Saturday 16th August 2025
Blog Page 1141

Please leave university news to us

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Illustration: Ella Baron

Last week, I remember one of my friends informing me in a pub that the police had seized copies of the student magazine ‘No Offence’ for containing ‘obscene’ content. I immediately checked the Cherwell website for news, as any self-respecting Oxford student would; which prompted  a, now slightly hazy, debate with my friends on freedom of speech and the proliferation of student publications, before we remembered our looming essays, and got on with our lives.

I was surprised the next day to see that the news had hit several national outlets, both in print and online. Why did The Independent and The Telegraph care about the antics of university students? The immediate reaction of many students, from the OUSU BNOC wannabees to the pathetic aspiring journos, was that of Regina George from Mean Girls- why are they so obsessed with us?

This was not the first time in recent history that Oxford has featured so prominently in national news. When student protested Marine Le Pen’s appearance at the Union, cameras from various media outlets flocked to what is, after all, no more than a  student club. It must have made the Union’s day, bolstering the flagging self-esteem of an institution which has been largely irrelevant for the past 80 years (after all, who would care if the members  would not fight for king and country now?). Many in student activism were delighted when Brendan O’Neill of the Spectator claimed that he was “attacked” by a “mob” of “furious feministic…Stepford Students” of Oxford University after they protested that he had been invited to speak on a debate about abortion at Christ Church.

At least once a year, broadsheets produce the same spiel on the Oxbridge application process, dedicating several stories aimed at anxious middle class parents and which probably deter numerous deserving applicants from a wider range of backgrounds. Regularly, newspapers report, the brightest talent of a generation, with 10 A*s at A Level, fails to get into Oxbridge, whilst a digest of the admissions process and “curveball” questions get their annual re-printing, to be  repeated by “tigerati” parents over increasingly stressful family meals- “Well – what WOULD you say about a banana Annabelle?”  

The broadcasting of the annual Oxford-Cambridge boat race, whilst great for Oxbridge students, is yet another example of Oxbridge student activities hogging the limelight. The Scottish Cup (between Edinburgh and Glasgow), The Allom Cup (between the various London universities) and the Northumbrian University boat-race (between Durham and Newcastle) are equally worth watching but seem to have fallen into a media black hole.

So the great question- if it can be said that no one really cares for the student politics of Oxford and Cambridge over other universities, why does it feature so prominently in media coverage? Several media outlets have traditionally been dominated by Oxbridge, from the BBC to The Guardian. The Sutton Trust found in a survey that of the 81% of the 100 most influential journalists in the UK news media who attended university, half went to Oxbridge. Many news outlets are making a conscious effort to change the make-up of their staff, but the legacy continues.

Universities have a great deal to offer to public life. One often hears about the vital scientific research Oxford carries out, researching cancer and muscular spinal atrophy, for example. The humanities and arts professors occasionally get a look-in, it always useful to hear from academics that The Duchess of Cambridge and Princess Diana “play the same role as 16th century princesses.” But most of the time, student politics is not essential information for the public, and perhaps debates over ‘No Offence’ distracts from more important news. Either the media must focus their attention on all aspect of university politics, or simply focus less on Oxbridge. The focus on Oxbridge student politics, and Oxbridge in general, inculcates the dangerous impression that simply because some students go to Oxbridge, their activities are somehow more news-worthy than those of students at other universities.

I am sure  that there are limits to the interest of journalists at the Guardian, The Times, and The Daily Mail in Oxbridge, and those limits will not extend to what is written by this pathetic student journo. But if by chance any of you have wandered on the website or discovered a paper by accident while stuck on a broken-down train, I offer this tentative suggestion. Leave University news to Cherwell. No one else really gives a damn.

 

Oxstew: Study finds fossil fuel companies most ethical

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The University of Oxford’s Centre for Justifying the Use of Fossil Fuels has released a study proving once and for all that fossil fuel companies are the most ethical corporations in the world.

Banking was found to be the second most ethical industry by the study. The research centre, which is entirely independent apart from being wholly funded by oil and gas companies, reached their conclusions by examining how many positive stories there had been in the press about different industries between the years 1984 and 2014. The study did not look at how many negative news stories there had been about fossil fuel companies in the same period.

