Sunday 27th July 2025
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Review: CHVRCHES – Every Open Eye

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★★★☆☆

Three Stars

Fans of CHVRCHES will find themselves at home as the first chords of ‘Never Ending Circles’ cascade into an immediately catchy opener to their 2015 album. Every Open Eye comes nearly exactly two years after the Glaswegian trio’s debut album, The Bones of What You Believe, and in the intervening two years it’s clear that they’ve taken the time to refine their sound.

It’s a confident move, indicative of a “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it” mindset – yet they’ve made some subtle improvements. Part of this is a delicate balancing act – the instantly recognisable bangers that’ll get played to death in Topshop are juxtaposed with the two slower tracks on the album. Martin Doherty’s sole outing as vocalist, ‘High Enough To Carry You Over’, is a soulful ballad breaking up the middle of the album, and ‘Afterglow’ lives up to its name as a dreamy comedown bringing Every Open Eye to a graceful close.

This confidence could be seen in a different light, however. Side by side, someone new to CHVRCHES wouldn’t be able to draw a distinction between this fresh outing and their debut album. Doherty may have expressed a desire not to go down the oft-tread route of a dark, brooding second album (though a listen to the lyrics in Every Open Eye might make it seem otherwise), but the alternative seems to have been that CHVRCHES have found a comfy perch atop their laurels.

Review: Lana Del Rey – Honeymoon

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★★★★☆

Four Stars

Elizabeth Woolridge Grant is a lady of many guises: ‘Gangster Nancy Sinatra’, ‘Lolita got lost in the hood’ and Lana Del Rey are amongst her most famous self-christenings. Persona is a ductile concept for this singer, and whilst she has grown from YouTube sensation to Glastonbury headliner, her identity remains ever ephemeral and romantically mysterious. Her latest studio release, Honeymoon, exhibits the usual saccharine recipe of bad boys, blues and sunsets, but in true femme fatale style, something sinister lurks beneath the porcelain sweetness. This album plays host to an intriguing collision between Del Rey’s signature retro-mania and the darker contemporary concerns of media pressure and identity.

 In Del Rey’s latest Radio 1 session, she couldn’t decide whether Honeymoonwas ‘far out’ or conservative. I choose conservative, simply by listening to the first and titular track. ‘Honeymoon’ is divine, immaculate, and the closest the album gets to the ‘Video Games’ anthem we all adore. omplete with sighing violins and tingling echoes of film noir, the song guarantees goosebumps. You could be forgiven for thinking Henry Mancini is alive and kicking, not least that he helped produce this epic track, one that wouldn’t go amiss on an old Hollywood film score. ‘Salvatore’ is also distinctive, transforming Del Rey from crooning Californian Queen to purring 1940s Latina, teasing her elder Mafia amore, whilst eating “soft ice cream”. ‘Art Deco’ likewise has a vintage gleam with its fragrant whispers of Great Gatsby jazz (allegedly, the song is about Lana’s pal Azealia Banks).

It’s Lana’s lustrous contralto vocal range that binds this album; switching from syrupy, ‘mademoiselle’ timbre to deep, husky jazz seamlessly – occasionally bolstered by synth-organs – her singing is tremendous, as is her delicate handling of language. “Pink flamingos always fascinated me”, the opening lyric of ‘Music to Watch Boys To’, colourful as it is, is teased out sumptuously as Lana lingers deliciously over each syllable. But some lyrics miss the mark: “my past seems stranger than a stranger” in ‘Freak’ and “it’s not simple, it’s trigonometry” in ‘Blackest Day’. Yet Lana’s acrobatic voice conceals such droops; she is able to transform something so simple – “I like you a lot” – into a rich and haunting lullaby.

Honeymoon is a hybrid album though; a chimaera of velveteen Lana and psychedelic Lana. The yoking of Born to Die’s tender, warbling strings with Ultraviolence’s electro-pop pulse bequeaths us nihilistic trap-pop numbers like ‘High by the Beach’. The song’s ‘fuck you’ mantra, with Lana’s dissonantly gutsy lyrics – “the truth is I never bought into your bullshit” – has earned it comparisons with Rihanna’s ‘Bitch Better Have My Money’. Her video, less shocking and controversial than RiRi’s bloodstained spectacle, still surprises.

