Saturday 18th April 2026
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Profile: Ricky Gervais

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Ricky Gervais has never been one to shy away from debate. A five minute scroll through his Twitter account will, after working your way through innumerable selfies taken in the bath, reveal a clear attitude to issues of hunting, conservation and religion. It’s safe to say he hasn’t exactly kept his atheist world-view a secret over the years: lest we forget, @rickygervais is followed by around 5.6 million people.

Woe particularly betides anyone who disagrees with him. His proclivity for ripping apart the ill-thought-through tweets of such people is impressive, making it almost scary to broach such subjects. If he can do that in 140 characters, what damage could he do with less pressing restrictions?

Fortunately, though, Gervais is not the student journalist destroyer I had preconceived. In fact, he is happy to consider such matters, responding with sensitivity to his privileged position as someone whose views are easily and constantly accessible when I ask whether he sees himself as an activist.“I guess so.But if I am now, then I always was. It’s just that when I was at school or working in an office my comments weren’t beamed into 6 million mobile phones or picked up by the press.”

Coming across as someone aware and comfortable with his fame, Gervais uses his platform to voice opinions he has always had. I couldn’t go on now without mentioning religion more specifically, the chief catalyst for
his controversial rants. For him, it’s a case of being fair.“I’m trying to level the playing field a bit, I guess. On Twitter, you’re probably not going to convert anyone either way, and I don’t particularly want to.”

How does he go about this levelling process? “I say things that I believe to be true in every walk of life, as I believe that is not only my right but the right thing to do. My “message” is probably to those who are already atheist but feel that there is something wrong with them. I want them to be as proud of not believing in any god as those are who believe in one of the 3000 gods so far on offer.”

Regardless of personal opinion, Gervais must be viewed as someone who has considered things carefully, someone who knows where he stands. He is pensive and thoughtful, and I wonder if this is a reflection of his philosophy degree from UCL.

Comedy doesn’t jump out immediately as a subsequent career choice but he is quick to reconcile the two, establishing a connection that makes sense as soon as he mentions it. “I think something that philosophy has in common with constructing a joke from an observation is analysis. They both need to deal in truth to some extent. Comedy is always, at some level, undermining a societal norm so you have to know what the norm is to undermine it in a funny way, a way that makes a connection. It’s rather like Les Dawson playing the pianobadly: you have to know what it’s meant to sound like to find the wrong notes funny.”

Perhaps it is this attention to the very basis of comedy that has allowed his career to take him where it has. Few comedians can boast the utter ubiquity that Gervais has achieved: aside from the obvious TV and film appearances, he has written books, assisted in launching the careers of Stephen Merchant and Karl Pilkington, and won Golden Globes, Emmys and BAFTAs. Is it even possible to have highlights amongst such success?

“I remember winning that first Golden Globe for best comedy performance in The Office with great affection. I guess because it was my first real foray into America. Being invited on to Sesame Street or The Simpsons maybe?Hosting The Golden Globes was pretty amazing too.”

The move from Britain to America strikes me as particularly important. Few would think of Ricky Gervais without first thinking of David Brent, of the seminal anthem ‘Free Love Freeway’, and of Brent’s Comic Relief moves that changed the contemporary dance scene forever.

And yet, some might argue that it was Steve Carell’s American remake that cemented the programme’s prominence in TV comedy history, giving it a voice amongst the masses on the other side of the Atlantic. I remark that Ricky has previously described a feeling that The American Office was not ‘his’ but he is unsentimental about losing something so close to his comedic identity. 

“I always knew that was the deal and I think that was the secret to its success. Initially, they asked me to play the lead character again and I didn’t see the point. I believed that my version of the show connected in
Britain because of the realism and the attention to detail. I had worked in a real office for 10 years and tried to put all my observations, unfiltered, on screen. The remake had to be made byAmericans for Americans.”

That’s not to say that he feels completely removed from the newer version’s inception, taking pains to remind me of his input. “To be honest, my involvement setting the whole thing up was a lot more than any other remake I’d ever heard of and I like to think that helped. However if you give permission for your work to be remade,you can’t be too precious. I look at it like doing a cover version of a song. If you record a Bowie song, he doesn’t keep turning up to the studio saying “I used sax there, not guitar.” He just receives his intellectual copyright money, like I do. Kerching!”