Key events cited as “triumphs” of ethical capitalism in the study include the efforts of BP to preserve wildlife in the Gulf of Mexico in 2010, which the writers found “significantly enriched the local birdlife of the region”. The report also praised the contribution of oil and gas companies to international development through the payment of bribes to key decision-makers in countries throughout the developing world. In particular, the study singled out the generosity of the British oil company SOCO International for its donation of £27,000 to a Congolese military officer in 2014 as an outstanding example of good corporate governance.

The study builds on previous findings by the professional services firm Ernst & Young that one-fifth of prosecutions in the UK for bribery and graft (otherwise known ‘alternative development aid’) between 2008 and 2012 involved oil and gas companies.

Landon Carter, Director of the Centre for Justifying the Use of Fossil Fuels, told The OxStew, “We believe that this study demonstrates that alternative development aid is the future of corporate responsibility. Our study, which covers a period of thirty years, has empirically proven what oil and gas executives have been saying for a long time – that fossil fuel companies are the most ethical in the world.”

“What really separates the oil and gas industry from other sectors of the economy is its unparalleled commitment to developing impoverished countries, this varies from buying government officials speedboats to helping local law enforcement hang environmental activists. Students considering a career in international development should definitely consider oil and gas companies first.”

Lucy Heywood, an Oil Scholar studying for a degree in Chemistry, commented, “I am really excited by the prospect of having a career in the oil and gas sector. I hear that fossil fuels are helping to make sunny beaches for people to go on holiday to all over the world.”

“I have no idea what fossil fuel companies actually do!” she added enthusiastically.

Meanwhile, an anonymous spokesperson for a major fossil fuels company said, “We’ll stop procuring it when you stop buying it. We would be a renewable energy company if it were profitable – never mind economical. Frankly you students should be grateful that we even donate to universities. If you don’t want it we can always give our corporate executives a pay rise or give a fat wad of cash to our shareholders instead.”

The American Dream: more real than ever before

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The American Dream, wrote James Truslow Adams, is “that dream of a land in which life should be better and richer and fuller for everyone, with opportunity for each according to ability or achievement.”

It is that dream of land in which every generation will do better than its parents’, and where, for any and everyone who works hard enough, success will come. It is that dream of unlimited upper mobility, socially and economically, where the son of a pauper can end up the father of a multimillionaire.

And it is a conviction held by hundreds of millions, which, although it might have been coined in 1931, dates back hundreds of years, dates back to when Thomas Jefferson wrote down his self-evident truths – foremost, that all men are created equal.

That was, and still is, the great goal of American democracy: a society of innate equality, free from the aristocracy and hierarchy of the European ones, where the first Secretary of the Treasury could be an immigrant, and the man whose face now adorns the hundred dollar bill started as a penniless runaway.

But is that goal now hopeless? Given rising income inequality, low levels of social mobility, and the indisputable disadvantages faced by minorities, is it time to declare the American Dream dead?

To both of these, I answer a resounding no. In fact, it is better and stronger than ever before. To argue that the American Dream was once real, but is now unachievable, is to fundamentally misunderstand it and what it represents to American society.  It is so much more than many might think.

There is an inherent contradiction, for instance, in claiming that the Dream once thrived but is now gone and dusted. To say so is to paint a halcyon image of the past. Because there is something else to the American Dream: it must apply to everyone, regardless of sex, race, or sexual orientation.

So take Jefferson’s America. It was an America that incorporated slavery into its very Constitution. It was an America led by a group of almost exclusively upper class, land- and slave-owning white men, who by and large only let other land-owning white men vote. Its dream was a dream stillborn, un-actualised for all the slaves, women and poor living in the country.

Nor, even in the soaring heights of postwar American economic growth, could one say that the American Dream was alive and well. It was certainly not in 1963 as Martin Luther King Jr. wrote from a Birmingham jail; as a man, imprisoned for his race, wrote that the actions of protesters were the actions of those “standing up for what is best in the American dream.”

And was it a dream fully realized for homosexual men and women until just this summer, when millions were finally given the right to participate in the millennia-old institution of marriage? Opportunity for each is not solely about money, as Willy Loman learns at the cost of his life in Arthur Miller’s The Death of a Salesman. It’s about fulfilment as well.

