Good times. A long planned evening with my friend. I had not seen her in a long time as we both studied in different cities. We had a lot to catch up on.  So we met in a quiet, cosy restaurant in the small town where we used to go to high school together. The only people there were the owner of the restaurant, another couple with their dog and us. We had a great time – until you came in: two big, tall men, late 20s or early 30s. You sat down at the table next to us. You kept looking at us. We noticed, but did not respond.

You started talking to us. You demanded we should have drinks with you. We said, “Thank you, that is very kind of you, but we don’t want to have any drinks.” We were really apologetic. Maybe because society tells young women they should understand such advances as compliments. Maybe because we were afraid of the consequences.

You would not accept our “No”. You kept interrupting us and you kept demanding that we drank with you. You started getting aggressive. I started getting afraid. My friend was noticeably nervous. I said firmly, “Leave us in peace.” You got angry. You started shouting at us “You ugly bitches, who do you think you are? We came here to have a good time and you are ruining it.”

You got angrier. You got money out of your wallet, threw it at us and said: “Dance for us, sluts”. You would not leave us in peace for a minute. We were afraid, really afraid. No one else intervened. Should we call the police? Or would the police be annoyed because they have more important things to do? Because really, this was not an uncommon situation. It was just another experience of intense sexual harassment.

My friend was in slight panic. She went to the bathroom. When she left, one of you walked over to me. You leaned over to me, two inches between our faces. You yelled at me. You were insulting me, calling me an arrogant slut, an asshole, an ugly bitch. I started shaking. You went over to the bar with your friend, ordered more drinks. I rang the police and asked for help. They said it would take around 30 minutes before they arrived; it is a rural area.

You both realised I had rung the police and left the restaurant.

We were relieved. But only for a moment, until the owner of the restaurant walked over to us. He had  not helped us. Instead, he had continued to serve drinks  to our harassers. He started blaming us. “Did you ring the police? Why are you presenting my restaurant in such a bad light? Why are you causing trouble?”

We were shocked. We just wanted to leave. But we were seriously afraid of leaving the restaurant at night by ourselves. We were afraid you were waiting for us outside.  We asked the couple in the restaurant to accompany us to my car. We drove to the police station.

I met one of you, the harassers from that night, in court again. You already had a previous criminal record. I saw you sitting there. Nothing was left of your aggressive, intimidating behaviour. You were rather quiet that day. And I almost commiserated with you. Just like me, you were born into a society which tolerates violence against girls and women. At least you were found guilty that day.

This is just one example from of a long list of unpleasant experiences. There have been countless cat calls, inappropriate sexual comments, insults after rejection, and attempts to grope me.

All these incidents intimidated me. They turned me into someone who would call Oxford University Security Services just for reassurance on a dark, lonely walk home.

In the end, however, it was my community that made a strong person out of me again. Family and friends. And empowering discussions on the subject here in Oxford. And it will be campaigns such as #NotGuilty that will make girls and women stronger again. Each of my female friends has her own, similar story. Some of them are rape stories.

TW: Rape, sexual harrassment, child abuse

I was raped. It has taken me six months to admit those three words. For half of that time, I didn’t remember. I didn’t want to remember, supressing the memory so that I could carry on with my life. For a further two months I thought it was just a sexual assault, which I felt society thought of as less traumatic than rape and something that I could “move on” from faster. Society doesn’t know the facts that preceded the rape. They don’t know how safe I felt being out, alone at night, despite being intoxicated. They don’t know how my sense of security at my dream university was shattered the moment I realised the two silhouettes I saw walking towards me were not my friends, or even friendly at all. They don’t know how I felt as they overpowered me, tied me up, and subjected me to an onslaught of punches, near suffocation, and oral rape. They don’t know what it felt like to be convinced that those were my last moments alive. They do not know how I felt when they chucked me in a bin once they were done, implanting the idea in my head that I was worthless. Used and then discarded.

There should not be an expectation for a right or wrong way to react after any form of sexual assault, whether it is inappropriate touching or a violent rape attack. They are all traumatic experiences that I would not wish on anyone, ever. My saving grace after the attack was a secret community. A community I felt safe to talk to. A community that would not think that I was even a little to blame for what happened, one that knew I was not guilty. This community is one that the majority of people do not know exists. Some members, including me, have not told even their families that they are part of it. It is a community of survivors.  I was appalled as I began to discover its true size as I slowly confided in more of my friends. Listening to their struggles and how they overcame them was the most healing thing for me, particularly in dark times. Knowing that others had also experienced days when they could not bring themselves to get out of bed was very comforting. They now have many less of these dark days and are moving on with their lives. If they can do it, so can I. 