An undoubtedly baked damsel in distress whips out a large firearm from a guitar case to shoot down a paparazzi-laden helicopter. Though ripe for metaphorical interpretations, this video ultimately personifies the paps as an abusive lover, with the “weird drone” (Lana’s own words) of the chorus conjuring up an incredibly trippy atmosphere. Exchanging the genre’s trademark grit for her personal nostalgic glitz, resisting media scrutiny has never looked so glamorous.

‘God knows I tried’ and ‘Swan Song’ similarly depict this struggle. Lamenting stardom’s curse, Lana serenades, “I’ve got nothing much to live for ever since I found my fame” in the former, and declares “I’ll never sing again” in the latter. Citing the “white tennis shoes syndrome” – excuses made to avoid work, a quaint term for procrastination – Lana entices her lover to put his white tennis shoes on, follow her, become lost and be free. What with a swan song typically denoting the final performance of one’s career, many were left convinced this melancholic melody was Lana’s retirement notice. But since a cover of Nina Simone’s ‘Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood’ ends the album, we can relax a bit.

Honeymoon is peppered with artistic legends: Bowie, Simone, Dylan, T.S. Eliot, The Eagles, Billie Holiday. This could be dismissed as a kudos-quest, but Lana’s originality sparkles. The tracks aren’t individually as distinctive as previous albums, but as with any release, closer inspection reveals depth. Satisfying expectations of innovation and imitation, Honeymoon is a winner: “I could drink it like tequila sunrise”.

 

At crossed purposes

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If there ever was a time when we took exorcists seriously on the big screen or the little, it has long past. Clichés as cumbersome as Marley’s chains seem to have weighed down the exorcist horror genre, and consigned it to everlasting internment in shitflick hell. But even though the clanking of those clichés can be heard all the way through ITV’s latest foray into the genre, Midwinter of the Spirit, if this series were put in any metaphysical realm it would be limbo – because while watching it you’re really just waiting for the next thing to start.

The thing which makes Midwinter of the Spirit dull, really skull-numbingly dull, is that it has no idea whether it should be embracing these clichés, or mocking them. Much of the time it tries to hold them at an ironic distance, as if its creators thought a few sarcastic remarks about sacraments would do for the exorcist genre what Skyfall’s gadget jokes did for James Bond. But we don’t need to take Bond’s gadgets seriously in order to enjoy a Bond film – they are simply begging to be ridiculed. But in order for us to find an exorcism on screen scary, we must be convinced to take its attendant mythology seriously. We must believe, for the duration of the B movie or TV episode, that the poor patient in their sickbed really is possessed, and that muttering a few words while grabbing their ankles really will cure them.

Unsure what to do, Midwinter of the Spirit sends up this hocus pocus in one scene, then begs us to take it seriously in the next. It tries to have its cake, and transubstantiate it.

I got the sense while watching Midwinter of the Spirit that its chronic self-consciousness stems from something more than a desire not to seem hackneyed. I don’t imagine I’m the only viewer of films such as The Exorcism of Emily Rose, through whose head flash thoughts like ‘What if this poor girl just has epilepsy? What if this priest is accidentally just screwing with her head?’ The traditional exorcism scene, with its straps and its screeches, its cuts and its cries of no more, is by its nature very nearly an exploitation scene; it’s only stopped from being one by the metaphysical claims it asks us to accept. What most exorcism films do not address is the possibility of the possessed person not actually being possessed; this is enough to make you uncomfortable even if the words ‘based on a true story’ do not fade in just before the credits roll.

Perhaps Midwinter of the Spirit self-deprecates because it wants to say to us ‘this may seem ridiculous, but it’s true!’; maybe it wants to suggest that its characters have already done all the worrying and doubting of exorcism that needs to be done, so that we, like them, can now accept it as just another public service which needs to be performed, like plumbing or creating traffic jams. But so far this has not been the effect. With only one more episode to go, Midwinter of the Spirit remains at crossed purposes.

Oxford cinemagoing: a primer

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Welcome, new blood, welcome to Oxford. Freshers’ Week can be a mess of weird traditions and useless information, when really there’s only one question on your nubile fresher brain: ‘Where can anyone see a good movie around here???’ Lucky for you, Oxford provides four options within reasonable walking distance. Here’s a rough guide.

