Monday 9th June 2025
Blog Page 1485

Gift Cannon: “Closed For Business — Sorry!”

Patrick Beardmore
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Gift Cannon: “Closed For Business — Sorry!”

Plenty of people have ideas for businesses, but few have the guts to start one from scratch. Jordan Schlipf launched Gift Cannon in October last year, firing thousands of free pints around Oxford to promote a novel way to send physical gifts over the web.

However in just seven months the company ceased trading, having exhausted its £50,000 of start-up funding. It became one of thousands of now forgotten start-ups that might have made it to the mainstream, but did not.

Gift Cannon was an instant voucher service for mobiles that let you send and redeem treats at local shops. A doting parent for example could buy an ice cream, and make it instantly available to their offspring at G&Ds. Over 900 people tried the system, heavily promoted on launch, to prove the technology worked well, and over two dozen shops signed up in Oxford, the guinea pig town.

Every step in the chain was profitable to some extent, and many cafés put up free treats like cakes, in the knowledge that customers usually bought other things too. Gift Cannon negotiated discounts meaning that a gift sometimes ended up cheaper online than if bought in-store.

Rage against the machine (code)

According to its co-founder, the project was scuppered mainly due to a dispute with two developers in Germany, who drifted away from the project just when funding had been secured. It left the other directors facing a tough decision in April this year: either to access a guaranteed £200,000 further investment, and commit the company to rapid expansion, or to kill their own creation. They chose the latter.

On a personal recommendation, Gift Cannon’s core technology was developed in Berlin by two techies. They promised to come to London to join Gift Cannon’s team full time, but in the event after funding was delayed “a highly personal fight” ensued. Jordan and co-founder Henry were left with a half-finished system, unable to track if customers were spending enough to make the business sustainable in the long-term.

“If this number isn’t actually what we think it is, then the business model isn’t working,” were Jordan’s thoughts. He admits that the lack of hard evidence on their profitability shook even his own confidence.

Struggling for cash was a perennial issue. “(We were) structurally stupid,” says Jordan, with too many shareholders to keep happy. Having to “tranche” 80% of the money, and make do with only 20% of what was required initially, was also deeply unhelpful, but grimly unavoidable for Gift Cannon.

“(It got to the point where) if we didn’t manage to close the (funding) round before we ran out of money, we’d have to have got a real job.”

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Henry (left) and Jordan (right) give away an iPad  Source: Gift Cannon

Free, as in ‘free beer’

Despite the impression left on many Oxford students that Gift Cannon was profligate with its freebies, the firm was more thoughful than at first glance. The cost of an iPad giveaway and £3000 of promotional spending was dwarfed by the costs of paying developers for work that didn’t meet expectations. Practically half the budget went to Berlin, to little effect in later stages.

Gift Cannon’s intentions were enormously ambitious from the start. Along with several direct clones to compete with, the app was involved in a land-grab to become the accepted platform for gift sending. As PayPal and VISA can attest, handling money on a large scale can be very profitable indeed for those that become established.

Particularly worrying for Jordan and Henry was an announcement only weeks after their funding that Facebook were launching a service of their own.

“Suddenly you’re in a space going head-to-head with Facebook, a $100bn company… I think they’re going to win.”

At a fancy press launch in New York, while Jordan and Henry were still funding Gift Cannon from their personal savings, Mark Zuckerburg announced that online gifting would become a key revenue stream for Facebook, and that with its scale it could potentially leapfrog the early innovators.

Meanwhile back in Oxford, chain stores refused to participate, while the firms controlling cash registers were not interested in integrating gifting onto their payment terminals. Intermittent Internet access complicated the clearing system for vouchers, and a bad taste from Groupon, who “kicked (independent retailers) in the nuts,” made it difficult to find the ear of some small businesses. That Gift Cannon made the progress it did seems more impressive with all these considered.

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Jordan Schlipf, ex-Oxford student and entrepreneur (30)

Onwards and upwards

Far from being downbeat after seeing his company dissolve so quickly, Jordan Schlipf says he has learnt much from the collapse. He is now entrepreneur in residence at #1seed in London, helping other businesses find their funding. The £50,000 loss from Gift Cannon is peanuts in the risky world of start-ups, and will soon be forgiven.

Despite a clear failure this time he believes the experience puts him in a good position to try again, with a new idea, older and wiser.

Jordan Schlipf (30) studied Engineering Science at St Peter’s College. He conceived of Gift Cannon with a business partner in late-2011 and launched it first in London, then in Oxford, before it closed in April this year. He is now entrepreneur in residence at investment house #1seed in London.

