was glad, and unsurprised, to hear that Suzannah Lipscomb is an out-and-out feminist. “I don’t think anyone of sound mind could be otherwise”, she tells me. The plight of feminists has changed significantly in the last twenty years, and it is certainly still needed now. Lipscomb points to the regressive steps that have occurred regarding gender equality – namely the sexualisation and objectification of women’s bodies.

But the academic realm of Oxford was not where she came across sexism. Lipscomb says that here she felt she was in a safe place as a woman, as both under- and post-graduate. Nor is it especially sexist in the higher echelons of the academic world to which she now belongs, it’s a progressive area with positive changes being made regarding gender equality. Yet she was stunned to find that in the working world, after many years of studying at Oxford, she was minimised because she was a woman. A common and unwelcome reaction from people meeting Lipscomb for the first time is to say: “you don’t look like what we’d expect a historian to look like” – an indicator of the inherent sexism of society, the misconception that a historian would be older, perhaps rather plain looking, and probably male.

In a recent article on feminism, Lipscomb commented on “the media adulation of women who have achieved nothing beyond looking good, be they Jordan or Kate Middleton.” Reading this, I was struck – could a historian who writes of past monarchs with such vitality, possibly think that the monarchy today is irrelevant? Confining them within a critique of glossy magazines rather than giving them proper recognition for their pertinence? No, not at all – Lipscomb describes herself as a monarchist (admittedly probably conditioned by the nature of her work and interests). By making the remark that she did, Lipscomb was finding fault not with Kate Middleton, but with the media and its absurd obsession with the appearance of public figures. Yet she admits that “looking good” is a large part of what Kate Middleton’s job is. It is difficult for a royal to make a political statement or opinion without an uproar from the media; theirs are the faces of Britain, but not its voices. And so yes, maybe Kate hasn’t achieved much beyond an impeccable dress sense and taming her mane, but in this day and age it’s actually not for her to be doing much more.

Considering today’s obsession with aesthetics, it’s hardly surprising that TV history is so popular. When I asked whether televised history lacks the depth and quality of written history, Lipscomb emphasised that TV history has a number of benefits that academic books are without. Yes, the average documentary has far fewer words than an academic article, or even a lecture, but what the production team do with the visuals is invaluable. Places, objects, re-enactments – television has a very different impact to a book; it can provoke empathy and stimulate the senses, making the past more accessible. If anything, history on the television leans towards empathy with the past at the expense of how different it actually was. As the popular adage goes, ‘history belongs to everyone’. It is important to have it in the public forum, on the TV, to interest people who are not yet interested.

On the topic of commemorating the World Wars whilst conflicts still ravage the world today, Lipscomb was definite that it was right and proper to memorialise those who fought in World Wars One and Two, especially considering veterans still live today. These conflicts were significant to the formation of our people. Lipscomb noted that, as a historian, it is important to prevent false narratives being spread; when topics are popularised in this way they are inevitably taken out of the diligent and professional hands of the historian, yet the accuracy of these formative events is crucial. Lipscomb believes that a ‘Just War’ is possible, and pacifism is not an appropriate response to the current situation in the Middle East, for example. Britain’s response to the situation in Syria regarding refugees is not ethical, and this is a consequence of not getting involved militarily.

Discussing war and defence, I wondered whether that should be a factor in the EU referendum. With the current focus being largely economic, was it not also appropriate to discuss potential inter-European war and peace? That was, after all, the very reason for the formation of the European Union; to keep the peace in the wake of World War Two. The pro-EU politicians can count on Lipscomb for her vote. The defence point, she commented, makes a lot of sense. Organisations such as the European Union and the United Nations are flawed, but they are the best options we have regarding working together and ensuring peace. “Leaving the EU would be foolish – we would suddenly realise how small an island we 

Bored of languishing upon sunbeds in the 36°C Italian sun on the shores of a warm, crystalline lake, this Oxonian ex-pat finally plucked up the courage to enter into the world of Italian stallions upon that infamous app that governs modern dating. English Tinder is a cruel mistress. One poor, dishevelled selfie and the thumb all too quickly swipes left, banishing you to dating purgatory. But the lusty European sun seems to blind the locals and foreign tourists alike, inclining them to swipe right to this pale Englishman.