Even, however, if we judge just by economic opportunity, James Adams’ American Dream was also stillborn. Stillborn, because in 1931, the only economic mobility in a country roiling in the middle of the Great Depression was down and further down still.

And though real wages have barely risen for the average worker since the 1960s, there was a market failure of a different sort at that time: barely over 33 per cent of the labour force was comprised of women in 1960. At least between then and 2010, that number rose to 47 percent – and the wage gap has closed considerably as well.

So what do we make of this? That the American Dream was only ever a myth, a mirage? That not only is it dead, but it was never even really alive? Exactly the opposite.

Because above all, the nature of dreams is that they are not reality. They are hopes, prayers, and aspirations. And our loftiest dreams – the ones about which we declare, “I have a dream!” – are ideals. We strive for them, believe in them, and in our belief, make fiction into fact. This is a gradual process – and every step brings us closer to our destination.

The American Dream is not, and never has been, a state of existence. There is no point in the textbooks to which we can point and say that “here, right here, we have equal opportunity for all”. It is instead an ethos, and a commitment. Even if we waver in our obligation to uphold its values, it remains part of the American national consciousness – the American identity – in a way that is impossible to shake.

The United States is at a precarious point in its history. It faces threats – social, economic, and political – both within and without, but at the end of the day, they are not existential ones. Great concentration of wealth in the hands of a few, a sluggish recovery from economic calamity, discrimination against immigrants, and divisive party politics in Washington have all been met and dealt with before.

There is a tendency to say of the present moment that it is the best of times, or the worst of times, when really, it is neither. History’s tide pushes forward, and though Americans’ belief in our Dream falters today, today won’t last forever. A nation that has had so firmly ingrained in it over the course of centuries the mentality that success should be obtainable by all will eventually overcome, as it always has.

In the meantime, let’s celebrate the progress made and wait for the next chapter in the American Dream, that dream of a land in which life is rich and full and where the streets are paved with gold.

Milestones: Sympathy for the Devil

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“Please allow me to introduce myself; I’m a man of wealth and taste.”

So begins the Rolling Stones’ ‘Sympathy for the Devil’, an apparent glorification of the ultimate bad guy. Jagger, giver of hope to camp skinny boys everywhere, snarls exuberantly about the crucifixion of Jesus in the first verse; the Nazis in the second – by the third, he’s onto the murdered Kennedys. For a band who revelled in putting the fear of God – or His opposite number – into America’s ‘Silent Majority’ and Middle England, it’s really not bad going.

The reaction to such a song was predictable, from both detractors and fans. Icon Jean-Luc Godard was so enamoured by its counterculture potential that he made it a film featuring Black Panthers and an extended Marxist voice-over monologue. Indeed, the song held a privileged place on a list of acceptable tracks under the dictatorship of the proletariat (no John Lennon). There’s an interview with Jagger on YouTube in which, in his ever-surprisingly soft-spoken way, he namedrops the songs’ influences; Godard, Baudelaire, Bulgakov’s The Master and the Margarita, essentially scrambling to capitalise on his sudden intellectual significance – and loving it.

The song’s sophisticated ideas – that evil is a human construct, that we “fought for ten decades for the gods we made” – suggest that its more than just a Satanist wind-up, and that the moral panickers simply didn’t get it. Possibly undermining this is footage from 1968’s ‘Rock and Roll circus’ in which Jagger falls to his knees and tears his t-shirt from his back, revealing a massive Satanic tattoo. It fits perfectly into the long, playful tradition of insincerity which burns an anarchic trail through the history of pop music, from Johnny Rotten’s “We mean it, maaann” to Kanye West’s assertions that he is the son of God. Many conflicting moods fight it out in ‘Sympathy for the Devil’ – philosophical, ironic, threatening, and, of course, joyful, what with the best guitar solo of all time (eat your heart out, Stairway). There is no dominant tone.

Mirroring this was the chaos of 1968; turmoil both personal (in Godard’s film, the disintegration of guitarist Brian Jones, who would drown in his swimming pool the next year, is clearly visible) and political (the lyric “the Kennedys” changed from “Kennedy” when Bobby Kennedy was shot during recording). If nothing else, the song stands for the sheer absurdity of middle class, shockingly sexist, culturally appropriative men being seen as revolutionaries when their most subversive quality was being disapproved of by middle class parents.

