Houmous Girl – 5th week Trinity
His palms were sweaty/ knees sweaty/arms were sweaty/ there was sweat on his stash already/really sweaty. Nervously, Rower Lad wiped his brow and checked his watch for the thirteenth time in eleven seconds. It was still only 6.59. She wasn’t even late, he reminded himself. It was OK. It was all going to be OK.
Earlier, he had googled “Indiest Locations to Take A Girl In Oxford”, but the results had not been especially helpful. A cursory flick through the Tab Hotlist had suggested an avant-garde spoken word night in Jericho, but he wasn’t sure that a balding performance poet screeching about the Israeli-Palestine confl ict was the way to Houmous Girl’s heart. Still, the Eagle and Child was a lovely little pub. Cosy, intimate, devoid of fi shbowls and apple sourz. Far away from the boozy roar of “Lads! Lads! Lads!” that dogged his every step.
Suddenly, there was a boozy roar. “Lads! Lads! Lads!” Rower Lad glanced around in consternation. Something wasn’t right. As he half-rose to fi nd the source of the unwanted commotion, a meaty hand slapped him jovially in the thorax, causing him to spill half of his artisan beer. The meaty hand was attached to a meaty forearm, which led inevitably to the round, grinning, meaty face of his good friend Rugby Lad, surrounded by a coven of similarly broad individuals.
“Starting early?” roared Rugby Lad, fl ecking Rower Lad with a gentle shower of spittle. “That’s what we like to see!”
“No, I was going to meet- ” Rower Lad stopped. How could he have been such a fool? Whether it was love or an excess of creatine that had dulled his wits, he had entirely forgotten that the annual pub crawl of the All-Oxford Synchronised Belching Team was due to take place that very night, at the very same time, starting in the very same pub where he had arranged to meet his date. What a disaster!
What a colossally unlikely and yet narratively convenient coincidence!
A fragrant figure clad all in ironic denim wafted in through the door. “Chug, chug, chug,” bayed the already-fl atulent crowd. “Love, love, love,” murmured his already-fluttering heart. Rower Lad hesitated, and spoke.
Balling: The best route to quick cash
It occurred to me as I tore open my third packet of 82-pence frozen oven chips last term that it might be worth my time to earn some honest cash. I didn’t have any option; it was clear that my usual fi nancial lifeboats had taken one too many Topshop-shaped beatings to stay afl oat. My mum was reluctant, my cat unmoved. My bank manager had surveyed me with amusement and loathing in equal measure as I prostrated at his feet. “Madam, you have already received the maximum student loan that we can offer. Pull yourself together.”
I sniffed as I listened to my last few pennies in all the world tinkle impishly from the deep red depths of my overdraft. A thoroughly sensible housemate took pity on me and forwarded my name to a catering company. Within a few weeks we had both found ourselves with catering work at Keble Ball.
Truth be told I was more excited than is polite for a human food repository on the verge of her first shift. I loved all the balls I had gone to in first year: the rivers of booze, the unidentified umami-fl avoured chunks wrapped in bread, the promise of some ill-advised romps in a bush with a mediocre kisser… Somewhere along the way, I had managed to confl ate these heady memories with my expectations of the upcoming shift.
This was, of course, idiotic, but neither did I have a terrible night. It was… fun. I’d certainly say that working a ball beats eight hours in the fluorescent drab of a supermarket any day.
Unreasonably, my new boss did not present me with a wistful silken gown or a cute tiara. Instead I was to make myself content with a voluminous misshapen fleece and an unforgivably titchy apron. I pretended to be disgruntled, but really my uniform had enough novelty value to keep me squeaking with misplaced excitement. As the ball guests fastened their delicate suede heels, I snapped on my surgical gloves with all the creepy relish of Dr Jekyll.
My first disappointment presented itself quickly, though. Thus far my purportedly ‘adult’ life has been intermittently blighted with a great loathing of rice. Reacting to stray grains as a elephant might to an anthrax-ridden mouse, my subconscious cannot be persuaded of the qualitative diff erences between a plate of rice and a nest of maggots.
“OK,” suggested Mr Boss with the frankly rude air of someone who hadn’t researched my culinary whimsies prior to hiring me, “we’ve put you on the Paella stall.” My housemate sniggered wickedly in the background.
I resolved to suck it up and be mature. And perhaps drench my housemate in any hot oils I might have to hand later in the evening.
