can’t find it, and never will. Maybe the new generation of British people of colour, as culturally rich as we are culturally confused, can offer a hint. Once we’ve rooted out those last subtle old racist assumptions, we should embrace the confusion and complexity that is the reality of contemporary cultural identity. With that done, we’ll hopefully be one step closer to pulling together an understanding of ‘Britishness’. If nothing else, Paul Golding won’t be too pleased about it, and that can only be a good sign.

The International Student: Starbucks’ Christmas crisis

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With Halloween long past us and our days shortening into emaciated slivers of daylight, we have found ourselves once again in that premature inauguration of the Christmas season. Bleeding red with the great spectre that haunts America, the hobgoblin of cultural Marxism, Starbucks has found itself at the centre of an uproarious controversy over their new, minimalistic seasonal cups for Christmas. After unveiling their new cups, which are now plain red sleeves which otherwise mask a shockingly overpriced coffee, our perennial Christmas crusaders have located this year’s strategic outpost for the war on Christmas. With their heavy artillery of jaundiced Twitter posts and the ultimatum of a boycott, it seems as though war has indeed broken out over pumpkin-spiced frontiers.

Starbucks’ bold move to remove the outlines of Christmas paraphernalia has been interpreted as indicative of a pernicious trend warring against all things Christian in America. One of the leaders of the campaign against the cup posted on Facebook, “Starbucks removed Christmas from their cups because they hate Jesus.” Not being particularly good at discerning the underlying motives behind simple cup-designs myself, I confess a great degree of admiration for the sheer deductive penetration exhibited by this comment.

“What next?”, we all ask in horror with baited breath. First our favourite, monolithic coffee company de-Christmasises their cups, then we wage a genocide on evergreen trees, then ‘cultural Marxists’ have us celebrate Stalin’s birthday (the 18th of December; close enough!) in lieu of Christmas? When will it stop, when will the Jesus-hating powers that be, let civil American Christians celebrate the arbitrarily calculated birthday of their Lord in peace and without harassment? Let Christmas be Christmas: a time for bickering, sanctimony, and feeling uniquely and directly assaulted by anything that does not reek of social theocracy.

If there is anything to be taken away from this it is not an awareness of certain American Christians’ persecution complex but rather the dangers of tokenism and the toxicity of consumer culture. When Christmas becomes largely identical with the consumption and exchange of Christmas goods, it is only predictable that many will react with dismay when one of those goods becomes modified so as no longer to be unambiguously a Christmas good. When the content our experiences of holidays, social life and festivities are made out to be consumable, we have already let the invisible hand of the market squat on our souls.

It is precisely the link established between our needs, projects, and desires for those products which we consume which is really the malady at play in this strange pantomime.

Our deep-seated commitments and desires, from friendship to religious practice, all suffer when our agency as consumers becomes a necessary vehicle for them. Our anger at the likes of Starbucks masks a greater deficit in our love of Christmas festivities and ritual. When people feel that Christmas is constituted by a set of goods, which include disposable cups housing overly sweet seasonal coffee – that is the war on Christmas. Those at fault are not primarily the corporations but those who have reduced their agency to basic commodity consumption and fetishism.

Interview: Paul Mason on Post-capitalism

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“I find the academic literature on this so timid and so bound by caveats…it needs somebody to stick a big stick with a flag on it in the middle of the territory and to pose a thesis in a non-scholarly way.”

 Paul Mason, Channel 4 Economics Editor, award-winning journalist and lifelong fan of Northern Soul, has a radical and controversial insight on the future of capitalism. He sets out his own take on the future in his new book PostCapitalism: A Guide To Our Future.

 I met him in Mr Blackwell’s nineteenth century office on the top floor of Blackwell’s bookshop, shortly before he spoke in their Academic Book Week about the future of a world after capitalism. Mason sported a beard, jeans, and a leather biker jacket. His book boldly sketches out a vision of society in 2050.

 I began by asking him whether he sees this as the beginning of the end for capitalism, or just for neoliberal capitalism.

“Neoliberal capitalism most clearly cannot go on. The endless expansion of the money supply because of fiat money – that is money not linked to metal or global output – is in conflict with a world where the bargaining power of labour is so low that it cannot maintain its share. You get the endless expansion of credit, financialisation of ordinary working lifestyles, and the stagnation of incomes. All this is going to create a situation in which the credit system has to be elastic – to constantly expand so that people can live – and still the incomes against which the credit is being expanded do not rise.