ODEON George St – a.k.a. Ol’ Reliable, a.k.a. A Bit Crap Actually. The sturdy Odeon George Street goes about its daily business without exhibiting anything that could be mistaken for passion. You’ve probably been to Odeons dozens of times so I needn’t hammer the point home. While their Premier Seating practice is a pain in the neck, and audiences tend to be of the all-whispering, all-texting variety, this Odeon has a handy central location and a number of decent sized, decent quality screens – as long as you aren’t relegated to weird off shoot Screen 3. Odeon George St should cater to your mainstream release needs in satisfactory (if not spectacular) style, and big movies tend to stay on for a number of weeks. Just don’t expect any surprises from their line up.

ODEON Magdalen St – George Street’s unloved cousin, this cinema also has a good location, and the biggest screens in central Oxford, but that’s where the positives end. Magdalen St inherits all of the chain’s Money First, Movies Second cash cow tendencies but with only two screens, the line up is as abysmal as the atmosphere (it’s always empty). The auditorium size might lure you in for spectaculars like Bond or Star Wars, but the screens are so high up that any viewing experience is bound to be uncomfortable. If there’s one cinema you never go to in Oxford, make it this one.

Phoenix Picturehouse – On to the good news, and there’s no doubt in anyone’s mind that the Phoenix represents the best Oxford has to off er fi lm lovers. Though small, the cinema is comfortable, well attended and gives off a great, artsy vibe (aided by its location, a little out of the way in Jericho.) The programme is interesting and not usually too stagnant; current releases are complemented by standalone screenings and even seasons of beloved classics. If the Odeon is the place to be, come January, when all the Oscar hopefuls see UK soil, then the Phoenix comes into its own a little later in the year. A student membership is a no brainer (this nets you two free tickets, and £2 off each ticket thereafter) – keep your eyes peeled for free memberships at the Freshers’ Fair, but if you don’t find them it will only set you back £15 per year anyway. They also host a movie quiz on the last Monday of each month; it’s fun, but Oxford can do better (see below.)

Ultimate Picture Palace – Central Oxford’s sole indie option. Far from the university’s colleges but deserving of love, this Cowley Road cinema draws cineastes from all over OX4 with its in-house bar and imaginative programming (lots of foreign/arthouse releases you won’t see elsewhere in Oxford, even at the Phoenix, plus cult classics). What its single screen lacks in sound quality it makes up for in charm, and the student membership here is just as worthwhile as at the Picturehouse, costing only £20 per year; note also that the cinema’s lack of money often results in bigger releases opening a few weeks later at UPP than they do elsewhere, giving you another chance should you fi nd you have missed a film’s window at the Odeon. One last thing – Big Society, the affiliated pub which stands alongside the cinema, is home to the Bigger Boat film quiz, held on the second Tuesday of each month. Bring some fellow enthusiasts along and you won’t regret it – this event is the single greatest meeting of filmies in all of Oxford.

The hottest summer you never even had

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It’s the last day of summer camp. It’s the 80s. You’re a counsellor in the twilight of your teens and you’re a bit of a loser. But basically you’re a good guy, and you’re trying to win over the girl of your dreams from her dickhead bad-boy of a boyfriend. Or you’re the horny charlatan sex-bomb who’s secretly still a virgin, despite what he says. Or maybe you’re the Camp Director, having a hard time keeping control of her counsellors and campers, whilst trying to win the affections of a nerdy but warm-hearted astrophysics professor. Everything will come to a head tonight at the talent show, that one last chance to make this the best summer of your life. 

That’s more or less the plot of Wet Hot American Summer, a 2001 comedy film written by Michael Showalter, who also stars as said ‘good guy’ and romantic lead. Whether you’ve seen it or not (and if you haven’t then it’s time to do something about it), this should all be sounding pretty familiar. The film is a parody of summer teen flicks, and nails their predictable formula of drugs, sex and talent shows, hamming it all up and exaggerating the character tropes to outrageous comedic effect: make out scenes are always tongue-heavy, not to mention the unbelievable intoxication montage. In terms of how it draws out and mocks the conventions of an overdone genre, the premise is a bit like Scary Movie, released a year before, but it’s in significantly better taste and definitely more PG-13. 