I had expected to spend my evening hypocritically snorting at drunk and aggressive student louts. (I knew perfectly well how I behaved myself as a ball attendee – poorly.) Having mastered the rather clever art of developing a Cloak of Invisibility sometime after my ninth vodka luge, I was a dab hand at pissing in well-lit corners and ignoring queues for the hog roast.
The ladies and gentlemen of Keble Ball, on the other hand, put me to shame. Life was rosy on the other side of the hotplates. Well-polished lads waited patiently as I burbled hysterically into the fast-depleting veggie option. Kindly girls escorted me through the maze of stages to the loo. Everybody pretended not to notice as I sneezed into a dish and promptly served it to a customer. Even the customer himself betrayed only the slightest glimmer of complete and utter disgust. Nobody slurred incomprehensibly, nobody cut queues and only one person cocked his leg on our stall.
Fair to say, then, that the only real dickwad of the evening was not a fair representative for the rest of the Keble ball-goers. “I jus’ think thad you guysh should know,” rumbled a greasy guy with the imperious air of a Buller boy, “thad you’ve done a GREAT job tonight. You should be PROUD of yourshelves. Really.” His friend, who was equally pissed but less of a moron, had the decency to colour on his behalf, wincing with each fresh flurry of ‘Brahvo’s. It was midnight in a sticky flash, and by the time 1am rolled around we were already joyously packing up our buckets of waste slop. By 2am I had a lamb burger in one hand, two sausages in the other, three beers balanced on my stomach and a scotch pancake clenched between my teeth. And, best of all, fifty quid in my pocket. Not too shabby. Really not too shabby at all.
The greatest advantage of working at a ball is the smug realisation at about this point in the evening that you have clinched yourself free entry. In fact, you are richer, and the cocktail bar is your oyster for the next couple of hours.
As I have never been particularly good at enjoying myself after the sixth hour of pretending to be lithe in six-inch heels, this shortened ball suited my stamina perfectly. I’d wholeheartedly recommend working at an Oxford ball to a friend. Or anybody, in fact, who wants to cure a haemorrhaging wallet this summer.
Creaming Spires – 5th week Trinity
The friend. It might sound like a boring topic for this column, but in reality it’s one of the most stressful ways to have sex – inside your own friend circle. I would say just don’t do it, but that is a thing far, far easier said than done.
I still remember the first time we met – our eyes locked over the corpse of another friend, passed out under the table in Mirch, and that was it. Best friends forever – when you both rescue someone from a person on the other crew throwing up in their sink (and a really unhygienic sexual mistake) on the same night, you know that you have something special. A common thread, a connection of minds, a lot of free time over the summer and too much snapchat.
Fast forward several months, and we’re having drunken sex in a bed with a squeaky mattress, and then again to the next few weeks which is a stressful blur of “does-helike-me”s, “what-does-this-mean”s and quite of lot of, “Fuck fuck fuck is that it fuck he’s my friend fuuuuuck I’m confused.”
What’s the strategy? Well. There’s the always-popular British classic – that of complete and total ignorance. All knowledge of the event is denied and on the surface, everything is fine until a few weeks later, when you feel as though you can no longer trust your best friend with any emotions and you turn up on their doorstep in the middle of the night, in an intricate full-body-paint bop costume which leaves little blue puddles of tears on their sheets.
If you don’t think that you can stand the weeks of tension, of dragging it out and of being constantly uncertain of what to do, you could try and get all the unresolved feelings out in the open – a task easier said than done as your confusion at the situation will result in so many change-of-hearts that you will break down crying in their presence far, far more than just once.
Or you could try the more obvious route and simply avoid them for months on end until you run into them in Park End, then simply look at each other and collapse into giggles. Sorted.
Loading the Canon: Rabbi Sacks
I first came across the ex-Chief Rabbi Jonathan Sacks a few years ago, in discussion with Richard Dawkins. Here he made the wonderfully unflinching statement that “without faith there is no hope”. It’s always impressive when people are prepared to say things which go against the grain of society and this, I think, counts.
It’s perhaps hard to argue that The Dignity of Difference is literature as such, but it is an incredibly important book, written with great clarity, and with radical ideas from the unexpected source of Orthodox Judaism. Published in 2002, Sacks is inevitably driven by 9/11, a fact apparent in the book’s subtitle, which declares that it will explain “how to avoid the clash of civilizations”.
Sacks’ book deals with the problems of globalization and he argues that the only way forward is to make space for difference – to see that everyone has a story and a faith just as valid as the next man’s.