The epitome of its standing for the madness of the late Sixties is its performance at the notorious Altamont Free Concert. After stopping the band playing, Jagger quips that “We always have something very funny happen when we start that number”, nervously indulging in tongue-in-cheek superstition. But the joke was only necessary because of the palpable rising tension in the audience; the 1970 film ‘Gimme Shelter’ intersperses shots of menacing Hell’s Angels with Jagger’s increasingly desperate pleas for calm: “Hey people, brothers and sisters…cool out.” During the next song, ‘Under My Thumb’, 18-year-old fan Meredith Hunter was stabbed to death.

Why is the song a milestone? Because it ushered in an era of rock bands being oddly interested in Satanic imagery; because it solidified the Stones’ reputation as bogeymen; because it encapsulates the “do they really mean it?” factor. But mainly because it speaks directly to the anxiety of its times. Halfway through the ill-fated Altamont performance, ‘Gimme Shelter’ cuts to a close-up of Jagger, deep in contemplation, looking, frankly, terrified. Who killed the Kennedys? “After all, it was you and me”.

Between the devil and the (Johnny) Depp

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I’ve never been religious. I don’t go to church, I don’t pray and I don’t believe in heaven and hell. But I do think that I have a keen sense of religion, probably best described as a morbid curiosity towards it, and a personal relationship with it which is half visceral, half cerebral – it’s the feeling you get walking into a dimly lit cathedral and suddenly having the fear of God in you, before the intellectual side kicks in again and you remark on the use of light and space in Gothic architecture.

It’s this religious side to me, I think, that makes me totally love The Ninth Gate, Roman Polanski’s bizarre 1999 fi lm about book collecting and summoning the devil. The film has the strange appeal of the occult, and gives me the same buzz I get reading about weird Satanic cults and wild biblical interpretations when I stray too far into the demonology pages of Wikipedia (more common than you might think).

The plot concerns one Dean Corso, Johnny Depp in one of his more endearing performances, who is hired by rare book collector Boris Balkan to recover the two other copies of a book called The Nine Gates of the Kingdom of Shadows, a seventeenth-century book written by the imagined author Aristide Torchia, supposedly adapted from an older book written by the devil himself, and which is said to hold the key to summoning Satan and achieving immortality. Balkan, who owns one copy of the book, believes the other two to be forgeries, and employs Corso to verify the authenticity of his copy. Corso, in his hunt for the manuscripts, follows a trail of mystery and death, in which many of the people he encounters in the world of antique books are brutally murdered, their bodies hauntingly arranged afterwards in manners that exactly reflect the engravings which illustrate the book. His search leads him around Europe, where he encounters misguided Satanic, orgiastic cults, is hunted by hitmen, and is aided throughout by a mysterious woman with paranormal powers, played by Emmanuelle Seigner, who turns out to be not quite the guardian angel we thought she was.

Undoubtedly the film is hammy and the ending, which I shan’t spoil, is pretty dubious. But the film is interesting in ways beyond simply a strange fascination with the occult. There’s an undercurrent throughout of sexual deviance, the kind we might associate with a debauched, orgiastic and hedonistic kind of anti-religion, and an exploration of similar issues of sexuality that Polanski began to delve into with the 1968 classic Rosemary’s Baby. Indeed, in the film’s last sex scene, we can’t help but recall the climactic moment in his earlier film and Rosemary’s haunting pleas of, “What have you done to its eyes?”, as Emmanuelle Seigner’s flash a devilish green. Looking at the genealogy between the two films, we might say that the latter “has his father’s eyes”, as this final moment, by recalling Rosemary’s Baby, reminds us of the sexual significations of much of what we have seen before in The Ninth Gate.

The film has a focus on vision, as the book’s engravings become the central concern of Corso, who gradually comes to realise that, across the three copies, diff erent illustrations are signed by LCF – Lucifer. When Polanski ends the film with a sex scene that is defined by this demonic gaze, he both sexualises and perverts in hindsight the reading processes in which Corso is involved throughout. He insinuates that there is some inherent eroticism in the penetrative gaze we aim at texts in looking for meaning and authenticity, notions that are inseparably intertwined in the idea that to access the book’s potential – summoning the devil – its reader must verify its authorship, as only the engravings by Lucifer himself will work for the ritual.