I went in search of a beautiful Italian male with whom I could share something a bit hotter than a freshly baked calzone and a €3 bottle of local prosecco. But before too long, I’ve attracted the attention of a well-spoken Belgian professing his ceaseless adoration. Which before we’d even met I admit is a bit intense. But the hopeless romantic in me who dreams of the day someone will pen me a sequence of sonnets was just slightly appeased.

It was supposed to be the Tinder date to end all. Yet, quite literally ‘in fair Verona where we lay our scene’, something was amiss. A beach date at a ruined Roman villa is supposed to be the stuff of dreams. But traipsing across a lake in the baking sun, before stripping off and exposing all flab in the most Baywatch-manner your skinny body can manage to your near silent date, all within ten minutes of meeting, is more uncomfortable than arousing. ‘Thus, with a kiss’, and an awkward one at that, we parted – thinking to never meet again. The endless flurry of crashing waves had extinguished the small spark the flurry of dick pics had ignited in the underwear of this intrepid European adventurer.

But what’s that from yonder WhatsApp calls? The streams of adoring apologetic texts start pouring onto my screen. I’m persuaded to date two, and before too long it’s more than the tomatoes on the pizza before us that are blushing. Stumbling back to my hotel, I quickly turf my roommate out with one hand and occupy myself with the other. Holiday romance (kind of) consummated, spooning resumed, I feel an odd twinge that wasn’t just something more pressing pushing into my lower back. The wine, the beautiful Venetian sun and a hot man next to me are melting my icy English heart. My thoughts turn away from smut and begin to wonder, perhaps being told “I love you” on a second date wasn’t that crazy. Or maybe it was just sunstroke from my refusal to ruin my preened hair with an unsightly hat .

The mirage continues to obscure all logical thought. The week passes and the time comes to part. I find myself to have become the madman who considers long distance romance, of sacrificing the endless stream of twinks presenting themselves at my feet at the porters’ lodge or the floors of Plush. But alas, these two star-crossed lovers were doomed to a tale of woe. Floating upon a lilo on the crystal clear lake in the midday sun, I’m told the things said to me were but sweet nothings; a thing to pass the time whilst away from a flock of ripped Flemish lovers at home.

As if this tale could not get more poetic, I find myself being consoled by a kindly Italian nun upon a ferry who understands not a word of my fiery escapades into ‘the love that must not speak it’s name’ abroad. Summer loving complete, stole home this English heavy-hearted son; penis appeased, 

When my friends asked me how many days they should spend in Korea, I replied by saying you could literally spend a fortnight in Seoul and still not get sick of the city. And when they stared at me with disbelief, I just grinned and nodded again. Wait and see, guys, wait and see.

Seoul’s like no other city. No, I take that back. Seoul is like a dozen cities merged into one. There’s no single word to describe this place. More than twelve million people living in the city gives it one of the greatest population densities in the world. With the Han River running through, and with tens of mountains surrounding the region, it is like a natural fortress. The perfect place to found the capital of a country. For this reason, it has been the centre of wars from the 4th century onwards, and became the capital of Korea from 1392. By Oxford standards, this might not be very early. But considering the fact that America only became an independent nation in 1776, Seoul has a history of being a capital about twice as long as that of the US.

The northern part of Seoul, or ‘Gang-buk’, used to be its hub from 1392 until the Korean War. There are a few old palaces left over like Gyeongbok or Changdeok. You can roam around the gardens and the buildings for about one quid, which is a brilliant deal if you ask me. Sometimes they open the palaces up late at night, and it turns into a really popular destination for couples.