When Wet Hot American Summer came out, it was pretty poorly received (with the exception of a couple of glowing reviews), but it has since gone on to become cult watching. A lot of the hype about it revolves around its awesome cast, most of whom are a lot more famous now than when it came out — Paul Rudd, Amy Poehler, Bradley Cooper and Elizabeth Banks all put in hilarious performances as their delightfully two dimensional characters. Netflix caught on to the film’s sudden popularity and commissioned a miniseries prequel that aired earlier this year, with most of the cast reprising their roles, as well as the stunning additions of Jason Schwartzman, John Hamm and Kristen Wiig. The series recounts the first day of camp — it’s a prequel to the film, but absolutely no effort is made to conceal the obvious fact that the main cast have aged 15 years. Over the eight episodes it explains, in pretty surreal ways, a lot of the more off-the-wall humour in the film, and still manages to culminate in a bizarre confrontation between the campers and the US armed forces, led by Ronald Reagan in person. But this is only one more way of poking fun at summer- camp films: it’s that strange feeling — that camp, for the length of summer, is the centre of the universe — brought to its illogical conclusion. 

And this is really what’s great about WHAS: its way of evoking feelings that are second hand, but so familiar. I’ve never been to summer camp, but I still know what it means to score on the last night. I don’t even think I’ve seen many other summer camp films, but the camp experience is something I know by osmosis – maybe just from seeing the video for ‘Here (In Your Arms)’ by Hellogoodbye and the start of The Parent Trap. Authenticity and originality are not the interests here. Summer camp films have always been parodic and funny: even the parody is rehashed. That the film is so contrived gives it a quality of vicarious experience, which gives an emotional cohesion to the movie and series through the dominant feeling of nostalgia — the very distinct feeling that accompanies remembering and associating events, always at one remove from real experience. So it doesn’t matter that I’ve never been to summer camp in the 80s – this film, I would wager, has exactly as much meaning for me as it does to someone who’s actually been there and done that.

What’s more, even though this film is ultimately a piss-take of everything I get emotional about when I watch it, that self-satire only works to heighten the feeling of nostalgia we get when we watch it. Because what is parody if not pointing out just how contrived the genre it’s parodying is? We’re constantly being reminded of the gap between real life and this film’s presentation of it, which is essentially governed by the conventions of its genre, and this gap occupies the same space in the film that the nostalgic feeling does in the viewier. It constantly exposes itself as a film that’s nostalgic about nostalgic summer camp films by laying into the genre. The final scene (spoiler alert) is a stroke of genius: the morning after the last night of camp, Showalter’s character goes to talk to Katie (Marguerite Moreau), the girl he’s been chasing after and hooked up with last night, to talk about their relationship. Katie snubs him, says it was a fun night but she’s going back to her jock boyfriend, Paul Rudd: “Andy’s really hot. I’m sixteen, and right now I’m entirely about sex”. It’s a total coup de théaÌ‚tre. Suddenly all the ostentatious gestures towards its genre, the 80s haircuts and short shorts, the log cabins in the background, look like costumes and sets again as the happy ending we thought we had explodes in our faces. We realise it was just the rose tint of nostalgia all along and in the end that’s more important than whatever the summer camp experience really is. And it’s really funny. 

Maybe that sounds wishy washy, but there’s some substance behind this. Wet Hot American Summer exemplifies what Fredric Jameson says about the nostalgia mode in postmodern culture. Nostalgic films like this one are pastiches of an idea of a time and demonstrate the way in which our understanding of the historical past is so often determined by pop images and stereotypes about that past, which itself remains forever out of reach. Our present is coloured by this pastiche, flooding it with warm nostalgic feelings. I can’t wait for next summer either.

Milestones: Psychocandy

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Long-haired skinny white boys mumbling angsty songs about sex and drugs;
it all started with The Jesus and Mary Chain, and their era-defining album Psychocandy. Sounding like almost nothing that had come before, the 1985 release dragged melancholy, disinterested rock into a sea of 80s electro-pop. Over the hum of amp feedback and distorted vocals, the East-Scottish duo planted the seeds of the shoegaze subgenre and moved towards a downbeat style and full-bodied, abrasive sound that later spawned grunge and Britpop. Despite abandoning this epochal sound on later albums, the band never outran its impact, and their recent reunion tour saw them performing exclusively material from this, their debut album.