The film’s interest in authorship and the relationship between sight, image and text becomes interesting when we remember that it is itself based on an original book, the novel El Club Dumas by Arturo Pérez-Reverte. The translation of text into image, represented by the engravings in the book, is taken a step further to the translation into the moving image, a film. Polanski’s film might be read as a search for authenticity in a medium, cinema, which comes late to the game of narrative representation, and plays with what it means for a director to adapt a book into film. The occult itself becomes symbolic of the obfuscating and mystifying tendencies of interpretation, and echoes somehow the strange fetishisation of the piercing gaze of the search for meaning or allegory. When looking for significations in what we’re watching, we see the devil staring back at us, and for a moment it seems like we’ve delved into something dangerous – we’re dancing with the devil. But maybe I’m just being superstitious.

The truth about college football

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Istart this article with a tribute to rugby. In what has been a stellar World Cup, with drama already exceeding that produced at the last football World Cup, it is the attitude of the players and fans that has shone through. But the instance I would like to highlight in particular was referee Owen Jones’ moment of brilliance summing up the difference in cul- ture between two of Britain’s favourite sports while making Scottish full-back Stuart Hogg look rather sheepish: “Dive like that again and come back here in two weeks and play. Not again. Watch it.”

I spent my school days desperately trying to get out of rugby as I didn’t like having my toes stepped on, having my ears rammed between two guys’ thighs at second row and, to be hon- est, generally having my legs taken out from under me.

However, I have to respect a sport that con- tains so much aggression with barely a swear word or complaint heard all game.

In a recent football game I played for Jesus against St Hilda’s, I was left completely dumbfounded – not by how our defence had managed to leak six goals without us getting a shot on target, but by the amount of pointless backchat and appealing.

It is a virus that has got worse over my three years at Oxford. The odd thing is that, having played seconds football for much of last season (where games are not allocated referees and the game is instead refereed by a sub from each team in either half), I have noticed this culture is unique to the first team game.

The obvious reasoning could be that people care more in the first team. That might be part- ly true but seems unlikely given that, at least at Jesus, we are regularly missing eight ‘first team players’ while the second team is flooded with squads of 20. I don’t believe that they want to win any less. In any case, is it even possible to care enough that you would degrade yourself to whining “He was hugging me, ref”? Come on guys. Grow up!

More likely it’s because both teams accept that half the time the slight bias in every 50-50 decision will go their way, and the other half the time that it won’t. In seconds football if you dive, sulk or shout “Ref, you’ve got to do something, its dangerous!” when you’ve just been muscled off the ball, at least five people will laugh out loud at you and another three will spend the rest of the 90 minutes trying to wind you up some more – and that is exactly what you deserve.

You’re not Wayne Rooney. Your season, career and reputation are unaffected by a col- lege ref who’s been paid £25 to put up with this petulant nonsense. You’re probably a second- year geographer who’s whiling away time before finals and your inevitable submission to management consultancy.

I am sorry to St Hilda’s Football Club for picking you out, but I imagine my words are unlikely to even reach you, let alone embarrass you. I have no doubt that you will perform admirably in the third tier of Oxford Univer- sity College Football; you might even be in the battle for promotion to the second tier of Ox- ford University College Football. But at the end of the day, if you’ve ever had a striker pull out of a game because they need to finish an essay on the grammatical functions of proper nouns, you’re not a serious enough team to warrant shouting handball at every aerial challenge.

I used to brush of the accusations about the nature of football from my rugby-playing friends as an exaggeration based on heavily hyped media coverage. With regret, I have to admit they were right.

OUNC see Light Blue

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When you imagine a sports event where bodies are thrown around all over the place, you don’t necessarily think of a netball match straight away. But that was what was on display at Iffley on Wednesday of Second Week as the Blues net- ball side took on Nottingham in a brutally physical league fixture, losing 34-25.

Last year was a season of sustained and con- tinued success for the Blues, who finished top of the BUCS Midlands 2A league with a goal difference of +141. A run of four consecutive wins in the final stretch of the season, as well as an emphatic 32-23 victory over Warwick 1sts led to promotion into the higher ech- elons of the BUCS Midlands 1A. Playing the best teams in the country week in, week out has soon proved to be a baptism of fire for theUniversity netball side.