In fact, the first edition of this book caused uproar in the Orthodox community. Sacks made a distinction between religion and God, arguing that, “God is universal, religion is particular.” Thus, he is in effect said that all religions are different expressions of the same God, or, as he put it, that God “has spoken to mankind through many languages, through Judaism to Jews, Christianity to Christians, Islam to Muslims”. Here we had an important religious leader, of a strongly traditional faith, taking the line of a universal God – that every religion is, in its own way, right.
Unfortunately, this enlightened text was not to remain unmolested, and later that year a reprint was issued, modifying the ‘of- fending’ passage. He still admits that other faiths can find their own relationship with God, but the language used is very much toned down and less paradigm-shifting.
Speaking about the incident, Sacks says that changing the passage was one of the hardest decisions he has ever made, but that he in the end felt duty-bound to listen to his Orthodox advisors. In a sense, Sacks’ message is no different to that which we hear all the time: love, compassion and forgiveness all bring peace and happiness. But he presents it here in a new, far from wishy-washy way, facing directly the issues of faith which define our global world.
Review: Martin Creed at the Hayward Gallery
It is the blandest cliché to state in a conversation about art that in its contemporary form, it has little to offer a viewer. However, Martin Creed’s exhibition at the Hayward Gallery proves that generalization correct. Unfortunately Creed would be delighted by this view. Even the exhibition’s title questions, ‘What’s the point of it?’. Shamelessly imitating Marcel Duchamp’s ‘Fountain’, Creed’s work is supremely unoriginal. It asks the interminable question of “what is art?”, while offering no new answers. The exhibition is enjoyable, especially for those who like complaining, but it is unimpressive.
Creed gained national notoriety in 2001 after winning the Turner Prize. His winning exhibit was an empty room with lights turning on and off. Unsurprisingly, it won few fans. Educated at the Slade Art School and University College London, he has received an impressive artistic training. Sadly, this pedigree is visible in very few of his works. Since his Turner Prize win, Creed has exhibited internationally with solo exhibitions across Europe and the United States. Over his career, he has won fans and critics in equal measure, with his provocative questioning of art and its contemporary impact proving a divisive.
According to the press release, “his art transforms everyday materials and actions into surprising meditations on existence and the invisible structures that shape our lives”. That is an extremely generous view. Painfully smug in its attempts to provoke the viewer, it does so in entirely the same fashion as the Dadaists in the 1920s. Duchamp’s ‘Fountain’ issued a provocative challenge to the art establishment. It declares that, due to his status as an artist, what he produces, even if he had not made the work itself, was art. It was ground breaking and, ironically, intrinsically original. Now the idea has been done to death. ‘Work No 79’, a piece of Blu-Tack attached to a wall, does not provoke precisely because it is following an extremely well established art trend. In a way the exhibition’s most outstanding feature is Creed’s inability to move beyond Duchamp and break new ground. It is unsurprising that so many of the works are supplied ‘courtesy of the artist’. It seems art buyers are gullible, but not that gullible. Pleasantly, ‘Work No 268’ is a notable exception to the dross. The infuriating smugness of many of the other exhibits is blissfully absent, as the work embraces an honest sense of fun.
This installation lacks pretention; it consists of a room of the gallery that has been filled with balloons in which the viewer can, and is invited to, get lost in. Covered in hair, presumably unintentionally, and piled almost high enough to cover the ceiling, this single work offers the immersion and amusement which the whole exhibition is intended to provide. Some visitors have left their own messages on the balloons, including “I got naked here”. They probably did.
It works precisely because this installation is devoid of pretentiousness. It is fun, engaging and amusing, bearing a strong similarity to some of Anthony Gormley’s installations without losing a sense of originality. An exhibition of more similar installations would have been a marked improvement on what is actually presented.
Admittedly this isn’t an unanimous view. Some have lauded this exhibition as the greatest living British artist’s return to form in a playful and masterful display. I found little evidence to support this. One can see meaning in anything, but there is a certain clumsy laziness in exhibiting scrunched up pieces of paper. For particularly enthused fans, this work can be purchased in the gift shop for over a hundred pounds – there did not seem to be many takers.
In parts the exhibition is listless. An erect penis and footage of women vomiting are the clumsiest, most unoriginal works on show. They are an attempt to shock the viewer, but images such as these have long since lost their cultural stigma. Considering Creed’s reputation, this exhibition could have truly innovative; it is a shame he felt no such impetus, offering instead an unimpressive collection of jumbled, unoriginal rubbish, which carries little more than an impression of his smug sense of self satisfaction. As it seems he is an artist who can get away with anything, perhaps that was his intention after all.