It begins with the now iconic opening beats of ‘Just Like Honey,’ taken from the Ronettes’ classic ‘Be My Baby’. Then the delicate, warm melody starts to wander in and out of the fuzzy ball of noise at the song’s centre, and a whole new subgenre of music is born. The band switches gears for the second song — the aggressive, confrontational ‘The Living End’. “My mood is black when my jacket’s on / and I’m in love with myself” morphs into “My head is dripping into my leather boots.” It’s a cautionary tale of joyous narcissism made all the more urgent by the manic, wailing melody and distorted, shredded buzzing that makes the song’s two-minute run time such a chore. Whereas ‘Just like Honey’ used distortion to evoke the warm, inebriating feeling of desire, the same effect is used again to disorientate, frustrate and provoke.

Paired with the then pioneering wall-ofsound style, the album’s kind-of-but-not-quite impenetrable lyrics capture the hangover of adolescent frustrations spilling over into early adulthood. ‘A Taste of Cindy’ seems to be about being slumped in the corner of a room, spying on an ex through the end of a beer bottle as a mediocre house party winds down at 4am. But like all great pop songs, it’s kind of probably about drugs too. “Knife in my head is the taste of Cindy” we’re warned as the song rattles to a bitter close. Elsewhere, ‘Cut Dead’ offers possibly the sweetest description of being totally ignored by your crush ever uttered; “Why can’t you see / You got me chasing honey bees / Call me your messed up boy” drones Jim Reid over one of the album’s least obscured arrangements, a delicate guitar line recalling the melody of the album’s gentle opening track.

So whilst it was the band’s marrying of pop structures with a groundbreaking, reverb heavy sound which planted the album’s flag along the winding path of rock music’s history, it’s the oscillation between aggression and introspection that means the album has remained such a good one to listen to. It keeps the listener on their toes, and the band themselves from every crossing over into the wrong side of whiny bratdom.

Stories of amphetamine-fuelled 20 minute sets ending in carnage only seemed to fuel a band who by the time of the album’s release were already hurtling to international attention. Between fawning coverage from the music press, moral panics from the tabloids and stories of rock star antics wherever they went, The Jesus and Mary Chain cemented their sound in the public consciousness, and their imitators have been hanging on ever since. Ranking on Rolling Stone’s “500 Greatest Albums of All Time” list amongst a plethora of other accolades and positions, Psychocandy is a worthy milestone for modern music.

Shutter speeds and the passage of time

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“I used to think that I could never lose anyone if I photographed them enough. In fact, my pictures show me how much I’ve lost.” These are the oft-quoted words of Nan Goldin, one of the most influential photographers to emerge in the last half century. Her voracious documentation of friends, family and underground culture laid the foundations for a whole style of confessional photography, not to mention the grunge aesthetic and all its descendants. But the most fascinating aspect of her revealing portraits are not their nudity, sexuality or coarseness, but the deep, underlying hunger for connection. Her blank-eyed subjects, captured mostly in the half-light, discuss the textures and surfaces that the camera can capture. We’re confronted with a shell and left to guess its contents. Her subjects’ uniqueness and humanity vanish with a press of the shutter. Setting these people against New York’s AIDs-ravaged counter-cultural scene, her work acknowledges the futility of trying to hold on to the world around us.

This relationship between the individual and the camera has long been a tumultuous one. From the early days of photography, where in opposition to traditional visual arts the mechanised capturing of light guaranteed verisimilitude, ideas of photography and truth have danced cautiously around one another. Be it a portrait of a lover, an anthropological photo essay, or just your average holiday snap, photos are used to hold onto the past, and the people and locations that constituted it. Looking back at old photos tells us something about the way things were, and therefore the way they are.

But can we ever capture someone’s essence truly through photography? Many have tried, and examples abound. Celebrity magazine editorials, Victorian-era portraitists, Andy Warhol with his infamous screentests which search for truth by wearing away at his muse’s performative tendencies. The much repeated myths of Native American peoples’ aversion to the lens being born out of fear that the machines, and their mirrors, would take their souls have done much to embed the idea of photographing someone’s essence into the popular psyche.

Man Ray and André Kertész, plus the aforementioned Goldin and Warhol, are all amongst the long line of photographers who have taken some of their most recognisable images of themselves. The photographer’s self-portrait is a huge, fascinating and canonised sub-genre of photography. Even the modern selfie falls in line, with Kim Kardashian’s recent Rizzoli-backed ‘Selfish’ book garnering attention and acclaim from several corners of the art world.

But what does it mean to attempt to capture someone’s ‘essence’? Isn’t our sense of self constructed each moment by the choices we make? If our self is entirely a construction, isn’t the photographic self-portrait the most direct means of exposing the individual? It’s all surface to be sure, but it illuminates how the owner of those surfaces think they should be appreciated and understood. Thus it preserves an invisible moment in time.