OUNC’s season got off to a slow start, with a loss to perennial sporting powerhouse Loughborough in their first league match. Confidence remains high in the squad; this is very much a continuity team, with many of the last year’s top players retained, bestow- ing the side with a core group of experienced veterans, as well as some exciting fresh talent rising through the ranks. One can see why expectations inside and outside Blues netball are sky-high for this season. 

The second competitive encounter of the season came against Nottingham. utilising home advantage to the maximum, the Blues ran out to a 6-point lead within the opening 5 minutes against Nottingham. however, their opponents were not to be put away so easily as they clawed their way back into the game by the end of the first quarter demonstrating the skill and resilience that has taken them to the summit of BUCS Midlands 1A. Nottingham’s physicality defined the second quarter’s the opposing team made an apparent effort to physically impose upon the Dark blues, causing Oxford players to fall left, right and centre. The aggressive style of play inevitably put pressure on the Blues, particularly on the attack, although the defence did fantastically to stop the flood- gates from opening, led by the infallible captain Beth Nichol at centre. The strength of Nottingham persisted throughout the second half, with some fiercely contested refer- eeing decisions causing Dark Blue tempers to flair. Despite their determination, the Blues were unable to regain the lead and lost their second consecutive game, dropping to the bottom of BUCS Midlands 1A.

As with any loss, there were positives to take away. The attack, which had faltered against the intimidating Loughborough defence, had shown more promise and chemistry, display- ing occasional brilliance in bringing the ball down the court. The defence was once again superb, aided by the court vision and play- reading of goalkeeper/goal defence Ailsa Key- ser, who made successive flying steals to break up Nottingham’s attack. Man of the match was awarded to fresher Frankie Anderson, goalkeeper/wing defence, who anchored the Blues defence along with Keyser and Nichol.

Hoping to move on from the defeat, Oxford took on historic rivals Cambridge on the 28th in what many passionate netball fans hoped to be a thrilling dress rehearsal for the Varsity match in Hilary. Cambridge had lost earlier in the week to Worcester University, landing them just above Oxford in the league tables due to goal difference. The Light Blues had also been beaten by Nottingham by the same margin as Oxford, although according to sources lacked the Dark Blues’ physicality and court presence.

The early-season clash of rivals was thus fuelled not only by the age-old rivalry between the two universities, but also by the competi- tive desire not to be the bottom-dwellers of the division. However, Oxford’s hopes were dashed as they fell 33-29, succumbing to the pressure of playing away at Cambridge, who were led by an outstanding second-year cap- tain Frances Lee-Barber.

OUNC were once again impressive on the defensive end but were unable to build on the momentum generated in the match against Nottingham on the attack, as they failed to score over 30 points for the third consecutive match. 

Given the tumultuous start to the season, the stage is set for a challenging campaign. OUNC faces a formidable Worcester side away next week, before beginning a three-game home stand against Nottingham Trent, Cardiff and Loughborough. Whether they can turn their season around will inevitably depend on the team’s character and abilitiy to move on and develop. Here the squad’s relative youth may prove to be a blessing in disguise.

Netball is sometimes unfairly forgotten in Oxford, a sport which is played the length and breadth of the country in schools but has undoubtedly been pushed into the shade somewhat at university level by the dominance of rowing, rugby and football.  The Blues, energised and aiming for successm will hope to change that. For now though, the challenge for OUNC is to climb off the foot of the table and reclaim some pride, lost at the hands of the Tabs

An education: in search of my first rugby experience

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16:00 – The shame has been with me since 2002. Every time I pull out my passport, a tear of guilt forms in my eye. A Kiwi who claims to be an avid sports fan who’s never watched a rugby game in his entire 19 years of existence on this planet? Stop it. Those creatures don’t exist. But alas, I was indeed one of those pitiful beings, trapped in a whirlpool of self-loathing and indignation when it came to rugby.

But no more. As I sit on the comfy sofa in the Regent’s Park college bar, left hand nervously gripping a pint of questionable lager, I draw on all the national pride I have and brace myself for the Rugby World Cup semi-finals match between the mighty All Blacks and the Springboks. Rugby had never appealed to me before – I didn’t know any of the players or any of the rules. But the hiding had to stop and what better way to do it then to support the country that I unconvincingly call ‘home’ through its pursuit of glory? Of course, the chance to drink beer, watch sports and document my experience in the name of Cherwell made the venture a bit more appealing.

