Saturday 5th July 2025
Blog Page 1160

Debate: Is Jeremy Corbyn the Best Choice For Labour?

Yes

Emmeline Skinner Cassidy

 

Two weeks ago I joined the Labour Party and signed up to support Corbyn’s campaign. To lots of people, there is only one explanation for this bizarre behaviour: I am just another hopeless idealist whose dreams have yet to come tumbling down. Yet, I will be voting for Corbyn because I believe that his vision for the UK is simultaneously more viable and more humane than that of the current government.

For the past five years the Tories have managed to write the narrative on the economy and be believed, regardless of the mountain of evidence against them. Consequently, anyone who dares to propose an alternative to austerity is branded an irresponsible radical.

Yet, Corbyn’s anti-austerity position is increasingly the consensus amongst Britain’s academic economists. Strikingly, the Centre for Macroeconomics recently reported that only 15 percent of British economists polled agreed that the coalition’s austerity policies had had a positive effect on aggregate economic activity.

This view goes beyond the British academic bubble; the governors of the central banks of the UK and the US both admit that temporary cuts in government spending have been contractionary. The IMF’s chief economist, Olivier Blanchard, recently stated that the IMF had hugely underestimated the negative effect of cuts on weak economies. Even Nobel Prize winning economist Paul Krugman has written that British politicians are just about the only people still convinced by the ideology of austerity.

Whether an economy is prospering or failing has no inherent value: meaning is derived from how economies affect human society. Austerity ignores human imperatives and makes cuts that dramatically reduce people’s quality of life. Between 2014-15 more than one million people in the UK relied on food banks. Since 2012, more than 300,000 children have been pushed below the poverty line. On top of all of this, a recent Poverty and Social Exclusion (PSE) report has revealed that 78 per cent of disabled people say that their health has deteriorated as a result of the stress of undergoing a work capability assessment.

An economic policy can’t be labelled a ‘solution’ when it creates problems that are both unacceptable from a compassionate view and financially unsustainable. Cuts that significantly reduce quality of life trap us in a cycle of decline – disadvantaged people become increasingly worse-off and are increasingly forced to turn to government support. Only 140 18 to 21-year olds need to become homeless as a result of Tory cuts to their housing benefit before the policy actually begins to start costing money.

We need an economic policy that will not lose its grip on spending, but will recognise that the protection of the vulnerable is paramount. This is what Corbyn’s policies will achieve. Corbyn understands that we can’t run an unsustainable deficit. He proposes to manage this through cracking down on tax avoidance amongst the wealthiest individuals and companies in the UK, while also stimulating the economy through controlled quantitative easing.

I am aware that Corbyn’s election could cause Labour to split, but I think that a soul-searching, identity-defining debate is exactly what Labour needs. Labour is currently unelectable because it attempts to stand for everything and thus stands for absolutely nothing. Labour can’t continue courting votes from every section of the electorate by effectively toeing the same austerity-loving, immigrant-hating, welfare-bashing line as the Tories.

Labour needs to make a decision and, realistically, this means moving left. If Labour moves to the right then the biggest choice facing the electorate in 2020 will be which colour we prefer: red or blue. Apathy was arguably Labour’s biggest enemy in 2015: of the 34.9 per cent of the population who didn’t vote, the majority were previous Labour supporters. If Labour had motivated just one in five people who didn’t vote then there could have been a Labour government in power today. Labour needs to offer something that will inspire people, and watered-down Tory policies will not do this.

There is a massive gap in British politics for a credible left-wing party. In the 2015 election left-leaning voters were stranded without a single decent option. This is the ground that Labour needs to occupy, and Corbyn is the only candidate who will take us there.

Having an ideology is not a weakness. Having ideology and conviction, unfortunately, is what made Thatcher and her legacy so potent, and Osborne and his anti-austerity politics so dominant today. In 2015 the Tories had a clear ideological message and they cruised to victory. Labour stood for nothing, confused people with their attempt to commit to absolutely everything, and crashed into spectacular failure.

Labour desperately needs a principled leadership. Under Corbyn, Labour’s principles will mean a net below which no person should ever fall  a point beyond which we recognise that no human should ever be treated like this. Corbyn is what an electable Labour Party looks like. 

No

Daniel Minister

 

I like Jeremy Corbyn. In fact, his views are probably closer to my own than the rest of the candidates. The problem I have is that in the current political climate, he can’t win short of a crisis for the government, and many of his die-hard supporters don’t seem to care. The Corbyn camp seems frustratingly divided in their ambitions. Whilst some have the greatest intentions, others are playing internal party-politics. Their tactics do not add up, and will leave Labour in opposition for the sake of petty ideological rivalries.

Most supporters seem to believe that Corbyn can win thanks to an upsurge in the non-voting masses enthused by his anti-austerity platform. It’s as if the arguments of the Greens or Plaid Cymru never existed. They believe that Corbyn, with his well-attended rallies up and down the country, can bring together a coalition of non-voting students, pensioners, and the disillusioned. Such a tactic only ever results in limited returns. Corbyn will solidify the core vote, but achieve little else.

A grassroots-driven campaign like Corbyn’s echoes the American examples of Barry Goldwater and George McGovern. Like the Corbyn campaign, Goldwater’s and McGovern’s had hope on their side. Who could vote Nixon at the height of Vietnam? Turned out that 60 per cent of the electorate could. The messages given by their campaigns were simply too sectional. They appealed to ‘true believers’ on the left and right; those convinced they were on the cusp of victory, surrounded by the likeminded. Given the choice of two evils, the moderate centre opted for the one they knew, or neither.