 “Neoliberalism has now been through three boom-bust cycles: the Asian crisis, Dotcom, and the structured finance crisis that led to 2008. Neoliberalism cannot go on, but its strategic problem is that all credit is premised on the idea of return payments with interest out of growth from the market economy. My thesis is that there is a non-market economy growing alongside capitalism, based on information technology, that will compete with capitalism and the market for certain areas of economic life. It has already won the competition in the sphere of encyclopaedias and web hosting software, but lost in the sphere of platforms where taxi drivers can interact with each other.

“My hypothesis is that capitalism can be superseded by a post-capitalist, non-market form of society, but I also leave open the possibility of post-capitalist survival and what that would mean colonising. The only market that remains is one of human micro interactions – today we have sex work, tomorrow we may have to have friendship work: these are the last tier for economic rationality. I do not think there is enough value in them to sustain a third industrial revolution. Wonga and Uber are very impressive businesses in their time, but they are not the third industrial revolution.”

 Mason sees information technology as being at the heart of this change, but I asked him if this is purely an illusion of freedom. Is this ever expanding digital age tying us down to giant digital corporate companies, allowing them to further chain us into a cycle of consumerism?

“These are chains, but let’s try and relativise it. The first thing is that what the tech giants are doing are farming and commercialising their externalities, the spill overs, the free stuff that we create. I interact with you or 200 or 1000 people on Facebook, a third thing is created out there in the cloud – a network effect. All the business models of the tech giants are dedicated to capturing the value in that network effect and selling it. It is a chain: information should be free and we should utilise our own information.

“I am not in the dystopian school that sees everything like The Matrix. I don’t think that they are surrounding us with information barriers and prisons that are unbreakable. On the contrary, I think that they are breakable through network action.”

We move away from discussing his book, and turn to Europe and the EU referendum. He tells me that he did not have a necessarily eurosceptic critique of the euro or EU, but that he does have a democratic problem with it.

 “It is losing its democratic raison d’être because you cannot go on imposing austerity on states that cannot repay their debts. Right-wing populism has a logic to it if mainstream conservatism cannot answer the central question – that is, we signed up to an economic union that has become basically a currency union that does not work. It is not the ever closer union that is the problem, it is the currency union that does not work and the unwinding bureaucracy.

 “The EU is transforming itself into a kind of non-rule of law situation. The Euro group is not a legal entity so it is a joke when things like the Euro group take decisions that look like economic warfare – what they are saying is that their might is right. In a way it seems strange to put it this way because I am very for the rights of migrants and refugees, but the people who have forced their way across the European frontier have destroyed several things: Schengen, Dublin. The free movement laws are all in tatters because some people could get in. It is great for them but it is not great now for all the people I met in Morocco, all the sub-Saharan migrants who are trapped in Tangiers. They cannot barge their way in; many of them will have an equal claim to asylum in Europe as the people who came from Syria. So what you are getting again is might is right, it is not the rule of law. That is my big fear; that the British electorate, through a combination of right-wing populism and quite logical left-wing outrage at what Europe is becoming, will make people ultimately look at it and think maybe we do not want to be in it.

“My fear is not that we leave the Euro but that a chaotic exit takes place because a combination of frustration and outrage cannot produce a logical outcome. If you think it is bad now, wait and see what we are going to have to do to make a bunch of bilateral trade deals if we are outside the EU. That is a danger that we will have to hawk ourselves around as a country to the highest bidder because we now have to do 200 trade deals with everybody who we formally traded with via the EU.”

After our interview he signed the Blackwell’s book, joining the likes of Muhammed Ali, and then led an engaging debate on the future of capitalism.

Review: Breathing Corpses

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Promenade theatre is a form of drama seldom seen on the student stage. For the uninitiated, it’s a theatrical format that immerses the viewer by allowing them on set. With no seating and no formal distinction between story and viewer, audience and actors alike are left at each other’s mercy. The creative opportunities afforded by such a set up are incredibly interesting but also incredibly risky.

It’s exciting that a production at the O’Reilly should attempt to harness this ambitious format and furthermore a testament to the vision and bravery of the show’s director and producer. Especially in light of the creative and financial risk of putting it on. And yet although this was a great effort, I wish they had pushed the possibilities of the format further.