Are these the wordsof a man who has turned ‘Hollywood’? A one-time comedian who has moved on to larger things, and larger sums of money? Not at all: it’s evident from the way Gervais talks about his work that this is not the case. He seems almost star-struck when speaking of his time on the set of the Muppets sequel. 

“It was a joy. I had to keep remembering that there were human beings in the room to talk to as well. I found myself ignoring them and literally having normal conversations with my felt chums. It gave a whole new meaning to the phrase ‘talk to the hand.’”

It’s irresistible at such a moment to ask the question quite obviously on everyone’s lips: what is everyone’s favourite green frog like behind the camera? Gervais is succinct.“Kermit is a gentleman.” Very much as I had expected.

Evidently, even Ricky Gervais can be struck by moments of awe at the places his career has taken him. And frankly, who wouldn’t be proud of having appeared on screen with Kermit the Frog, Homer Simpson, and David Bowie? Whilst it would be conceivable that appearing in such high profile productions would propel him away from his comedy roots, he is keen to underline his grounded nature when I point out the contrast between Hollywood megastar and British comedian. 

“There is a huge contrast yes, but in those Hollywood type of films I’m usually hired to provide abit of “me” as opposed to becoming a completely different person, à la Daniel Day Lewis.”

Obviously, we won’t be seeing the new method-acting Gervais, immersing himself in roles of American presidents or ruthless oil tycoons any time in the near future. He is still the inventor of David Brent, Flanimals and the bath-selfie, and that’s unlikely to change. “I usually take fun roles where I can ad lib: to all extents and purposes I am still Ricky Gervais, British Comedian.” The title suits him.

Cambridge crews heavier as Boat Race weigh-in takes place

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Monday saw the much-awaited anticipated weigh-in of the 18 men and 18 women who will battle out upon the River Thames this spring. For rowers at both Oxford and Cambridge, today has marked the beginning of the run-in to yet another Varsity Boat Race.

To begin with the women, who race first, the Oxford boat, although outweighed by their Catabrian counterparts, is a mix of fresh talent and old hands:

Bow: Elizabeth Fenje – 58.6kg
2: Alice Carrington-Windo – 67.2kg
3: Maxie Scheske – 64.8kg
4: Nadine Graedel Iberg – 72.6kg
5: Anastasia Chitty – 69.4kg
6: Lauren Kedar – 75.4kg
7: Amber De Vere – 72kg
Stroke: Laura Savarese – 73.6kg
Cox: Erin Wysocki-Jones – 49.6kg

Weighing on average 4kg less than the Cambridge boat, the Dark Blue eight should be up for the challenge on the Thames at Henley come March 30th, and will be hoping for a relatively calm river.

The Cambridge crew’s statistics were as follows:

Bow: Caroline Reid – 64.4kg
2: Kate Ashley – 75kg
3: Holly Game -74.6kg
4: Isabella Vyvyan – 87.2kg
5: Catherine Foot – 71kg
6: Melissa Wilson – 77kg
7: Claire Watkins – 72.6
Stroke: Emily Day – 64kg
Cox: Esther Momcilovic – 52.4kg

OUWBC go into this race hoping to retain the title they wrenched from the Tabs last April.

As for the men, this year’s way in saw Oxford President and former Canadian Olympic medalist again weigh-in as the heaviest member of either crew – at an intimidating 108.2kg. At the other end of the scale, New Zealand Olympian Storm Uru is the lightest, tipping the scales at just over 80kg. Similarly to the women, the Oxford men are conceding weight to the Cambridge rowers, although it is only 2.6kg in this case.

The make-up of the Oxford crew is thus:

 

Bow: Storm Uru – 80.4kg
2: Chris Fairweather – 85.4kg
3: Karl Hudspith -91kg
4: Thomas Swartz – 81.2kg
5: Malcolm Howard – 108.2kg
6: Michael DiSanto – 89.2kg
7: Sam O'Connor – 88.8kg
Stroke: Constantine Louloudis – 93.6kg
Cox: Laurence Harvey – 54.8kg

Meanwhile, Cambridge will field a boat looking like this:

Bow: Michael Thorp – 88kg
2: Luke Juckett – 84.2kg
3: Ivo Dawkins – 89.2kg
4: Steve Dudek – 101kg
5: Helge Gruetjen – 99.6kg
6: Matthew Jackson – 94.4kg
7: Joshua Hooper – 92kg
Stroke: Henry Hoffstot – 89.6kg
Cox: Ian Middleton – 53.6kg



The life-saving little black dress

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So the other day it was my friend’s birthday and cocktails were on the cards. After a manic day of essay writing, book borrowing and laptop malfunctioning (‘404 error’ anyone?) at least here was something to look forward to. But then a feeling of dread came upon me. Yes, dread. This was an occasion. A birthday. My best friend’s birthday.  ‘WHAT ON EARTH DO I WEAR?’ With half an hour to go, I plunged into my wardrobe, heart beating, desperately searching for something, anything that would be suitable… But I needn’t have worried. Because there it was, winking at me. That other best friend, initials L.B.D.

Ah yes, the Little Black Dress. Flattering, versatile, and most importantly, dependable. It’ll never let you down like that cream playsuit that turns out to be see-through, or that boob tube top that just won’t stay up, no matter how much tape you use. Since coming to fame in the 1920’s, women around the world have sworn by this wardrobe staple and it’s not hard to see why.

Unlike the recent craze in ice-cream pastels (which is already melting away, no pun intended) the colour black is always in. Since when is it not? Each year we are told ‘X is the new black’ but doesn’t this very comparison in itself prove that black is so, well, timeless? It has become the failsafe standard to set your watch by. Furthermore, no matter what your shape or size, a black dress is bound to flatter. And it’ll hide a multitude of sins. Yes, I will have my cake and eat it. Thirdly, you can have some ‘experimental fun’ when wearing a black dress (don’t worry, I mean that in a purely fashion sense). Pink shoes? Why not? The rainbow necklace that you hardly wear because it never seems to go with anything? Now’s your chance. The black dress is like a blank canvas: you can accessorize your heart out.

But for me, the LBD is so great because it’s as versatile as you can get. Meeting your mum for coffee? Dress it down with a knitted cardi, tights and boots. Wearing it out? Go wild with glitz. Of course, it’s important to own an LBD that’s perfect for you. But when it comes to this little beauty, it’s far harder to go wrong than it is right.

And so, feeling somewhat pleased – and a lot less stressed – I slipped on my dress before meeting the others at the cocktail bar. It proved to be a lovely night out and my friend had an amazing birthday. 

LBD, I owe you one.  

The Rise of the Designer Vagina

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Last November, the X Factor judge and TV personality Sharon Osbourne caused quite a stir by revealing the latest in her long string of cosmetic surgeries. Deviating from the Botox injections, skin peels, tummy tucks and rhinoplasties favoured by her peers, Mrs Osbourne instead chose to undergo an altogether more intimate procedure: labiaplasty, or vulval reconstructive surgery. This case highlights a startling trend in modern medicine – the inexorable rise of cosmetic genital surgery.

The number of labiaplasties performed on the NHS has increased fivefold in the past decade, with more than 2,000 taking place in 2010. Far more procedures are thought to be performed each year in the private sector. Most reconstructive vulval surgery is undertaken to address long-term problems such as discomfort during sex or exercise and hygiene issues. Nonetheless, there is growing concern amongst practitioners that crushing social pressures and perverse expectations of “normality” are driving young girls to request surgery on aesthetic grounds alone. Many doctors and social commentators have now broken silence on this issue, declaring that the rise of the designer vagina may reflect an unhealthy negative bias amongst women towards their genitalia, fuelled by an internet porn boom and emerging fads such as “vaginal steaming” and the infamous “vajazzle”.

The burgeoning status of this issue has led the Royal College of Obstetricians and Gynaecologists (RCOG) to publish a paper clarifying best practice guidelines for doctors and surgeons in this field. Perhaps the most striking point raised by the authors was the fact that cosmetic genital surgery is ultimately performed blind; the evidence for the efficacy of labiaplasty and its long-term consequences is scant at best. Women concerned by the appearance of their genitalia may therefore be electing to go under the knife despite the medical professionʼs profound ignorance of likely post-operative outcomes.