An appeal to the ‘true believers’ will not succeed in mobilizing an army of anti-austerity voters, and the electoral system will make sure of it. The Conservatives will be doing everything to cling onto their 36 per cent of the vote and solidify their own position, with the help of the Coalition’s mothballed boundary reforms. Meanwhile, the SNP’s near total dominance over Scotland won’t suddenly collapse with a copycat Labour leader. The SNP has the upper hand; they can always put Scotland first. In turn, just as the first past the post system helps the undivided nationalist vote hold Scotland, the thinly spread nature of Corbyn’s ideal coalition of voters won’t win seats off the Tories.

Corbyn will find it very difficult to usurp the Tory vote in marginal, let alone safer, seats. While a constituency like Gower might fall easily, somewhere like Nuneaton will be a lot harder. Nuneaton had an above-average turnout of 67 per cent where the Tory vote increased while the Labour vote fell. If Corbyn were to convince the Greens and TUSC supporters to vote Labour, it would be nowhere near enough to overtake the incumbent Marcus Jones. Labour would need to entice 5,000 voters to overtake the Tories. And we cannot be certain that there aren’t non-voting Tories who can match that number. After all, many Tory safe-seats saw rising turnouts, as their constituents feared a Labour-SNP coalition.

Under Corbyn, Labour may start piling up votes in poorer safe-seats adversely affected by austerity, but this won’t help in the marginals. While Nuneaton moved further away from Labour in 2015, safe-seats like Sunderland Central moved closer. As they see their circumstances recover, marginal voters will be even harder to convince. The gamble of voting for a Corbyn-led Labour will not be worth the risk.

Labour needs to win over marginal voters to win the election and actually get into government, where it can help those affected by austerity. Many Corbyn-supporters seem bent on focusing on Labour values and ideology. They want revenge on New Labour by swinging back to the left, instead of a strategy that will win back seats in 2020. If Labour party members choose Corbyn, they will only prolong the Bedroom Tax and allow the government to continue cutting support for the poorest and most vulnerable. Corbyn should certainly be a part of the new Labour opposition, but, sadly, it’s not the right time for a man like him to lead it to victory. 

Drake’s ghostwriter: does it really matter?

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Does it matter if Drake wrote his own lyrics?

Let’s face it: he probably doesn’t write them. Despite some impressive ether aimed at Meek Mill over the last week culminating in a brutal, meme-laden OVO Fest, and an almost unanimous reaction in the hip-hop community that he has been winning this beef so far, he has yet to deny the claims the Philly rapper laid at his door. Drake’s producer 40 spoke out but didn’t outright deny them. What’s more, supposed true lyricist Quentin Miller is uncredited on Meek’s “RICO”, the track that started the whole beef, so his supposed title of “co-writer” seems not to carry much weight.

Assuming, on the balance of probability, that Drake doesn’t write his lyrics, we’re forced to address the question of the extent to which we can take an artist and their art separately. If we admire a painting by someone, or enjoy the music or writing of an individual, then find out that they didn’t create their work then does it lessen our enjoyment?

In art, the same sort of dilemma has applied when it emerged that many of the most prominent names in Abstract Expressionism, including such titans as Rothko and Pollock, were sponsored by the CIA to promote their art and its inherently capitalist nature as the Cold War got underway. Like hip-hop, Expressionist art relies on the premise that only one person could have made a work – that it is an extension of them, and their character, and of the truth. What, then, to do when this is thrown into question?

There are two ways of dealing with the murky relationship between an artist and their creations.

One is a matter of extremity, in either direction. An attitude can be taken that it doesn’t matter – we can still imagine the imagery Drake evokes in his lyrics, still admire his flow and delivery, still enjoy 40’s production and still sing or dance (or do whatever else people like to do) to his music. Or we can reject him as fake, make comparisons to Milli Vanilli, claim we always thought he was soft and not “real” hip-hop.

The other option is more nuanced. Why not accept that Drake uses a ghostwriter, but that his music still has an intensely personal edge? The possibility that some, but not all his songs are ghostwritten leaves more space for him to remain a credible artist in the eyes of purists. After all, Michelangelo didn’t paint the Sistine Chapel – he had a team of helpers and did the important bits himself. Kanye uses ghostwriters and doesn’t give a shit. So did Dre. It’s a tactic that increases output and ultimately allows us to enjoy more art created by these inspired people.

It’s probably obvious that I subscribe to this line of thought. For an artist as successful as Drake to be as prolific as he is, it would be disingenuous to kid oneself into believing there was no-one else behind him. Drake’s doing bigger numbers than the Beatles in the USA – of course he didn’t sit there for an hour writing the lyrics to that B-side about sexing women and body lotion and late-night self-doubt.

But. There are some songs that I can’t believe he didn’t write himself. Namely, the ones that are so closely linked to his past and his life before fame that no-one could know about the subject matter except him. In “You and the Six”, Drake recounts talking to his mother, worrying about what she thinks of his lifestyle and mulling her separation from his father. He refers to visiting his dad in Memphis as a kid. In “Club Paradise”, Drake name drops specific figures from the past from whom he had grown apart, regretting the passage of time and his gradual alienation from his old circles in Toronto.

All that needs to be said about these lines is that it would be indescribably cynical if someone else wrote them, not to mention the fact it’d be almost impossible to do so. Would a ghostwriter really write about “Rosemary” or “Leanne Sealy”? Did Drake simply tell Quentin Miller to name-drop these women? Does he really not know them at all? Again, I can’t bring myself to believe that they are anything other than real people from Drake’s past, about whom he is writing honestly.

So no, even if some of Drake’s songs are ghostwritten, if it means we get to experience more music from a hugely prolific artist of great talent and even greater influence, then long may it continue. Just so long as that core element of truth remains.