There are also traditional Korean villages like Bukchon Hanock village, where you can take loads of pictures, pretending you’re back in 19th century Korea. Isna-dong is also around that region, and you can try making traditional Korean fans or pottery, get your name written in Korean or even try on our traditional costume, Hanbok.

If you have an extra day or two, you can try going hiking on Bukhan Mountain. This was ‘the thing’ that all my friends from the UK were most psyched about. “You’ve got about five mountains around 800m in your capital? Can we climb them?” A casual 4-hour hike right in the middle of the city. I don’t think a lot of capitals have that now do they?

But it’s not just the geography that makes Seoul special. It’s the trendy culture that we have, emanating from Gangnam, as immortalised in PSY’s phenomenal ‘Gangnam Style’. The area has taken off since the 70s. A lot of youngsters like to come here. This is where all the trends begin, from fashion to food to music.

In Seoul, we love our food. And yes, I’m generalising the entire population of twelve million people. And yes, it’s true. There are more than 20 popular TV shows that either introduce good restaurants in Seoul, teach cooking, or show cooks cooking. If a restaurant has a particularly good reputation, we go through the pain of waiting 2 hours, just to have a 20-minute meal with a Makgeolli (a type of fermented rice drink) to satisfy our stomachs and put a pic on Instagram with the ever popular tag #Foodstagrams.

We love drinking as well – when it’s raining, we go have Makgeolli and Korean pancakes. We drink when it’s the end of exams, when people break up, when they go to the army, when it’s their birthday. There are so many reasons why Koreans go drinking. And not only do we drink in pubs, we also drink on the lawns of universities, and play drinking games that are a lot louder and a lot more fun than sconcing.

The hustle and the bustle of the city never stops. All the shops are open until midnight, and most pubs or convenience stores are open all night. You can even get chicken delivered to your house at 1am. The 24/7 liveliness has more than a few upsides. You can get a bank account opened within twenty minutes, get the card activated in the next five minutes, and you can get your TV fixed within the day. We like to speed up our things, and we do not like waiting. But this desire for speech without infringing on quality is what makes the place such a successful and vibrant city. Even if it is an insomniac 

Casting my thoughts so far back to a time before I knew you and your influence is a feeling I’ve not yet mastered. In the years we were together, I became someone else. You defined part of who I am today, both for better and for worse. Even now I sometimes still take a peek at your latest online playlists. You inspired me to push myself to where I am today. You proved to me my naked body can actually do some pretty great things and wasn’t just good for purposes of self-deprecation. But you also triggered my trust issues after you cheated on me. Or put me off becoming too intimate for fear I’ll be trod on and spoken to like dirt, flung into yet another unnecessary fit of despair to be pulled back into loving arms a few days later.

We were messy. Our relationship was kind of like that bit of chewing gum stuck to the sole of the your shoe. Being stuck together caused a constant falter in our strides. Neither of us could explore our sexualities or be who we truly wanted to be. But whenever we pulled apart the sticky mass of our crumbling mess, the loss of part of me threw my stride so much I felt crippled without it. Both of us tugged frantically at the ever thinning fibre to grasp some essence of what had brought us so close so long ago.

When the final strand of mess finally pulled away, I retreated as quickly as I could. You took that as malicious. But it was never intended like that. I needed to be myself and be free of how poisonous we had become to each other. I had to put myself first after being so much a part of someone else for so many years. It didn’t mean I stopped loving you as a person.

Yes, the romance had died. The trust was gone. But we grew up together; even if my own growth was mainly around the waistline. The last time I saw you I couldn’t speak a single word to you. I’d changed so much, learnt so much about myself and stumbled upon so much more that needed to be worked on. The person I am now is separated from the child I used to be by a vast void that couldn’t be overcome or explained in a few simple sentences in an awkwardly public setting. But somewhere in my mind, the scrawny teenager in a duffle coat with Groucho Marx eyebrows will always love the figure in his increasingly tatty Barbour and awkwardly large shoes. These silhouettes of the past will always be holding their dryskinned hands together in my mind.