Daido Moriyama’s photograph of a stray dog on a US army base has become a kind of de facto self-portrait for the photographer. His most famed work captures the confusion of post-war Japan’s social transition in its blurred, aggressive, out of focus edges and high contrast black and white. In the abstracted details, sometimes impossible to discern, we find Moriyama himself. The stray dog, with its gaze which challenges the viewer, positions the avantgarde Moriyama as an outsider, whilst suggesting something larger about the then beleaguered nation’s collective consciousness.

Yet it’s Moriyama’s 1978 photo essay, Tales of Tono, which plays most obviously with conceptions of past, self, and the insatiable yearning familiar across many a photographers’ oeuvre. In it, he ‘returns’ to the north-eastern town of Tono, the setting for many traditional Japanese fairytales, which he describes as an “imagined hometown,” despite never having visited it before. In the collection’s opening essay, he describes trying to reconcile the world which greets him there with the image that he holds in his head. The photographs this tension produces find him trying to capture something which he feels has been lost. The act of photographing Tono is an attempt to find something that is missing from himself. In reconciling the past as it happened and the past as it is remembered, the photograph sits at an uncomfortable juncture. Both subjective and objective, photography is an art form that challenges, attacks, and never quite satisfies. And so it reminds us of what we have lost.

The International Student: Closed for business

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A proposal by the Home Secretary Theresa May on work permits for non-EU students educated in the UK has made headlines recently. The proposal would make all non-EU students, who study on Tier 4 visas, return to their home country to apply for Tier 2 work visas — or indeed any visa extension — at their own cost. Furthermore, whereas at present Tier 4 visa holders are permitted to work up to 20 hours a week during term-time and unlimited hours outside of term, the new proposal would prevent anyone from working in the UK while on a student visa.

The stated aim behind the government’s proposal is the prevention of visa fraud by removing would-be fraudulent workers from the country upon expiry of their student visa and allowing in legitimate workers. Although no statistics have so far been provided to back up the actual incidence of such post-study work visa fraud, it’s hard to imagine this policy being successful seeing as the persons at whom the proposal is aimed would likely simply stay behind illegally anyway, rendering the policy ineffective in its aim. This disproportionately punishes legitimate workers wishing to stay behind on real work visas by imposing both a financial burden and the inconvenience of leaving the country, applying for another visa, and returning.

This proposal ought to be rejected for two reasons.

First, it promotes an image of an unfriendly, economically vulnerable United Kingdom afraid of non-EU students. Indeed, good quality students are increasingly looking away from a British university education. Even through a purely domestic lens, international students bring different points of view and experiences to others’ learning; an immeasurable benefit.

Secondly, the proposal is based on factually inaccurate perceptions. Two such key perceptions are that non-EU students take advantage of public funds in education, and that their presence in the UK as workers post-study is negative.

As it stands, tuition fees for non-EU students in the UK are not capped, unlike the £9,000 cap on domestic and EU students’ tuition fees, and are most often much higher than home and EU tuition fees. Most Russell Group universities in the UK, including Oxford, charge a minimum of £15,000 per annum to non-EU students. In addition to this, non-EU students are charged a “college fee” of £6,925 a year. Being uncapped, these figures often rise annually. Additionally, international students are not entitled to tuition fee loans or maintenance grants, and in the future will not be entitled to maintenance loans.

The second perception, that educated immigrants undermine British economic success, is also untrue. A recent UCL study showed EU immigrants contribute more to the economy than they receive in welfare payments from the government. Given that there is free immigration within the EU, while non-EU nationals face restrictive requirements for Tier 2 work visas, such as a minimum annual salary of £20,800, it surely follows that non-EU skilled immigrants contribute still more to the British economy and take less out of it in welfare benefits. The Immigration Minister in 2014 said that for “legitimate travellers, the UK is always open for business”. Not if Theresa May has anything to do with it.

Does an Oxford degree mean you are set for life?

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Yes: Emily Dillistone

 

Back in school, if someone told you something would ‘set you up for life’, I always inferred that they meant that it would ‘make you more employable in the future’. In my opinion, this is the motive behind parents paying to send their children to private school, or sending them to scouts. When people want to be ‘set up for life’, what they really mean is that they want access to two important things: money and happiness. I believe that Oxford provides both.