Review: Tame Impala – Currents

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★★★☆☆
Three stars

Much of the critical reception of Tame Impala’s third album Currents has focused on setting it apart as something totally fresh for Kevin Parker. Listening to the album, it becomes clear that the transition is present but exaggerated. While the album has an undeniably new electronic gleam, in many ways it simply carries on Parker’s obvious fascination with melody and rhythm, psychedelia and isolation from earlier albums. Thematically, the album’s opener, ‘Let it Happen’ has a lot in common with Innerspeaker’s ‘Desire Be Desire Go’ and Lonerism’s ‘Nothing That Has Happened So Far Has Been Anything We Could Control’. The lengthy, meandering track, one of the strongest on a strong album, illustrates that ‘go with the flow’ mentality that Parker’s music has become known for; its melody shifts and trips over itself as though literally caught in a groove. Perhaps, then, Tame Impala’s electric makeover is not such a sharp departure after all.

As time has gone on, Parker has become less and less bothered about passing off Tame Impala as anything other than a solo project, and Currents is his most personal and direct album to date. The album’s aural shifts reflect his lyrical obsession with moments of change, anticipation, regret and a sense of self that fluctuates in strength. The subject matter isn’t always subtle- one track is titled ‘Yes I’m Changing’- but it doesn’t need to be. Parker’s personal and revealing lyrics are part of what allows Tame Impala to retain a sense of intimacy even within stadium-ready power ballads. It’s what makes Tame Impala’s music so equally suited to gloom and celebration.

Throughout the album, Parker relies on that pleasantly jarring combination of lyrics that reflect melancholy isolation, and melodies that have a bright, summery simplicity. His falsetto is as emotive and slightly saccharine as ever. Currents feels new partly because it takes elements that have always worked for Tame Impala and dials them up to saturation point. It’s this maximalism that makes the album absorbing, satisfying, but also a little over-ripe in places (the self-parodying silliness of ‘Past Life’ just feels out of place). It also means that anyone coming to the album in the hope of anything startlingly experimental will almost certainly be disappointed. Currents, despite what several critics have implied, is not the Kid A to Lonerism’s OK Computer. Parker has simply traded his psych-rock vibe for a different kind of nostalgia, his own version of smooth 70’s radio hits. It’s a sound that suits him. The most enjoyable elements of the album are in its addictive simplicity; the immediately memorable bass line that launches ‘Eventually’ and the tuneful riffs of ‘’Cause I’m a Man’.

From Talking Heads to Arcade Fire, Tame Impala is hardly the first rock band to turn to, in Parker’s own words, ‘dorky, white disco funk’, and in 2015 genre labels like ‘rock band’ feel increasingly unstable anyway. Parker’s guitar was always so heavily doused in reverb and skilfully refracted through studio manipulation, that the shift to synth hardly comes as a shock, particularly when it is delivered with the pure melodic ease that Tame Impala fans have come to expect. Currents may not be a shocking or an extraordinary album, but it’s a highly enjoyable one, and that’s more than enough.

It’s Not All Hummus and Halloumi, You Know

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As a returning student from my year abroad last year, I knew I would miss Middle Eastern food the most. Arabic food has really come into its own in recent years in the UK, as classics like hummus, falafel and halloumi have become staples to the bourgeois diet. However, there are some things that Brits never seem to understand when it comes to Middle Eastern food. I mean, hummus is not the be-all-and-end-all. And who knew falafel was a breakfast item, eh? I list here, one year on, my top ten Arabic/Turkish foods in the hope that some of you might see how much more there is than a halloumi wrap.

1) The Arabic Hummus

Arabic hummus is made slightly differently to its Greek counterpart. Whereas the Greeks favour a grainier, coarser texture, the Arabs have developed a much smoother paste. A simple recipe for hummus is to mix tahini sauce and lemon juice together in a bowl, forming a thick paste. Then add some chickpeas, some cumin and some coriander, alongside the world’s best friend: salt. Whizz these together using your food processor – it is much harder without; I guess you could try mashing it? Add some oil (a healthy glug of olive oil never hurt anyone) and a dash of water – I recommend about 1.5 tbsp worth – to make it thinner. 

The beauty of hummus is how you can flavour it. Lemon and coriander. Roasted red pepper, Onion and balsamic vinegar – and these are just a few of the styles I have tried. Hummus, the ever popular dish, I fear I shall not meet you again in your best form until my next return to the Middle East. Let’s face it: Brits really do mess it up. Adieu, universal dip of choice. 

2) Muffarakah bilbaiyḍ – A.K.A. potato and eggs

I remember walking into the hole-in-the-wall pokey cafe next to our institute one Winter’s morning, freezing in about 6 layers, with a stomach fit to eat itself in hunger. Never had I tried their food, where they prepared it I know not, as the cafe  was only big enough for about 6 people, and invariably there were about 5 customers. I had always stuck to a simple Turkish Coffee, its mud texture attributable to the ‘stringent’ cleaning practices the cafe undertook. However, this one morning I looked at their food menu and saw ‘Maffarakah bilBiyD’ scrawled in English at the bottom. The cheapest – therefore, the best, surely!

Well, it made its way into my heart and throughout that cold, cold winter you could see me often chomping on such a sandwich. The stodge was unbelievable – potatoes, eggs, bread – heaven! Having explored Amman’s culinary scene extensively (more to come,) I often go for this dish out now, as it really is a winner and usually comes with meat as well. 

It is basically fried onions, meat, potatoes and eggs and in tiny cubes. If you ever see this on a menu, have it. I guarantee you’ll never cook it!