16:05 – I’m feeling comfortable, happily nursing my pint and still clueless as ever, when New Zealand concedes its first penalty of the day before I could even sip my beer. The kick is successfully taken by a man who can only be described as a Tony Kroos lookalike who’s been living in the gym since birth. Meanwhile, a bitter English fresher states that he lost interest in the tournament ever since England was disgracefully knocked out of the group stages, whilst the JCR president make an attempt at rugby related chat. No one is surprised or amused.

16:08 – Kaino scores a try for the All Blacks, sporting a very stylish headband. Unenthusiastic murmurs of “Oh hey, he scored” fill the bar. A bunch of big men start hugging on TV. Life is good, apparently.

16:24 – Slow motion replay of a tackle made on NZ’s no. 2 makes me glad that I never picked up the sport in primary school. God bless my childhood chubbiness. Conversation switches to the Premier League, which obviously means a standard check of football scores and fantasy team. Chelsea selling dreams. Vardy scores again. None of this is relevant.

16:28 – The guy with the Go-Pro next to the scrum must not have had any regard for his well-being when deciding on an occupation.

16:39 – Aforementioned reckless individual confirmed to be the ref. In other news, it has room ignores him.

16:42 – Commentator says exactly the opposite of what I said three minutes ago. I’m going to go with what I’m seeing. Screw that guy.

17:07 – Wrongly thinking that halftime is 15 minutes, I miss Carter scoring a drop goal to make it 12-10. Another indication that I know absolutely nothing about this game.

17:14 – Try for the All Blacks as super-sub Barrett dives towards the corner. Despite the fact that I haven’t been back to New Zealand since 2013 and I don’t actually remember the national anthem, patriotic pride is starting to sink in. My jubilation is shared with the ecstatic kiwi crowd on the screen, but not with the slightly confused people around me.

17:28 – All Blacks continue to pile pressure on South Africa. The thought of pressure triggers the sudden realization that I have an essay on twentieth-century American unionization due dangerously soon. Oh well. I love rugby.

17:48 – Five minutes left and it’s actually getting tense. All the players look exhausted, but the All Blacks look like they’ve got more to give than their SA counterparts, playing relentlessly as if they’re the team that’s behind. Commentator suggests that New Zealand’s experience gives them the edge, which would have made sense if the other team has never been to the semi-finals before. But from what I hear, South Africa is a powerhouse. Questionable commentating apparently is universal after all.

17:53 – New Zealand wins the match 20-18. I celebrate with a fist-pump, met with a chorus of “You don’t know anything about rugby.” As if that really matters.

After 113 minutes of confusion and exhilaration, my first experience of rugby concluded. Although my understanding of the game was not enhanced by much, it was nonetheless evident that this match was an immaculate showcase of skill and will. Needless to say, I can’t wait for the second part of my rugby education next week, when the All Blacks hopefully win it all. 

Stormy seas for Oxford yachting

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October is not traditionally thought of as a time for the seaside. This October, however, the Oxford University Yacht Club travelled to Le Pouliguen, France to compete in the annual Student Yachting World Cup. Now in its 35th year, this competition is organised by the students of École Polytechnique and features the best teams from teams all around the world. Oxford joined Southampton and Cambridge to represent England against a collection of teams from Europe, America, Asia and Australia.

The first day of racing began in perfect style, bright sunshine and a brisk ten-knot wind welcoming the competitors to the first race. The first set of races made the most of the picturesque bays and inlets which characterise this section of the French coast, with the Swiss team from École Polytechnique Fédérale de Lausanne racing to an early lead.

The Oxford crew featured veteran Oliver Glanville at the helm, Josh Bell on trim, Lulu Wallis on bow and Eric Topham on main and navigation. However, fate conspired against the Dark Blues as technical issues prevented them from racing on the fi rst day whilst Southampton and Cambridge solidified their positions at the head of the pack.