As I learnt about the secret community and those within it, I came across two instances of child abuse. Whilst waiting for a counselling session, I looked at one of the flyers pinned up on the wall. It was calling for those who were victims of child abuse to come to a Women’s Only day. This might not seem strange to you but one of the two people who I know was subjected to child abuse is male. As I looked further, I realised that almost all of the help available to the victims of sexual assault was directed solely at women. I am a woman and I hate what I had to go through. I am, however, very glad that I did not have to go through it as a male. Within this hidden community, there are men who were also raped. I don’t feel it is right that the society presumes that all victims of sexual assault are female. Until I stated it just now, I am confident that you had already assumed that I was female. As much as statistics may say that I am a woman, don’t assume that it never happens to men. This secret community, little by little, needs to let the rest of the world in. We need to show them that this problem occurs all too often and that no one but the abusers or offenders are at fault. We need to show them who we are and that we are a strong community.  This article is my starting point to doing just that.

Although it may be Spring, there are still the odd evenings where I fancy something warming and homely for dinner. This week, I made a stew in honour of that fabled other newspaper, the OxStu (hence the name – there are no products of oxen in this recipe though I’m sure you could add some if you so desired). I suppose I thought being a former editor might give me the magic ability to make this OxStew, but it turns out this was not the case.

After throwing together some mushrooms, onions, tomatoes, leeks, potatoes and herbs, my efforts yielded a distinctly sloppy-looking dish which was rather more watery than I had hoped.

The moral of the story is that a modicum of planning is required in most cooking, even for completely made-up, journalism-related recipes. Fortunately I could count on my favourite two things to rescue this meal: alcohol and carbohydrates. Whilst simmering the stew, I added an unreasonably large dash of red wine, which just always improves the flavour. Then I served it alongside a big piece of crusty bread, which soaked up the excess nicely, and more red wine. Less of an OxStew, more of an OxSoup, but tasty nonetheless. Next time I make it, I may even add more wine.

Light but confidently carby, this tart is cheap as dirt to make and a refreshing alternative to Pot Noodle and pasta. All the ingredients should be available in your nearest supermarket. Serves 6.

Ingredients:
50g self-raising flour
50g wholemeal flour
½ teaspoon mustard powder
100g butter
50g cheese (Cheddar is best)
3 large onions, diced
2 eggs, beaten
100ml milk

Method:

1. Preheat oven to 180°C. Mix the flours, mustard, 50g butter, and a pinch of salt with 40g grated cheese and a dash or two of water to make dough then put in a plastic bag in your fridge.

2. Melt the leftover butter in a pan, with the onions. Leave them on a medium heat for 30 minutes, tossing them so they become evenly chocolate brown.

3. Line a tart tin with your pastry. Bake this for 15 minutes, coat the inside with beaten egg, and put back in for five. Whisk the remaining egg with milk and seasoning. Put the onions in the pastry and gradually add this liquid, keeping it hot, then cover with cheese and bake for 30 minutes.

★★★☆☆

I’m no vegetarian, but I admit I am an absolute sucker for macaroni. This weakness of mine may have influenced my decision to choose Sainsbury’s macaroni cheese for this review, giving me the impossible task of summing up macaroni within a word limit. The packaging suggests that the best way to prepare it is to microwave for four minutes. However, as I consider myself a terrible, but willing chef, I oven baked it for 20 minutes instead.

My first bite of the meal was a not-so-cheesy piece of pasta, but this was my fault for choosing a very crunchy-looking piece. Despite this initial moment of despair, I’d consider it to be a good macaroni; the sauce is very creamy. It lacks any form of seasoning, but if you ask me, the whole point of macaroni is to be a simple meal. It is certainly filling and satisfying for the cost, but it contains no arguably healthy ingredient, so on that note, I am off to go and eat an apple.

As I approached this burger joint on Walton Street in Jericho, I couldn’t help but be struck by the incongruity between the neat, upmarket minimalism of most of the bistros and delis I’d just passed and the stoner paradise I’d had so strongly recommended to me, by a stoner, shockingly. This is not necessarily a negative: the backwards clock, holographic images and mind warp poster provided great amusement as I queued to order, though I found the large picture of a pizza particularly perplexing, since they don’t sell them.