3) Mansaf

Where would Jordan be without its Mansaf? Mansaf, Jordan’s national dish, is a very serious business. From Tefila to Irbid, Aqaba to Amman, Mansaf is enjoyed as a long and luxurious feast. In its essence, Mansaf is slow cooked lamb, sat atop a heap of slowly cooked rich and pine nuts, which is itself sat atop some thing bread. You finally pour over the jameed sauce – ranging from a thin sauce (Amman style) to a thick cheese (Southern style,) jameed is made from solidified goat’s milk and can be found at all supermarkets.

The rice is cooked in ghee and absorbs all the wonderful fatty flavours from the clarified butter. The meal’s preparation takes hours. In Amman, you want to head down to Al-Quds or its neighbour Jabri for a cheap and semi-authentic Mansaf, whilst Sufra, one of Amman’s high-end restaurants, offers a much more tamed version, although one portion is still big enough for three! Anyone who tried this dish falls in love with it – give it a go!

4) Yalange

Yalange, better known as vine leaves, is another personal favourite. Whilst I have always preferred the meat-stuffed vine, the Jordanian lemon-stuffed is also a favourite. Personally, I have never undertaken this monumental challenge myself – vine leaves on average take about 2-3 hours to make – I lap them up at any opportunity. In fact, I even spent 7JD (About £6.50) on a huge tin of them to take home – what a bargain!

5) Sujuk, Nakanik and other sausages

Armenia, a land rich in cuisine and culture. I have always dreamed of doing a tour of Armenia and Georgia, such beauty can be found in their landscapes, their cultures and their languages – but more importantly their food.

Sujuk and Nakanik are both spicy forms of sausage found in this region. As it is made with beef, there are no food restrictions on this type of sausage, meaning it is enjoyed in the same way as bacon and pork sausages are. Often served with eggs for breakfast, I like to have Sujuk most as part of the hot mezze before any meal. I discovered this type of sausage in Ash-Shami in Oxford last year, and knew as soon as I had it that I loved it. Whenever I order Sujuk, I dream of that future holiday I will take to Armenia.

6) Sambousek.

Cheese, meat, spinach. Sambousek is really the most versatile of pastries. Personally, I think Georgian and Armenian cuisines will be the next big thing on the food scene – why not, they are perfect! Sambousek is an Arab variant of Georgian pastries, they sort of resemble an Indian samosa. 

Now loved across the region, my personal favourite comes stuffed with a gooey yummy melt-in-the-mouth cheese. They are crispy and warm and really hit the spot when you want a quick snack or, again, as part of the hot mezze. Whilst I have not seen spinach ones in Jordan, the meat sambousek is devoured as much as the cheese one, with a spicy warming aftertaste that leaves you perfectly satisfied by this Eastern delight.

7) Mana’eesh/Manaqeesh/Mana’ouche/Manageesh.

I, frankly, don’t care how you spell this. The Mana’eesh is the perfect breakfast. The ‘Arabic pizza’ is often how it is described, and I can guarantee that it is a hell of a lot nicer than it’s popular Italian counterpart. The best Mana’eesh I’ve had here would be the one I bought on the way to Church in Jabal Alluwebdeih. This tiny sunk-in-the-ground bakery appeared in front of me. All I could smell was egg, cheese, za’atar, tomato – I knew I was walking into second-brekkie teritory. 

Second breakfast was exactly it. I ordered myself a positively mind-boggling cheese and egg Mana’eesh, sat down and made my way through it with delectable delight – I got so wrapped up, I only made it to Church down the road 5 minutes before the start of Communion. Oops.

This breakfast really is a must-have. You can find it in many styles – in Lebanon, I’ve had it cooked on a Saj oven (a large dome) even. The za’atar variety is probably the majority favourite in the region, but, in my opinion, you can never have enough cheese.

8) The Lemon and Mint.

On a hot start-of-Summer’s day, I suddenly found myself wandering around Jabal Alluwebdeih (my favourite Jabal, if you’re interested) without very much to do. Settling myself in Jafra – one of my favourite eateries – I ordered my first lemon-mint since the end of October. I had almost forgotten what this fabulous drink tasted like. Sharp, sweet and soon-drunk, I’ve been a regular lemon-mint drinker since.

It’s a drink I’ve never seen in England – sharp lemon juice, equal parts with mint ground up with ice. It’s a slushie, but so much more. Jordan’s weather had truly become just-bearable – and only when you have a nice lemon-mint.

9) Mutable.

Mutable will always rest associated with some of my favourite memories in Jordan. Early on in the year, we all attended a cooking course at Beit Sitti (meaning Grandma’s House – how sweet) where we learnt how to make a mutable. Cooking the aubergines on an open flame until the skins become blackened and crispy, you remove the skin and ass to a pre-prepared mixture of lemon and tahini. The aubergine, cut up very small, added to the mixture creates a wonderful dip, akin to hummus. The finishing touch is a spoon or two of yoghurt and about 5 cloves of garlic. Truly, truly glorious.

The funny thing is that after this cooking course, I challenged my teacher to a duel: who could make it best? My oversight ting that she had made it at least ten times before was my downfall. Though she beat me resoundingly since then I have grown to perfect my mutable. It has become the centrepiece of every dinner we have held since. Guests love it. You’ll love it. Try it!

10) Muhammara.

Aleppo’s answer to the dip. Muhammara has become my favourite dip over the year, well surpassing mutable and hummus. I first tasted this beautiful dip on a trip to Istanbul, where culinary delights grabbed be my the throat. Subsequently only having eaten it twice more, perhaps its paucity in Jordan has made it my highest rate dish – who knows?