Live Review: Augustines – O2 Academy
Drunk. Disorganised. Unprofessional. Three of the reasons why the Augustines’ concert at the O2 Academy in Oxford this week is one of the best live performances I’ve ever seen. There’s something different about small venues. They’re more intimate: the band are preaching to the converted. For this reason, it didn’t matter when there were technical issues, the band just got up on stage and did crowd sing-alongs, sometimes unaccompanied.
In fact, crowd interaction was what made this gig so special. Augustines are renowned for their passion on stage, particularly frontman Billy McCarthy, who had enough charisma alone to make up for the solid, if uninspiring, support act and his own band. However, no matter how good a band are with their fans, after a 100 show tour, halfway across the world from home, no-one was expecting the band, feeling their curfew was too early, to descend onto the streets, fans in tow, to finish the gig with an impromptu acoustic set. As the band wandered through throngs of adoring fans, it was a feeling you simply don’t get watching a band at Wembley Stadium or even the o2 Academy in London – you couldn’t get within 2 metres of the band if you tried at one of those venues, never mind the band actively choosing, bottle of Jameson’s and cigarette in hand, to come and stand in the middle of you and play requests.
As if this weren’t intimate enough, the band proceeded to lead us to the Library pub down the road (with Billy as the proverbial Pied Piper), where they played a final couple of songs, before thanking the bar staff for being so accommodating and hanging around to have a pint and a chat with fans. You could be forgiven for thinking, if you’ve made it this far through the review, that this gig sounds a lot like a succession of gimmicks, and perhaps to a certain extent that is true. It didn’t matter though, simply because, even all that aside, it was a phenomenal musical performance. The mark of a great performer is often that they seem to be enjoying the concert more than the fans who’ve spent their hard earned money on buying tickets, and this was evident in the case of all three members of Augustines.
Anyone who knows their music at all will know that it is incredibly emotional, and is often semi-autobiographical, so the sight of Billy McCarthy on the verge of tearing up on stage only added to the performance. In terms of the setlist, their concerts have only been strengthened by the release of a second album, which transfers incredibly well to live performance (Cruel City and Weary Eyes especially), since they can now devise a setlist devoid of any filler. All in all then, this concert was unique, like something from an age gone-by, and whether it would have had the same effect on an ambivalent observer I can’t say, but for any fan of Augustines, this was an incredibly special and unforgettable evening.
Interview: Gabriel Prokofiev
When Gabriel Prokofiev’s Concerto for Turntables and Orchestra was performed at the BBC Proms back in 2011, it raised a few eyebrows amongst the classicalmusic establishment. Incorporating hip-hopbeats, record-scratching, and live remixes oforchestral sounds, it isn’t something that youwould expect to come from the grandson of Sergei, the celebrated Russian classical composer.
Gabriel’s background as a producer of electronica, however, means that he is entirely at home challenging the limitations of genrelabels. “The idea of groove and rhythm that has a really exciting energy to it – has definitely found its way into my classical music – it’s a natural way for me to compose”, he tells me from his cluttered Hackney studio, surrounded by keyboards, mixers and audio equipment. We talk about the reasons why today’s classical music can sometimes be perceived as elitist. “A lot of it is just to do with people not really thinking out of the box and sticking to very traditional, outdated concert formats. A lot of classical events stay within a very formal, oldfashioned mode of presentation – even down to the flyers, the language used, the colours, the typeface, everything – you always feel like you’re going back in time”.
To try and counteract these stereotypes, Gabriel founded the ‘Nonclassical’ record label. Since its inception in 2004 it has gone from strength to strength, with its ‘classical clubnights’ becoming an increasingly prominent feature of London’s alternative clubbing scene. The musicians are amplifi ed, DJs remix the music between each set, and everybody has a drink in hand. “The format of the club night I think is unique. We have these short, live sets interspersed with DJ sets… we’re trying to put on concerts where your average music-lover feels comfortable: hence putting stuff on in clubs and bars.
“My friends who weren’t musicians wouldn’t come to recitals. It just didn’t fit into their lifestyle. So it’s really about finding new directions for contemporary-classical music”. Part of the key to the night’s success is the sheer diversity of acts that perform (the most recent event featured everything from music by Dutch minimalist composer Andriessen to a satirical opera about Boris Johnson). As Gabriel explains, “More and more we’re discovering that it’s good to have some kind of theme or narrative that connects the works being played, something that will get peopleintellectually interested and inspired.”