The second day saw even more the good weather, with the wind picking up with gusts up to 17 knots. The Swiss and Southampton crews maintained momentum to take second and third place, while the shock of the day was Cambridge cracking under pressure and finishing second to last. The Canadian team from Dalhousie University also surprised, finishing fourth successively and challenging consistently to break the Swiss/ Southampton hegemony. The final inshore race of the day was fiercely contested, with only four minutes separating first and late place.

The final costal race of the day saw Oxford race into a big lead after a fantastic start, but technical problems once again ate away at the advantage and the crew fell from third place at the half-way stage to a disappointing eighth position by the end.

The weather and the high standards of competition had set up the final day of the competition to be tantalisingly close, with the Southampton and Swiss teams leading the way. With strong winds preventing the usage of larger spinnakers, Canada won the first race after dominating from beginning to end. Southampton and the Swiss continued their competition even till the final stretch of the final race, regularly swapping between first and second. Though Southampton would clinch the race, the consistent excellence of the Swiss saw them gain the world title.

Oxford finished in eighth place, a slightly disappointing result, but entirely respectable given the high standards of the international competition. Battling against the best yachtsmen and women from around the world, as well as technical issues and inclement weather, fairer winds await OUYC. 

Stuck in the fanzone

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It’s happening again. It’s the 89th minute, and Paul Caddis has just slotted home what will likely be the winning goal. The whole ground erupts, and my dad runs towards the nearest Nottingham Forest fans. He leaps down three flights of stairs to celebrate in front of them, leaking f-bombs and lager before he’s dragged back to his seat by a team of hi-vis jackets. Not that I was embarrassed. No, I was shouting him on, virtually baying for blood. Those same away fans had had the audacity to turn around and celebrate when their team equalized just five minutes before, and this felt like justice.

You see, my family is infected, and has been for over a century. We are doomed to have our happiness decided by the fortunes of Birmingham City Football Club. My day is made significantly better, or significantly worse, by how they get on. There’s no reason for it, and I know as well as anyone how insane it is. I’ve tried to rationalize it before, to tell myself that it’s just a sport that should have no ramifications for how my life goes as a whole. But it’s no good; I have the bug. When I see we’ve lost, the bottom comes out from my stomach and despair trails me for the day. If the game is a big one, I sometimes feel it for days, like a persistent hangover or chesty cough that digs in and makes routine tasks a little harder.

In everyday life, my dad is an upstanding member of the community. He pays his taxes, waves to the postman and has never been in any serious trouble with the law. He’s a respected professional who’s reflective, rational and politically engaged. Yet here he was virtually attacking a stranger because his football team had scored a goal. It wouldn’t be the first, or indeed the last time. Just a year before, he’d celebrated Nikola Žigic’s winner literally in the face of a giant Villa fan, and would have had ten years knocked off him were it not the timely intervention of a few bystanders.

My uncle too, once had to write an apology note to former British tennis No. 2 Greg Rudeski, after he calling him a “traitorous cunt” in a pub in London when he celebrated a goal against England. He’s a retired civil servant, and now teaches guitar to children. I wonder if all the friends I made in my first weeks at uni would have still talked to me if they knew that in just ten months time I’d be sitting outside the JCR crying into my Beckham shirt as Luis Suarez sent England out of the World Cup. They certainly wouldn’t have guessed that someone who is usually introspective and left wing would get caught up in something so close to nationalist fervour.

For the layman, such passion about football can be perplexing. Among enlightened circles it is often seen as vulgar and crass. It is true that people in the frenzy of football have committed terrible crimes. Where such strong passions swirl, the wrong people easily harness them. For me now, it’s inescapable. I watch not because I find it interesting or enjoyable, but because I have a deep emotional investment. When I see a player on my team get sent off for the wrong reason, I’m not just annoyed because it goes against the rules of the game. I feel a genuine, intense sense of injustice. It’s the kind of feeling that makes my dad launch himself down the terraces at complete strangers, and my uncle verbally assault a tennis player. It’s never rational and often embarrassing.

Given the choice however, I could never sink back into the ranks of the casual spectator. There are some people that watch football for the spectacle, enjoying the wonder goals and great players. They can talk at length about who they think will win the league, or whether Messi is better than Ronaldo. But they’ll never feel real, seething anger at either. They’ll never be nine years old fi ghting back tears as Ronaldo gives his famous wink to the touchline, and for that reason they’ll always be missing something