The dish itself is roasted red pepper mixed with pomegranate molasses, walnuts, garlic and lemon. The end flavour is simply indescribably good. Sat in King Hussein Park stuffing my face with my friend Emily’s muhammara and my mutable will always remain one of my favourite Jordanian picnics – her muhammara was overwhelmingly more popular than my mutable, I can tell you! The final time I visited Fakr Al-Din, Jordan’s most ‘exclusive’ restaurant, I had so much muhammara that I could barely eat the beautifully grilled lamb I had ordered. Fear not though, I made my way through it regardless.

And there you go – my top ten Middle Eastern/Turkish foods. This list is in no way comprehensive, and really I could wax lyrical about falafel, Armenian beef-and-eggs and the Israeli Sabich for days. I implore anyone who reads this to go out and try these wonderful foods. Beirut, famed for its foodie scene is a great place to go for some wonderful Middle Eastern food, but don’t discount Amman. The best hummus I’ve ever had was in Amman – Hashem’s restaurant, to be precise. My return to England was sweet, but I can’t help but feel saddened by the loss of all this wonderful cuisine. 

Beijing to host the 2022 Winter Olympics

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Ever since the 2008 Summer Olympics, China has essentially become the world’s most enthusiastic party-planner – the 2009 60th anniversary celebration of the 1949 revolution, the 2010 Shanghai Expo and the Shenzhen Olympiad are prime examples of a series of major international events that have been held in China since the 2008 games, a résumé that even P. Diddy can’t compete with.

The 2022 Winter Olympic games, however, is a different ordeal that China will ultimately be able to deal with, but potentially at stunningly excessive costs. For pessimists, the 2022 games may be the straw that breaks the camel’s back – or for a more precise analogy, a pretty gigantic log on an already exhausted camel.

Historically, the economic costs alone of hosting the Olympic games have been phenomenal. The 2012 London Olympics cost over $14 billion, whilst the 2014 Sochi Winter Olympics came to a mind-blowing $51 billion. Although the latter number is not a great reflection of how much the Chinese Winter games will cost given that Sochi’s venues and infrastructure had to be built essentially from scratch, it nonetheless depicts the consistent trend of Olympic fiscal madness, putting huge economic strains on the ‘lucky’ cities that gets to host them. It’s a trend convincing enough to persuade many bidders, including Oslo, Stockholm, lviv and Krakow, to drop out of the race by late 2014. Beijing may have proposed a rather conservative budget of $3.1 billion for 2022, but to call this optimistic would be an understatement.

The forecast budget seems more dreamy guestimate than shrewd calculatin when one considers that there isn’t actually any snow during January at the proposed venues, 50 to 100 miles north of Beijing. The IOC came to this conclusion in its 137-page evaluation of the two remaining bids from Beijing and Almaty, claiming that ‘the Zhangjiakou and Yanqing zones have minimal annual snowfall and for the Games would rely completely on artificial snow. There would be no opportunity to haul snow from higher elevations for contingency maintenance to the racecourses so a contingency plan would rely on stockpiled man-made snow.’ No wonder the Almaty campaign slogan was ‘Real snow, real winter ambience, real winter Games.’

It won’t be the first time that artificial snow is used for the Winter Olympics, but it will be the first time that no real snow will be involved at all. One wonders whether this will quite literally be a snow Olympics built on sand. 

In the face of all the scepticism and doubt, China remains confident about its ability to ‘present to the world a fantastic, extraordinary and excellent Olympic Winter Games in Beijing,’ as Xi Jinping, the Chinese Premier put it. Concerns over the practicalities have never stopped China, and the many hurdles it faces for the 2022 Games may be sidestepped effectively in the years to come. It helps that China’s domestic promotion of winter sports have taken the country by storm over the last decade, with the northeast provinces essentially transforming into China’s ‘little Switzerland’, scattered with over 500 skiing resorts.This ensures that not only will there be sufficient viewership demand to prevent the embarrassment of hosting the Games without an audience, but that the technology to provide artificial snow already exists and just needs to refined.

The rest of the required infrastructure already exists – the famous ‘Bird’s Nest’ stadium will be incorporated and the ‘Water Cube’, in which Michael Phelps shocked the world in 2008, will be (ingeniously) renamed the ‘Ice Cube.’

As veteran analyst Anne Stevenson-Yang claimed, ‘the (Chinese Communist Party’s) system excels at marshalling resources and deploying them at a single target.’ Now that the lense has shifted to the 2022 Winter Games there’s no reason that the Party will misfire. This is a State after all where no price is deemed too excessive for the prestige of hosting the Olympics. More than just a carnival of sport, for China the Winter Olympics is a golden ticketing into the high-rollers club of world politics.

For the Chinese people, on the other hand, opinion is divided. Some have legitimate worries about China’s human rights record, whilst others question whether the money devoted to 2022 could be better used.

The nationwide euphoria that accompanied the announcement of Beijing’s winning bid for the Summer Olympics in 2001 was also marred by similar concerns. Yet as time elapsed, excitement overwhelmed scepticism, and the whole nation was gradually enveloped in an Olympics-induced frenzy. With the 2022 Winter Games, China is again presented with the rare opportunity to provide a stimulant for the economy and, perhaps more importantly, a platform on which it can display the nation’s unity and progress.

If China plays its cards right, the excitement will be real even if the snow is not. 

Review: Man and Superman

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 â˜…★★★☆

George Bernard Shaw couldn’t have described Man and Superman more simply or more adequately when he labelled it in 1903 a “comedy and a philosophy”. Incessantly verbose but always scathingly witty, there is socialist tact and moral didacticism at the heart of its four-hour running time. More often than not, the famous “Don Juan in Hell” scene is cut, but having experienced Simon Godwin’s triumphant production at the National Theatre it seems strange to imagine the play ever being performed without it.