The report provided by RCOG also recommends that labiaplasty should not be offered as an NHS service in the absence of legitimate medical grounds for intervention. The authors instead advocate psychiatric treatment for patients with significant concerns about the appearance of their genitalia. This may go some way towards addressing the problem, but several concerns remain, not least the risk that patients might simply be shunted into private healthcare, exposing themselves up to an utterly opaque and poorly regulated industry. Ultimately, if we are to truly understand the rise of the designer vagina at home and abroad, we must first ask uncomfortable and probing questions about the central involvement of society. Could our fascination with internet pornography, and our bizarre obsession with achieving “normality”, be driving young girls to request risky, life-changing surgery?

Would you ever get a labiaplasty? Join the debate at bangscience.org

Freddy the Fresher: 7th Week Hilary

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In Oxford, £300 will buy around 180 coffees from the Missing Bean, 60 entries to a club night at Cellar, or full sub-fusc.

This is the fee that Freddy must pay the Judas College decanal team or face “suspension or the possibility of expulsion”. For Freddy, who had spent years with his spotty nose to exam papers, this wasn’t an option. But neither was paying the fi ne – unless he was content to go without food for the rest of term. And he had grown to enjoy, and even need, food. He had pleaded with the Dean to make an exception, implored him to consider fi nancial circumstances before issuing penalties. But it fell on deaf ears: “£300, Frederick – that’s the price you have to pay for your behaviour.”

Only four of the protestors – including Freddy – had been fi ned; most had managed to escape like rats through the kitchens. The other three – an Etonian, a Paulina and the son of a Russian oligarch – all paid off their fines and slipped back into their existence. But this wasn’t quite so easy for Freddy.

After a week of struggling to come up with way to raise the money – a bake sale! Tutoring! Selling my body! – he had resigned himself to rustication and a life of poverty until his early death.

Enjoying his last few days amidst the Dreaming Spires, Freddy decided to do a library crawl, looking at his old haunts. The SSL, where he had fi rst met Bernadette, the Gladstone Link toilets, where they had make-up sex, and on to the Vere Harmsworth, setting of many a sun-drenched existential crisis.

Running his hands along the spines of the various presidential autobiographies – feeling the shaft of Nixon’s smooth cock of a tome – he spotted an unattended desk on which was a MacBook Air, a stack of Philip Roth novels and a dark, leather wallet.

Freddy edged closer and looked around furtively. Nobody else was on this floor. He picked up the wallet and looked inside. £20, £20, £20, £20, £20, £20, £10, £10, £10, £10. In total, £160! My salvation!

Freddy removes the cash from the wallet and stuff s it into his pocket. He looks at the driving license inside the wallet and sees that it belongs to his friend Nick, the fi nalist. Guilt creeps over him and he pauses for a moment,
unsure of how to proceed.

His pause is a moment too long. He feels a hand on his shoulder and hears a voice, whispering, close to his ear: “Take it. I’ve been embezzling it from my JCR anyway…”

Freddy’s story will be continued in Trinity term.

Creaming Spires: 6th Week Hilary

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Mother Teresa obviously had a penchant for amphetamines. Her long-suff ering kindness, her unfl inching love for humanity – tell-tale signs of a MDMA recreational user. And, without wanting to compare myself too directly to Blessed Teresa of Calcutta, this weekend saw my sex life take a pill-poppin’ departure.

It is Friday night at 3am. I float out of Cellar, pupils dilated and teeth grinding. My compassion knows no bounds: I’d like to teach the world to sing. As I leave the club, hugging a bouncer on the way out, my eyes alight on a stumbling wreck of a young gentleman, with whom I decide to converse.

‘Sam’, unfortunately, is just pissed. His slurred speech and solipsism are the antithesis of my hyper-lucid and hyper-benevolent state, but, to my ecstatic eyes, he is enchanting. I am enraptured by his South African roots and PhD in Dutch philosophy. I want to discuss these things in intricate detail, whilst admiring the silver glimmer of the sky’s myriad galaxies and gently touching my own hair. Sam, on the other hand, wants cheesy chips and sex. It is a match made in heaven.

I bunk him back to Cowley, merrily interpreting his comatose silence as a prolonged intellectual pause. I gaze lovingly upon his angel face. He’s the one. I want him to meet my housemates and my family and my tutor and my landlord. We shag joyfully, every drunken grope transformed to silken caress.