To others our relationship was a darkened lump upon my once-confident side, now restored. Which a lot of the time it was. But I saw underneath the grime collected on the outside. To me the pure innocence of someone immensely loving beneath it was hidden by trouble always seemed to come through. I’d wish I’d seen my tendency to cling to and rose tint everything earlier, but dragging things so far made it easier for both of us to move on.

Many who know how you treated me would wish you ill. Of all of them, I should be the first. But I’ve learnt to forgive. I’m not sure if we’ll ever see or speak to each other again, but my door is always open to a friend I would willingly welcome. I wish you and your new partner all the happiness a feeble arts student can. As the song goes, ‘wherever you are, I hope you’re singing now.’ I hope you’ve found what you missed out with me so many years ago. And I hope the same happens to me soon.

The feeling of floating, unaided, in the salty water, floundering about if you try to swim, makes a visit to the Dead Sea unique. But the days are numbered for this fun and bewildering marvel, this landlocked salty ‘sea’.

The Dead Sea is dying. Due to a number of factors, both geological and human, the water level of the Dead Sea has been dropping dramatically over the past decades. Over 50 miles long in 1950, the sea is a mere 30 miles long today — leaving some resorts high and dry and causing havoc to the local ecosystem. The sea is still shrinking, and is getting barely 10 per cent of the water it needs to maintain its current levels.

The Dead Sea has always led a precarious existence. Its outlet to the sea dried up over 18,000 years ago, leaving a salty lake at the lowest point on Earth. It has maintained a fragile equilibrium since Classical times: from the rivers and streams which feed into it the Dead Sea gets fresh water, which in turn evaporates, keeping the water level stable and enabling the sea to maintain extraordinarily high salt levels (around 33% salinity). In the 1960s, the amount of water entering the Dead Sea was dramatically reduced by Israel’s pumping and diversion of tributaries to provide water across the country. In the 1970s, Jordan and Syria also began to divert key water sources, too.

An American adventurer in the 1800s described the sea as hundreds of feet wide in some places, interrupted by “frequent and most fearful rapids.” It is now a murky, dirty snake of water, barely wider than a large stream to a British observer such as myself. The Dead Sea is essential for tourism in both Jordan and Israel/Occupied Palestinian Territories. People have travelled here for centuries to experience the weightless feeling of floating, and many others have come seeking treatment for a wide variety of ailments. Hotels are finding themselves ever further from the shoreline — some even create an artificial Dead Sea nearer to their door. The money gained from tourism to the sea could hugely outweigh the money offered by agriculture sustained on the waters of its tributaries, but governments pressured by strong agricultural lobbies are slow to cotton on to this fact.

Now faced with the prospect of the Dead Sea and the tourism it encourages all but drying up in less than 70 years, Israel, Jordan and the Occupied Territories signed a letter asking the World Bank to investigate the feasibility of pumping water from the Red Sea to the Dead Sea, via a pipeline over 100 miles long. However, a pipeline or canal such as this would have a huge environmental impact, may well not solve the problem of the shrinking water levels and could severely damage the Dead Sea’s fragile ecosystem, which includes unique bacterial and fungal lifeforms.

Contrary to its name, the Dead Sea supports a complex and flourishing ecosystem. Its shoreline oases arehome to scores of plants, fish and mammals, such as the ibex. These could disappear in as little as five years.

There seems little hope in securing a future for the Dead Sea if nothing is done to change local water usage. Tourists should keep in mind that water is not something that can be taken for granted when staying at the hotels lining the shore. While a more lasting solution that ensures that the population have the water that they need and the delicate tourist industry and ecosystems are maintained, governments should perhaps encourage farmers to grow crops that require less water. However, the solution has not yet been found, and the Dead Sea is continuing to die. I would get your visit in quick before you can no longer try reading a newspaper whilst floating in the salty water