“Everyone who turns up is really impressed by the standard. They’re like ‘my god, I didn’t even know this existed’. We’ve had people come to our gigs who have never seen a string quartet before”. So what’s next for Nonclassical? “The most fundamental aim is to get more performances and to increase its presence in contemporary culture – for young composers to really get their work out there”. Nonclassical is helping to redefine classical music’s image and promote young musical talent in London, across the UK, and beyond. Long may it continue. The next Nonclassical event takes place on the 5th of June at the Shacklewell Arms, London.
Local election results announced
The results of the local elections held for Oxford City Council have been announced. Labour have retained control of the Council, taking a total of 17 seats, whilst the Liberal Democrats won five, and the Greens won three.
The elections for the City Council and the European Parliament were held yesterday, with polls open from 7am to 10pm. However, the results of the European elections will not be announced until Sunday.
In Carfax ward, which encompasses several central colleges, Ruthi Brandt won the seat for the Green Party with 483 votes, beating Labour and Co-op candidate Alex Hollingsworth into second with 448 votes. DPhil student Maryam Ahmed, running for the Conservatives took 315 votes. The incumbent Tony Brett trailed in with 276 votes for the Liberal Democrats, while the Mad Hatter – known for his walking tours – took 45 votes for the Monster Raving Loony Party.
This result was something of an upset, with Lib Dem Brett having served as Deputy Lord Mayor for the last year, and Hollingsworth being a former City Council Leader.
In Holywell, former OULC Co-Chair Aled Jones came second, with 369 votes, to the Green Party’s David Thomas who polled 675 votes to steal the seat from the Liberal Democrats – whose candidate trailed in last.
Jones told Cherwell, “Overall it’s been a great day for Labour, with three seats gained and a brilliant result in Iffley Fields. Though I’m disappointed (but my tutor’s probably aren’t!) it’s good to see Labour clearly ahead of the Lib Dems and Tories in Holywell, and that UKIP have done poorly in the local elections.”
The Liberal Democrats did however hold both of their seats in Summertown.
The first result was announced at 1.24pm today, with Rae Humberstone holding the Blackbird Leys ward for Labour.
Labour also managed to take the Iffley Fields ward from the Greens, with Richard Tarver taking 986 votes to Steve Dawe’s 904.
James Johnson, a student at Brasenose who ran unsuccessfully representing the Conservatives in Barton, told Cherwell, “Despite not making the breakthrough we would have liked to see, these elections have been a step in the right direction for Oxford Conservatives. We’ve seen increases in our vote across the board and that’s a testimony to the great work on the ground by all members of the Association. We now need to continue connecting with voters and telling them about the long term economic plan the Conservative Party continues to offer them.”
In Churchill ward, Labour’s Susan Brown has retained her seat comfortably.
Overall, turn out in Oxford City was 37% for the City Council and 38% for the European elections.
The new make-up of the City Council now looks like this:
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Top 3… Foreign Words
Backpfeifengesicht
In first year, my best friend went out with a boy who was known to all of us simply as “the boy with the punchable face”, because he had a face that seemed, for some reason, to just cry out for a slap. In Germany, they have an actual word for this phenomenon. ‘Backpfeifengesicht’ is a typically German compound noun meaning “a face that cries out for a fist in it”. This is also a word in Queubec-French (“face à claque”), Chinese (“Qian Zou”) and Hungarian (“tenyérbemászó”). Violent languages, clearly.
Mamihlapinatapai
There is something both beautiful and satisfying about having a word to express a lack of need for words. Considered (by Wikipedia) to be “one of the hardest words to translate”, ‘Mamihlapinatapai’ is derived from the Yaghan language of Tierra del Fuego. It can be roughly defined as “a wordless yet meaningful look between two people who both desire to intiate something but are reluctant to start.” Another possible definition is simply an “expressive and meaningful silence”.
Tingo
Have you ever walked into the room of a close friend and felt, strangely, as though you were in your own room? A few of the items of clothing on the floor look familiar… and that book you took out of the library last week that is now overdue is on the desk… and all of those DVDs are yours… ‘Tingo’ is a Pascuenese word meaning “to gradually steal all the possessions out of a friend or neighbor’s house by borrowing and not returning” or “to borrow from a friend until he has nothing left”. Oxford life.