Breathing Corpses tells three sets of stories through five extended vignettes. The thread that flows throughout each of the stories is a debilitating encounter with death. The first story shows us a hotel cleaner called Amy who discovers a corpse at work. We then move to the office of a storage locker manager called Ryan (James Watson) who similarly discovers a dead body moments after a representatively awkward and strained conversation with his wife Elaine (Isobel Jesper Jones) and employee Ray (Calam Lynch). Finally, we see our last duo in the form of Ben (Dom Applewhite) and Kate (Helena Wilson) who have a dangerously unbalanced relationship, whereby Kate abuses Ben under the guise of stress and anger. These stories interlock until the fifth and final vignette in which Amy uncovers what we strongly suspect to be another dead body.


The story is a little ponderous due to the fact it strays between offering veiled social commentary on the niceties and pettiness of everyday life or whether it wants to be a murder mystery. The former style is evidenced when the dialogue directs us to the quotidian details of our character’s lives. This facet of the writing sometimes clashes with the finding of a corpse. The reconciliation of these thematic and stylistic disjunctions is I think the main challenge that the work presents for a production. It must be said, Laura Wade’s text makes little concession to a production trying to pull together these contradictions. When this production managed to combine both, what came through was an extremely intelligent and compelling piece. It further managed to capture something of the existential and comic absurdity that Wade’s contraposition of death and banality seemed to be aiming for. Sadly, however, these moments sometimes took a long time to shine through and sometimes they felt as if they were a long time coming. Ultimately however I think as viewers we were well rewarded for waiting.

A case in point of how Wade makes it tough to reconcile the opposites of mortality and banality is the first two vignettes. For my money these were are slow and not as interesting as the writer probably thinks they are. Grainne O’Mahony (Amy) has to work with a very unforgiving set of lines when she delivers a series of awkward non-sequiturs which we as audience members are made to find amusing and endearing in light of the surrealism of her situation. Personally the monologue did not come off for me, but frankly this is a fault of the script not the production or her performance. Nevertheless, credit where credit is due – to hold the audience’s attention for a good 10-15 minutes on your own with such a tough monologue is real credit to O’Mahony.

The next scene between Ray, Elaine and Ryan would have worked well as a scene in the middle of a play in which they were the only characters. They came on and delivered excellently all the nuances and subtleties of their frustrations and power plays. Isobel Jesper Jones in particular has refined  ability to conjure a menacing presence of suggested anger or rage- to perfection. Likewise, James Watson and Calam Lynch had a fantastic rapport of easy nonchalance in contrast to Jones’s nervous energy. But again, one just didn’t feel invested without having had the narrative that their situation seemed to presuppose. As such what was a very accomplished execution of the scene lost the urgency and momentum, which the subtlety of their characterization needed in order to really be appreciated.

It was only after Dom Applewhite and Helena Wilson injected some sense of manic neurotic energy that things got more urgent. Their argument over a wounded dog was very scary and the absurdity of the subject matter didn’t get in the way of seriously suggesting the danger and significance of their fight. This was the scene where mortality and banality were best brought together. On the one hand we had the petty details over which the couple argue and on the other we had the degeneration of the bickering into a pretty mortal duel. The resulting juxtaposition, hooked us like a murder mystery and made us reflect on just how shit living in the rat run of everyday working life really is. A juxtaposition of this sort I think was part of the intention and the difficulty of the play.  

Once we see the fight, the play really comes into its own as a gripping and fascinating character study. It is on the strength of what follows this fight that the play deserves four stars.

My one complaint is with how static the staging was for a promenade play. As audience members mostly we ended up standing in the middle and just turning our head to the relevant corner. I really wish they had used the dynamism of the format to greater effect in telling the story. For me it is this spatial mingling between the viewer and the viewed which is the advantage of promenade theatre.

At times this possibility was for example tantalizingly realized to great effect. In between scenes we were subjected to some very sinister sounding noises while a group of early noughties televisions (a great period touch) played news stories from the era. The fact we were isolated and exposed in the middle of the stage made us aware of this disturbing and nauseous sensation that in and among the everyday, something is not quite right. This for me is what makes Promenade theatre unique and worthwhile – it doesn’t let you escape. I was told by director Dom Applewhite that the sounds were deliberately designed to invoke ideas of circularity, which certainly chimes well with the holistic fit of the three stories and the sense of being encircled in the middle of the space. I wish more imersive strategies such as these had been pursued. This criticism, however, overlooks the immense effort required in making the set, which really deserves to be seen.  Some of the subtle technical accomplishments, like wiring the TVs to somehow turn on at the right moments must have taken a lot of work and dedication. Indeed the play as a whole, when we consider its proficiency of execution
 in the light of
 its visionary
 ambition really deserves recognition as a real achievement for the Experimental theatre club.