Despite this, their menu is impressively varied: they offer at least three different kinds of meat, as well as a decent and not from-frozen vegetarian option, as either quarter or half pounders. You are encouraged by graphic neon chalk art on a blackboard above the counter to pick two of the long list of sauces available for your burger, which included alongside the classics some more adventurous options, like tandoori, horseradish, and white shark. I was childishly hoping that the latter was actually made from white sharks, in spite of my PETA-ish leanings, but was informed by my laughing stoner friend that it is just a very hot, hot sauce. I eventually decided on blue cheese and ketchup and returned to staring at the mind warp poster.

When it came to ordering, our server was calm and friendly, entirely unfazed by the bustle of customers on our side of the counter. My friend realised he’d been too busy enjoying the posters to actually pick something, but our grinning server assured him that he had “all the time in the world, man”. Fortunately, it didn’t take that long, and we squeezed into the wooden chairs between the counter and the window and watched as another guy took fresh-made burgers from the display and slapped them on the grill. It was a longer wait than you’d get at most chain fast food places for a burger, but I don’t mind waiting a little longer for cooked-to-order, good food, especially when it’s as cheaply priced as Peppers was.

When the burgers arrived, I found the mushrooms I had asked for as a topping were conspicuously absent, meaning I can only speculate about how well they would have gone with the blue cheese sauce (bitterly, I suspect the answer is very well). Instead, I had been given onions and jalapeños, which were at least very easy to pick out. I was impressed with both the quality and quantity of salad in the burgers, despite the mix up, especially considering I didn’t even have to pay extra. We decided to have them as take out; the wooden chairs were actually more comfortable than they looked, but the combination of customer traffic and blaring 90s shit-hop and school disco bangers somewhat dampened the burger bar experience.

Although not the best burger I’ve ever had, it effortlessly surpasses anything in its price bracket and is considerably better than anything from a supermarket. The range of fresh and largely healthy toppings was a nice touch, and really made it worth the walk to Jericho.

★☆☆☆☆

In the interest of full disclosure, severe disorganisation meant I found myself desperately trawling Oxford, alone, in -1st Week, searching for any open college bar I might be able to sneak into. After two hours of walking around spookily empty colleges, and finding nothing but locked doors and grumpy porters, I began to pity those students stranded among the spires outside of term. But the Bar Review Team is nothing if not committed, and I eventually found refuge in Linacre, a small graduate college tucked away in the shadow of that monstrosity of a building they call the Zoology Department.

My first thought was that this was no bar at all, but merely some old lady’s living room with a bar thrown in the middle. With horrible orange walls and a frankly bizarre layout, it could equally be mistaken for the set of a student production of Abigail’s Party. Linacre provides ample evidence of why bars should never, I repeat, never double as common rooms. Though I must concede the plethora of seating – including some extremely comfortable sofas – and surprisingly good sound system were impressive. There is also table football and darts behind the bar, for those so inclined.

The drinks selection was certainly better than what I have come to expect from student-run bars, with a particularly pleasing array of beers, all offered at standard college bar prices. I think it would be fair to say the students running the bar offer a friendly but no-frills service. My pint was well poured, yet upon asking for a spirit mixer, I was handed two shots of rum in a branded pint glass and a can of coke on the side. Half of the spirits on offer were actually hidden out of sight of the punters, which seems a completely unnecessary flaw. They don’t sell a signature drink – perhaps graduate students are just too ‘mature’ for such things?

I have to hand it to them, though, the bar was busy for the entire evening, especially for a Monday outside of term, and whoever was in charge of the playlist was doing a stellar job. My experience was only somewhat worsened by the guy sitting next to me, who potently and incessantly farted in my direction, but it’s surely unreasonable to blame Linacre for the questionable actions of their students’ bowels. Were I a Linacre student, I may have considered posting passive aggressive complaints on their adult equivalent to a JCR Facebook notice board, or even post-its on the bathroom stall doors. Alas.

This bar would be an unfulfilling but just about acceptable venue for actual Linacre students, and potentially even relaxing after a long day of shouting and waving placards outside the science area as part of their never-ending campaign for neverending change. However, I can’t say it would make a good hangout spot for any of us lowly undergraduates, even during term.