At this point, however, my aura of ecstasy begins to ebb. Sam reveals the existence of a longterm girlfriend, and my come-down begins to hit. He bemoans his infidelity and promptly falls asleep; I lie awake, my high transformed into an abyss of self-abhorrence. The bedroom is a hellish jail filled with hatred and despair; his face is a gargoyle sent to torment me. Why didn’t I leave him at Chicken Cottage? Sam the Greek god reverts to a slightly hungover young man, and I am bereaved. Everyone knows drunken one-night stands look less attractive the morning after, but it is around 5am that the high hook-up stops being star-spangled marriage material. Next time, just say no.

Review: Great Gatsby

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Last year, F Scott Fitzgerald’s Jazz Age classic of flappers and bootleggers hit the mainstream, first through Baz Luhrmann’s flamboyant film production and then though the staged 8-hour retelling of the novel itself, Gatz. Now it has come to Oxford. Jay Gatsby is played by Percy Stubbs, who has nailed the art of staring into the distance. He acts convincingly as the mysterious millionaire, though perhaps the copious amounts of stage make-up are a bit unnecessary in the cosy setting of LMH’s Simpkins Lee Theatre.

The role of Nick is divided in two: older Nick, the narrator (Henry van Oosterom) and younger Nick, the actor (Keelan Kember). Both act well and the narration of Fitzgerald’s florid prose is particularly engaging. This reminiscing narrator occasionally melts into the audience when he perches on a second-row
seat, puffing away on his e-cigarette. During the climactic confrontation between Tom, Daisy, and Gatsby, the poignant performance of Daisy (Hannah Schofield) particularly stands out. If anything she is too likeable as the heroine whose ‘voice is full of money’.

Jordan, superbly played by Kimberly Sadovich fits my vision of the character perfectly and Colm Britchfield, though he only makes sporadic appearances on stage as the minor roles of Michaelis and Mr McKee, is very amusing. Unfortunately, though, this staging of the twenties is not quite as roaring as one might have hoped. This is the fault of the limits on rehearsal time and budget inherent to a student production. The occasional slips of accent and memory lapses can be attributed to first-night jitters. What can’t be excused by first-night jitters is the length of the play, which, at a running time of two hours, is a little long. Gatsby it certainly is. Great, almost.

Preview: Pterodactlys

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In a cosy, wood-panelled nook of Magdalen College, five people move slowly around on the orders of director Kieron Ahem. Under his instruction, they gradually transform into the five members of the dysfunctional family whose interactions are plotted in Nicky Silver’s quirkily named production Pterodactyls. There’s something rather therapeutic about party group warm-ups, so I’m feeling pretty open-minded towards the small company when the acting starts. 

For a while, it’s unclear where small, flying dinosaurs come in. I watch a snippet of a scene in which daughter Emma (Ellie Lowenthal), introduces her new fiancé Tommy (Ali Leveret) to her mother Grace (Kaiya Stone). The two young lovers are full of fantastically mushy star-struckness: “Sometimes I say your name over and over again – no one can hear me but I don’t care”. They are saved only by their equally insistent status as hypochondriacs: “I’ve got this terrible toothache!”/“I’ve lost sensation in my hip”, which takes their mutual egocentricity by the hand and drags it into the realms of cynical humour.

The end of the scene is slightly flat, as he three sit in chairs and converse as though in a waiting room; I’m not sure what they might be waiting for, but a few more stage directions will iron this flaw in time for the opening night. The second scene, between father Arthur (Josh Dolphin) and son Todd (Tom Dowling), or “Buzzy” as his father insists on calling him, is more powerful. Arthur attempts to reminisce fondly about Todd’s young acting career in a school play – but it transpires that said play was Pinter’s The Birthday Party, and Todd played the rapist.For all Arthur’s insistence that Todd is “the most important person in the whole world”, there’s a tragic lack of communication between the two of them, probably not helped by the fact that Todd spends the majority of the scene on hands and knees messing around with a bag of bones.

That’s where the dinosaur comes in, by the way. As the household paraphernalia disappears throughout the play, Todd will apparently construct a dinosaur on stage. I daren’t ask what the dinosaur “means”, but I don’t think I need to. It’s probably one of those hugely symbolic structures best seen
first-hand.