 

 

Students to take aid to Calais

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This coming Tuesday 24th November, a group of Oxford students plan to drive two vans of supplies to Calais to be distributed to refugees.

The initiative follows a recent fire in ‘The Jungle’ – a refugee camp – which destroyed 40 shelters and left over 150 refugees exposed to the elements.

The Oxford-wide scheme has involved representatives collecting supplies across most colleges and has also crowdfunded approximately £2,000 which will be put towards winter supplies for refugees.

Asked about the origins of the initiative, Alethea Osborne, Women’s Officer at St. Anthony’s GCR, commented, “It came out of a fairly casual conversation about the refugee crisis in Europe and what we could do to help and so was fairly informal really…then we made a Facebook page and crowdfunding page and everything just took off!

“I was contacted very quickly by people from different colleges wanting to help and we now have reps in 16 colleges and the response has just been amazing.”

A list of priorities produced by L’Auberge and Help Calais, updated on a weekly basis, has been used to make sure every donation is as valuable as possible. The top five ‘critical’ priorities are pre-made identical food parcels, volunteers, blankets, sleeping bags and tents. The Wadham donation team has stated it is specifically hoping for men’s trousers, boots and trainers, winter jackets, hats, scarfs, gloves and blankets.

Wadham has been among the largest college contributors to the Oxford-wide initiative, which has been co-organised by Osborne and Jack Clift, LGBTQA officer and bar manager at St. Anthony’s.

Earlier this week, Wadham representative for the initiative, Niamh Macintyre, told Cherwell, “Wadham will be collecting physical donations of clothes and blankets for refugees in ‘The Jungle’ this week and Seventh Week…as part of a convoy heading over from Oxford to Calais on the 24th. We’ve had a really great response so far from both students and staff.”

A Cinderella Story

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Reading the dress code for an Oxford ball can make one feel the need to raid the closet of James Bond or a modern Jane Austen character. Balls are not only an excuse to drink and dance the night away, but also to show off a stunning black suit or gorgeous new dress. Unfortunately, the costs add up, especially considering the dress code. 

A complete evening tail suit hire from Walters costs £85 while an Ede & Ravenscroft waistcoat purchase alone is £95 (one of the cheapest components — the tailcoat rings in at £695 and the white-tie optional black top hat costs £350), meaning that rental is usually the best option.

Women can also hire ball gowns, though it’s less common. Instead, hours upon hours are spent in shops, trying to find the perfect dress. And, of course, wearing one dress to several occasions means committing a major fashion faux pas, easily noticed thanks to social media.

Not only can the high cost of appropriate attire match that of a ball ticket, but it can feel exclusive. Don’t get me wrong: if a student can afford to go to ten balls a year without breaking the bank, I say go for it. But for those who can’t, dress shopping on a budget serves as a great reminder of what they don’t have. To their infinite credit, many ball committees work hard to ensure that each ball is the experience of a lifetime rather than a reminder of socioeconomic status, especially by pairing with hire companies to help save students money.

The New College Commemoration Ball committee is working on just that, as theirs will be one of the few white tie balls this academic year. The white tie dress code was chosen for tradition, as well as the once-in-a-lifetime feel. “While not common-place, people may well attend other black tie events while at University or afterwards, whereas most New College students will only attend a Commemoration Ball a maximum of once,” a spokesman for the committee said. 

As a Junior Year Abroad student, I can’t help but contrast this with my home university, where long dresses are almost always casual summer maxis instead of gowns and full suits, never mind tuxedos, are a rare species. The last time I donned an outfit considered appropriate for a ball was my senior prom three years ago, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t excited about the prospect of a formal evening at a ball or that I would be disappointed if my home university started such a tradition.

Unfortunately, there is no easy way to reconcile this: the cost of attending a black tie or white tie event can be daunting and the idea that women need a different dress for each occasion can easily contribute to a throw-away culture, but what would a ball be if everyone looked like they were headed to Wahoo after? The charm rivals the price, and unless we do manage to break into 007’s or Elizabeth Bennet’s closet, there may be no simple solution to the noninclusive nature of Oxford balls.