The Don Juan myth is, after all, integral to the play. Shaw revamps the classic story with a Nietzschean twist in order to debate issues of man, marriage, and mutability. Ralph Fiennes is Jack Tanner, a notorious revolutionary cynic who wholeheartedly intends to remain a bachelor for the rest of his life. His self-assured path is shattered, however, at the persistence of young “boa constrictor” Ann Whitefield, who wishes more than anything to become Mrs. Tanner. At the whim of this basic narrative, Shaw catapults the play to and fro across an erratic global course – ranging from London to Granada, and of course casually stopping by in Hell itself. 

Godwin’s production is wise to take advantage of the ever-changing locations, which follow the course of Jack’s unpredictable odyssey to escape Ann’s clutches. The handsome study of Roebuck Ramsden morphs effortlessly into the sandy plains of Sierra Navada, but most spectacular of all is the stage assembled to depict Don Juan’s voyage to the underworld. Almost blinded by light, we find ourselves squinting at a bleached desert of emptiness, marked by a glistening elevator that travels back and forth between Heaven and Hell (equipped with a signature ding!). Upon the enormous upstage panels are ambiguous glacial images – surreal waves of movement – designed to subtly float and glide against the backdrop of Don Juan’s electric debate with the Devil. We see a colossal eye slowly blink, and shadowy figures walk briskly back and forth. These mirages are on the brink of becoming distracting, but the central discussion is just too fascinating to ignore. 

Fiennes is superbly charismatic and contradictory as both Tanner and Don Juan, not so much a Casanova as a Socratic substitute. His face-off with the Devil – deliciously played as a suavely baritone aristocrat by Tim McMullan – is richly compelling from start to finish. The entire scene isn’t essential to the narrative, of course, but it’s an enthralling consideration of the philosophy of man and the ‘life force’ that guides him. Adding impeccable blustering and pompous comedy is Nicholas le Provost as both Roebuck Ramsden and the Statue Don Gonzalo in Hell (sporting a delightfully tiny pair of angelic wings). Ramsden’s stoic conservatism is the perfect contrast to Tanner’s whirlwind revolutionary. Topping the leading cast off is Indira Varma as the domineeringly free-spirited Ann Whitefield (or Ana, in Hell), whose elegant man-eater is the ideal poised and cogent counterbalance to Fiennes’ irrationally slippery Jack Tanner.

The pseudo-modern setting is momentarily perplexing – an old-fashioned car is complicated by the brief and perhaps unnecessary use of a smartphone, but these are minor hiccups. The main issue of the play’s updating is that many of its central shock factors are diminished by our modern society; an unmarried pregnant woman and the struggles of an uneducated chauffeur are hardly scandalous or distressing to us now. In spite of this, however, Shaw’s play has aged remarkably well. We still muse every day on the hypocrisy and philosophy of humankind. We still fiercely debate the differences between men and women. We are still incessantly perplexed by the ‘life force’ pumping through our veins.

France: Qu’est-ce que c’est?

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“Qu’est-ce que c’est?”. I was inquiring as to what my new boss had just ordered for me, staring at a plate of what appeared to be a large slab of slimy meat congealed in brown gravy.

It was the end of June, one week after finishing my exams, and I had fled Britain for a tiny, medieval village in the south-west of France called Beynac. Several months previously I had decided on a whim to apply to be an au pair, hoping it would be a relatively easy way to earn a bit of money while escaping England for a couple of months. So there I was, having my first meal with the family that was to adopt me into their lives for the summer, trying to understand what exactly was in front of me.

Amongst the ocean of French slang I grasped that it was a local delicacy and that I had to try it. The only catch was they were only willing to tell me what it was after I’d eaten it. I had been open-minded, but now was getting a little suspicious. Not wanting to live up to the French nickname for us British (roast-bif), or meet their expectations of us only eating fish and chips, I decided to brave this unappetising meal. To my happy surprise it was quite delicious. Having lived off Tesco reduced-price meat and dubious college meals for the past year, I relished the tender meat. “Delicieux”, I announced. Then they told me: it was tongue.

I laughed, and finished my meal. That’s what I was here for; to taste French cuisine. I soon realised it’s not all about crisp baguettes and gooey camembert! This was to be the first of many experiences of French cooking and I was not disappointed. Most evenings Tom (the nine year old boy I was looking after) and I would lay the table before his parents got home. After they’d prepared some culinary delight, we’d spend an hour or two at the table, chatting and eating. The locally sourced delights included pâté and a never-ending supply of patisseries, in seemingly endless flavours. But it wasn’t the type of food so much as the whole event that I relished the most. It was like going to formal every night, only I drank a glass of wine rather than a bottle and my attire was far from formal.

Despite them getting up at 6am every morning and me being up at 8 when Tom woke, alcohol was always a part of the evening routine: a glass of red one night, prosecco the next. The French really do grasp the concept of drinking to moderation that I have rarely witnessed in Britain. Even the young French people I met always ordered a ‘demi’ of beer rather than a pint. They laughed at me when I questioned this; after all it is cheaper to buy a pint than two ‘demis’. It was refreshing to drink alcohol, have a lively conversation, and remember all of it the next day-plus (for the most part) I was able to wake up at 8 without requiring a small first aid box and all the coffee in Cardews.

Often Tom (the nine year old boy I was looking after) was allowed a sip of his parent’s beverage of choice while I looked on in mild amusement. One evening he took things a little further than usual and grabbed the bottle himself to pour some into his glass. This was thoroughly encouraged by Dad (apparently a small splash would put him off) but Mum gave her son a firm look: he hesitated. Then we suddenly realised he’d picked up a bottle of whiskey rather than wine and Mum vetoed it: wine flows freely, but spirits are still out of bounds for minors even in libertine France.