So, how come I believe that Oxford makes you more money than going to other universities? I reckon you only have to look as far as the wealth of some of our alumni. A lot of colleges’ wealth comes from the donations of alumni, which will, of course, be us in the future. Could one honestly state that Oxford’s rich alumni, the likes of Rupert Murdoch and half the Conservative party, would have been just as successful, had they gone elsewhere? In the past, Oxford may simply have attracted people who were bound to make money in the future, or who happened to have a lot inthe first place, but from my point of view it is a lot more complex these days. An Oxford education gives its graduates the tools needed for success in the City, business and a whole load of other walks of life, and subsequently they get rich.

One of the main reasons we’re apparently so employable is our ability to churn out coherent thoughts in a relatively short space of time. The Oxford tutorial system sets us students up for life when we learn how to take heart-wrenchingly blunt criticism and, what’s more, get over it. At Oxford we are forced to work under intense pressure and, in the long run, this pays off. The real reason our parents were so happy when we received the acceptance letter, and why employers’ mouths will twitch into a smile when they see the ‘O’ word at the top of our CV, is that Oxford has transformed us into efficient work machines. We are made better than the A-level students we once were through a three or four-year period of high stakes work. Oxford doesn’t just make you employable: it practically gives you a career. The Careers Service is particularly important for this, with contacts across the globe in an unimaginably diverse range of jobs. We get opportunities to engage with every kind of firm imaginable, from international corporations to specialist local firms, and many students take them. For many, what makes ‘The Oxford Experience’ is the number of chances students get to prepare for the world outside, from the numerous careers fairs to all those internships at students’ fingertips.

Beyond questions of employment, setting up students for life involves the process of making friends and contacts for the future. They say University is the main source of lifelong friendships, and with Oxford’s collegiate system, making friends is pretty much unavoidable. While in other Universities you are limited to your accommodation block and the odd person who sits next to you in lectures, college life means that we are exposed to all sorts of people engaged in all sorts of disciplines. Some of the most passionate, fierce, and engaging debates I have ever had have taken place inside this city’s walls. I have most likely encountered more highly intelligent individuals in my few years here than I will at any other point in my life. I am sure that some of the friends I have already made are people who will be very helpful contacts in the future. Personally, I am banking on the fact that simply by hanging around at The Union Debating Society and befriending the Presidents of various societies, in time I will be sorted for life.

Oxford has got a lot of bad press recently, with images of the Bullingdon Club and stories of ‘Pig Gate’ circulating the national press. Yet, from what I can gauge from these stories, the fact that there are so many famous Oxford alumni available to be exposed in the press suggests that Oxford is doing something right. I can’t necessarily explain every facet of an Oxford education’s success in this brief article, but I know that, as a student at the moment, I am at the centre of events. I am receiving the best training I could possibly want for a career, I have access to the best opportunities for future employment, and, to top it all, I am amongst all these future leaders in so many different fields. Personally, I don’t think any other university could ‘set me up’ for life better than Oxford.

 

 

No: Daniel Minister

 

I don’t want to be a banker. Though I will confess I did try to get onto a summer internship programme with a well-known bank distinguished by a black horse for a logo. I’d always thought a magpie would be a better emblem for a bank than a horse. But it was the only one I could afford, so I applied regardless. And failed. I still wonder what an analysis of turnover and profit projections had to do with the media department… so as the end of my degree approaches, an MPhil becomes more and more appealing, if only to delay the inevitable search for employment.

But no-one in my family seems to be worried. There appears to be this recurring notion that once you get into Oxford, you’re made. You won’t have to work all that hard, you’ll just stumble into a job in the city, or the government, or the media. The establishment awaits you. Its doors, like those to the Bodleian on Catte Street, will be flung open thanks to your Oxford degree. With a third under your belt, you enter a boy and exit David Dimbleby.

I don’t want to appear depressing, especially while many freshers pile into the brave new world of their staircases and their predecessors soldier back in dread of their dissertations. But a degree alone is simply not enough. There is, you may be surprised to hear, a reason why we receive so many emails from the Careers Service informing us of the latest job opportunities. It’s the same reason why you see those students scuttling off to canapé evenings to get a business card off a lawyer who has already handed out hundreds before. It’s why we’re told, throughout the duration of our courses, the value of ‘networking’, which is quite difficult if you don’t know anyone to network. And even if you do find someone, it’s quite often the case that you won’t be able to afford the internship you are offered.