Another benefit to lengthy evening meals was the improvement to my language skills. It turned out there was only so much French I could learn from a nine-year old by himself (although several nine-year olds made for a hilarious listening exercise.) However, listening to two adults in addition was far more challenging, especially when the teenage stepbrothers came for a couple of weeks. My bilingual godmother assured me my French was “good – for an English person”. But I understood little for the first fortnight except on a one-to-one basis. A tsunami of words peppered with slang would bombard my ears every night for the first few weeks. I went to bed with my head spinning full of half-understood jokes and conversations. But gradually words become phrases and phrases conversations. I’ve never been one to sit back and passively listen. So soon I found myself finding the confidence to join in, even gaining a small smatter of laughter when I attempted to use French humour.

If you’re hoping to improve your fluency and want to experience a snapshot of life in a foreign country, I would 100% recommend au pairing. My only advice? Ensure you not only like, but love kids; five days a week starts to take its toll on even the most enthusiastic of babysitters! It’s not all about relaxed evenings and tasty food, dipping into the free fridge whenever you feel like it. I did have to learn how to drive on the right side of some very narrow and windy French roads and be responsible for a small child: one who continually tried to swim across the river Dordogne while I wasn’t watching.

But the opportunities outside of the host family are truly endless. On my weekends off I visited more cosy French towns than I care to remember, met plenty of locals, some of whom I’ve been to visit since. And if nothing else, I’ve achieved one of my life goals. I can now hold a French conversation with a handsome stranger, bedecked in a polo and smoking a Sobranie in a crowded, noisy bar and understand (almost) every sweet nothing whispered in my ear. 

What not to do at a music festival

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1. BYOG*
(*Bring Your Own Guitar)

One of the great things about music festivals- dare I say it, the greatest in fact- is that there is (shock horror!) lots and lots of music. Funny that. This however never stops some bold soul from bringing his own guitar on the off chance his friends tire of hearing world-class musicians, and require his tuneless reprieve instead. Always bewilderingly close to my tent, said BYOG-er has an inexplicable tendency to arise at 9 am to indulge the whole field in their Oasis covers, while their gazebo’s fake French doors can only flap mercilessly in horror. A warning- if you sir make such a decision to sit in your ill-fitting Olly Mur’s-esque fedora and un-ironic puka necklace, and strum that opening Em7 of Wonderwall any time before 11am, I can safely inform you that today is going to be the day that I brutally smite you with tent pegs.

2. Participate in cultural appropriation in the name of fashion

I’m afraid that sleeping in your glamping tee-pee for one night does not give you the right to whip out a Native-American style headdress. Likewise, many would find it insensitive and inappropriate for you to adorn yourself with a bindi you bought from Claire’s, just because you think it really sets off your septum ring. Please stop, and remember the old rule- just because Urban Outfitters sells it, doesn’t mean it’s okay.

3. Push to the front three minutes before a set starts on the premise you’re on the phone to your friend who is most definitely [not] at the front

I may have stood in the rain for forty minutes, and have seriously considered the sweet relief of urinating in a paper Bulmer’s cup, but I am certainly not an idiot. If, three minutes before a band whom I’ve been waiting half a decade to see starts, you decide to push everyone out of your path with the voiced intention of finding your friend ‘Steve’, who I’m pretty sure is not standing smack bang in the centre at the front, then I am going to be slightly annoyed. What’s more, if you nonchalantly abolish said mission directly in front of me, meaning that my view becomes solely your bucket hat, I am going to be well and truly peeved.

4. Wear a massive rucksack in a mosh

Boom, boom, boom- that’s not the base reverberating through me, but your enormous day-sack of God-knows-what. Recent fashion trends for fringed and studded rucksacks have regrettably resulted in people appearing in moshes who look like Top Shop made over the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. I never thought that I’d enjoy being whipped by a 100-pronged whip, but I can now definitely conclude that it is not my thing. I came out from one set this year with a bleeding head wound due to one particular River-Island-made missile. Not cool.

5. Film all of a set on a selfie stick

In today’s society, cramped spaces and long metal poles no longer just exist in the vicinity of strip clubs. As with strip clubs though, there is never any need, or flattering way, to take a picture as proof of your presence; you’ll have many an anecdote you don’t want to explain to your mother to verify that. I don’t want to be melodramatic, but selfie sticks are the literal invention of the devil. They are the only proof I need that evil exists in this world, and that when a zombie apocalypse does come, we have no chance in our selfie-stick-filled hell of surviving. They are on a level with people carrying around iPads as cameras. At a festival, the BBC is likely to be filming every minute, on multiple cameras, in a better position, and at a better angle than you. You do not need to hit someone in the head with an extendable golf club multiple times, only to manage to film a racially inappropriate headdress, or worse, me in rain-soaked anorak, with eyeliner (or is it mud?) running down my face, chastising the bucket-hat clad 6-ft spruce who has decided to stand in front of me. 

Architects of Oligarchy

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In his 1995 Reith Lecture series, Richard Rogers, architect of the Paris Pompidou Centre, spoke of how, “The essential problem is that cities have been viewed in instrumental or consumerist terms…The result is that cities have been polarized into communities of rich and poor and segregated into ghettoes of single-minded activity.” The Pompidou Centre is widely regarded as a landmark in late 20th century urban design because of its focus on community. Built alongside a giant piazza, Rogers’ collaboration with the Italian architects Renzo Piano and Gianfranco Franchini is an expression of the importance of the public domain – a democratic exhibition space evoking the French Republican traditions of liberté, égalité, fraternité.

In contrast to a city of repressive 19th century boulevards designed for Napoleon III’s autocratic regime, the architects created an “open-minded space” for cultural dialogue amongst French citizens from every background. Built in the mid-1970s to provide, amongst other things, Paris’ first large, free public library, the Centre’s design reflected the aspirations of a new generation of socially-minded European citizens.

Fast-forward the clock to 2015, and the same ‘master’ architects are producing buildings of a completely different sentiment in our British cities. Rogers’ firm, Rogers Stirk Harbour + Partners, has recently been shortlisted for one of the UK’s most prestigious architecture prizes for its work on Neo Bankside, a development of elite penthouses near the Tate Modern. Originally put on sale for as much as £22 million per penthouse, the development’s claim to the RIBA Stirling Prize lies on the basis of a design catering for the private interests of the international super rich. The same exposition of the building’s skeletal structure that in the Pompidou Centre is an expression of transparency and public accountability becomes for the Neo Bankside project little more than a decorative shell for a private world. In a scheme that consciously refused to accommodate on-site affordable housing, no effort is made to foster a sense of an integrated London community. Rogers’ design may carry the façade of his previous projects, but crucially it is based on a completely alien ideology. In short, the bankside development celebrates the predominance of private capital over what should be a public community.

The problem is that Rogers’s development is not alone. Among the ‘landmark’ London developments of the last 30 years, how many have reflected the dominance of private wealth? Public architects have taken to designing monuments to the vast fortunes of, more often than not, foreign investors in the capital’s property bubble. As iconic as Renzo Piano’s design for the Shard may be, we must remember that it is an icon of the hegemony of the moneyed interest in our capital. Towering above civic landmarks, like St Paul’s or the Houses of Parliament, London’s tallest sky-scraper is above all else a monument to the closed world of capital – a world far remote from the Londoners that live in its shadow.

The poster boys and girls of British architecture, names like Zaha Hadid and Norman Foster, have helped to create a brand that has been exported across the world. Celebrating the life of Azerbaijan’s notoriously corrupt ruler, projects like Zaha Hadid’s Heydar Aliyev Center have shown that too often this brand has been sold to the highest bidder, not the highest ideal. Despite warnings from human rights activists about the conditions of migrant workers on the 2022 Football World Cup, the fact that Sir Norman Foster continues to work with the Qataris on the Lusail Stadium suggests the developing ethical bankruptcy of this brand. Across the world, British architects’ designs are being used by the super-rich to create buildings that help to justify their monopoly over the world’s resources, without asking too difficult questions of it. Certain tropes of ultra-modern, high-tech British design have evolved into a built language of the international elites: an architecture of oligarchy.

In spite of all of this, perhaps there is hope for a reinvigoration of public, community-based design in the next generation of British urban projects. Notably, alongside Neo Bankside on the Stirling Prize shortlist there are also listed the University of Manchester’s Whitworth Museum, the Maggie’s Lanarkshire Cancer Centre, and a block of affordable family housing at Darbishire Place for the Peabody Trust. All three buildings, designed by a younger generation of architects, embrace values of community living and interaction in the public sphere in a very tangible way. These buildings may not have the budgets of Neo Bankside, the Shard, or a World Cup stadium, but in their own discreet way they speak of an architecture of far greater value to the much more diverse communities with which they interact.  To put it another way, they present British architecture with an opportunity to return to more egalitarian narratives of dialogue with the wider community – it is up to the profession to take it.

Review: Ratatat – Magnifique

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★★★☆☆
Three stars

Pinning down Ratatat to just one genre of music is somewhat tricky – they mix a medley of styles into a rather unique sound. Famously lyric-less, the duo from New York are known for combining electronica with fuzzed guitars, backing all manners of musical miscellanea. Distilling Ratatat to an easily identifiable sound might be seen as implying a lack of innovation in their music. Admittedly, however, it’s worked for them so far – and there’s a world between the edgy, provocative Loud Pipes from their 2006 album Classics and the bittersweet romance of Mahalo from 2010’s LP4.

As expected, then, their latest offering, Magnifique, contains varying applications of the formula. From the languid, dream-like Drift to the crunchy, upbeat Nightclub Amnesia, each song has its own character. Yet it may well be that the possibilities of the formula are simply running dry – although there aren’t any bad songs on the album, nothing really stands out either. Having often been trotted out by the duo’s detractors, this is hardly a new criticism. Yet if it were appropriate at any point in their career, then it’ll be after Magnifique. After a week’s listening, only half of a song has struck me to the same extent as Loud Pipes or Wildcat from Classics – the last half of Rome, with its gentle crescendo into the almost nostalgic happiness of the climax, is my personal highlight of the album.

But average Ratatat is still good music – and Magnifique continues the tradition of providing an array of music for various moods. There’s a reason for this tradition, and for the similarities visible throughout the discography – Ratatat create music that they want to listen to. This is clear from their notations of the songs on Magnifique – Pricks of Brightness, for example, is a love letter to the music they enjoyed as teenagers.

Perhaps the main point to take away from Ratatat’s latest offering is that, for many people, it’ll be best as a side to the main course. So many of these songs will add vibrancy to parties, drives, or even to simple walks around town – yet the emotional connection is lacking, and few (if any) songs carry sufficient weight to stand alone. While the songs aren’t likely to create memories on their own, they could well find themselves the backing track to many a #Summer_Memories_2k15 montage.

Not quite living up to its name, Magnifique is nonetheless an appreciated return from a half-decade absence – the only regret being that it doesn’t quite reach the bar that previous albums have set.