The reason for these things is that having Oxford University at the top of your CV simply isn’t enough. You might get into Oxford, but you might not have the connections that go with it. The Blairite former MP Alan Milburn has referred to this situation as the ‘glass floor’ for bright working-class students. Research for his Social Mobility and Child Poverty Commission has found, “Better-off kids are 35 per cent more likely to become high earners than bright poor kids.” The report highlights a phenomenon labelled ‘opportunity hoarding.’ While there are some internship opportunities that support students with the cost of transport and accommodation, for many of the poorest in our University, and those far from the gold-paved roads of London, an internship can be unaffordable and inaccessible. The wealthy, the well-employed and the well-connected have been able to maintain their children’s status through internship-swapping and money. Social mobility in our supposed meritocracy becomes, at worst, a one-way street, and at best, a narrow lane with electric bollards.

And to make matters worse, competition is growing. The poorest and most poorly connected students aren’t the only ones affected. Just because we’re in the best university in the world at the moment, that doesn’t mean we can be complacent. I know there are some Oxford students who think that there’s only one other university, but businesses don’t seem to think that way. For example, we’re a country with a severe skills shortage. As such, hands-on experience in engineering with global players is in big demand.

Up and down the country, other universities are powering ahead. While a place like Swansea may not have the prestige of its older rivals, it has aspiration rather than condescension. Having recently spent hundreds of millions of pounds opening a new innovation campus on the seafront, it has elicited the backing of Rolls-Royce and BP amongst other big companies. Oxford might be at the top of the world rankings, but it has competition.

We live in a nation where higher education has become increasingly marketised. At the risk of sounding out of my depth with a sporting analogy, universities have become division teams to premier league employers. We, the students, are just their players. Just as Aaron Ramsay can start off at Cardiff City and end up playing for Arsenal, a student at Swansea can end up designing engines for Rolls-Royce. Exactly the sort of job that Oxford graduates of old might have ended up in.

An Oxford degree might carry prestige, but I don’t think prestige alone is enough anymore.

In an increasingly globalised world, competition is getting stronger and stronger. We no longer face competition only from other graduates of British universities, but from graduates all over the world, many of whom hold degrees from equally prestigious institutions.

Tens of thousands graduate every year from esteemed universities in Europe, America and increasingly from institutions in China and India. An Oxford degree is often insufficient to make you stand out. While new bonds are being formed between other universities and employers worth billions of investment capital, complacency is not an option.

A degree from Oxford University is a wonderful privilege and one that can act as a springboard for success in later life. Yet Oxford students should be aware that the Oxford name is not a passport to power, money and happiness. Students must work hard to build their CV and to prove their competence.

Getting a job is going to be hard. Getting a job we want is going to be even harder.

Lincoln bans spirits during freshers’

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Drinks containing any spirits, irrespective of strength, are prohibited at Entz-run events in Lincoln College for freshers’ week, with the possibility of an extension for the whole year.

The college notified the JCR President and Head Entz Rep via email that they are only allowed to serve wine, beer and cider at Entz events. Whilst Entz can serve wine of 12-13 per cent, they cannot sell a VK at 4 per cent strength. 

One Lincoln College undergraduate commented, “This is clearly symptomatic of a poorly thought-through policy. A ban on spirits is likely to drive pre-drinking up, as many freshers would normally drink mixers and not wine, beer or cider. 
 
“It is likely that freshers used to drinking spirits will simply bring hip flasks and spike soft drinks with an unregulated quantity of spirits.
 
“It is much more expensive to buy large quantities of alcohol by volume when Entz is restricted to buying wine, beer and cider”. 
 
Freshers were not informed in advance of the spirit ban. The latest developments follow threats of a total drinks ban within college last year. 
 
Lincoln Entz has been subject to strict spirit controls in the past, with the junior deans regulating the mixing of drinks. The college threatened the JCR with a blanket drinks ban last year as well as an attempted ban of the Hilary Term bop. Another Lincoln College undergraduate commented, “I think the ban is a direct attack on the newly arrived freshers meant to press the college’s authority upon them.” 
 
“It is yet another attempt to undermine the student body of the college alongside the failure to develop the newly bought buildings in a way that is actually going to benefi t the college community.” 
 
Lincoln College junior deans and the JCR President did not respond to requests for comment.