Review: Magna Carta Holy Grail

Matt Main
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Review: Magna Carta Holy Grail

★★★☆☆

Three Stars

On ‘Nickels and Dimes’, a lyrical consideration of his own lasting commitments to the scene and his fans which closes Magna Carta Holy Grail, Jay-Z announces that “I’d die for my niggas”. Kanye West drops the exact same line on Yeezus. This bar is startling, even amusing, in its hollowness; as per the mission statement of 2011’s Watch the Throne collaboration, neither have any opposition worth speaking of that would ever put their positions at such risk. On ‘Crown’ Jigga notes that “best friends become your enemies”, but nowadays this transition is reversed. His old rival Nas now has guest spots on his records, and the only shots he sees taken are on the basket-ball court with Obama or administrated during a guest appearance at the the local children’s hospital.

The difference between Carter and West is that while any (admittedly reasonable) objections to Yeezus relate to certain memorable, racially problematic lines studding Kanye’s work, Magna Carta sags under the weight of volumes of forgettable material. Lack of adversity is killing Jay-Z artistically, and his work here suffers accordingly.

Collaborations with Rick Ross and Frank Ocean are both uninspired; in fact, minus the fleetingly fun ‘BBC’, the entire back straight of this album is pretty disposable. When the absence of risk and danger becomes painfully noticeable, Jay simply resorts to inventing it, but ‘Part II (On the Run)’, his duet with Beyonce about an imaginary, Badlands-esque flight from the law, also ends up striking a fairly false note given their status as one of the most visible celebrity couples in history.

Magna Carta Holy Grail doesn’t even properly sustain Jay-Z’s self-mythologisation as the disdainful father of hip-hop, rising above trends and transient culture. Sure, cheap gags like “When I was talkin’ Instagram / Last thing you wanted was your picture snapped” on the enjoyable “Somewhere in America” work in and of themselves. However, the distance Carter wants to suggest between himself and these fads with the lines is given the lie by the straight-faced delivery of lines such as “might crash your internet / And I ain’t even into that”, as if this record wasn’t released via a mobile app.

Jay-Z raps “I don’t pop molly / I rock Tom Ford”, suggesting that the currents moving through underground hip-hop are no longer relevant to him. However, replacing a fashionable drug with a symbol of wealth only serves to suggest artistic irrelevance on his part, and not the other way around.

With Magna Carta Holy Grail, Jay-Z wants you to believe that he has crafted an essential, lasting document, but is seemingly unaware of the irony inherent in releasing such an LP as the first primarily digital, corporate app-album. Here, as in many places, it feels like the metaphor he strives for is wholly unsustainable.

Download: Yeezus

Review: Blissfields Festival

Olivia Arigho Stiles
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Review: Blissfields Festival

★★★★☆
Four Stars

It might be a truism, but sometimes we need reminding that there’s more to the British festival season than the Big G. Take Blissfields; with a capacity of 3500 it’s literally a hundred times smaller than Glasto. A moderately stellar line-up featuring Mystery Jets, Bastille, Fenech Soler, Theme Park and The Staves might initially appear to venture into dubious Radio 1 territory. However, this shouldn’t detract from the fact that as far as British festivals go, Blissfields is the real McCoy, the cat’s pyjamas, the bee’s knees — take your pick.

It all took place on a blisteringly sun-drenched Winchester farm from the 5th to the 7th of July. The weekend’s highlight was London synth-dance four-piece Post War Years, although a clash with Mystery Jets meant their set in the Bradley Bubble on Friday was unfortunately sparse in spectators.

In a very different vein, other than headliners Bastille’s crowd-pleasing set culminating in a riot of drum-thumping and fireworks on the main stage, Saturday presented some strong folky offerings. The ‘Hard Acoustic Café’, replete with armchairs and woollen blankets, showcased a soul-purifying set from L.A. Salami (so chilled some of the audience were comatose), rousing South London ska-gypsy folk group Gorgeous George, and a typically hilarious and irreverent set from Beans on Toast. Part Billy Bragg, part Frank Turner and part Del Boy, Beans on Toast reeled out versions of songs about hating war, loving MDMA and being rejected from (but subsequently booked by) Glastonbury.

DJ sets in the Bradley Bubble from Bondax, the Artful Dodger and The D.O.T kept the atmosphere buzzing into the early hours across the weekend. It must be said, the much hyped Blisscoteque (it’s like, a disco-on-a-bus?!) complete with disco ball didn’t really live up to expectations, not helped by a downwards slope to the dancefloor and the fact that security didn’t take kindly to attempts to board the bus. 

While most catch-all festivals aim to market themselves as ‘family friendly’ Blissfields did indeed attract most age demographics. Half-naked, hyperactive and unsteady on their feet, swarms of prepubescent teenagers happily rubbed shoulders with a sizeable cohort of infants and the grey-haired; the festival even held its first marriage ceremony on Saturday.

Blissfields might be too small, too cutesy and too gentle for some, but one really shouldn’t underestimate the value of ambling from the main stage to one’s tent in under two minutes, nor dismiss the importance of the portaloo queues never exceeding ten minutes. (And the press tent had free beer.)

Super Earlybird tickets for Blissfields 2014 are available here.

Oxford MP opposes unpaid internships

Alex Stronell
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Oxford MP opposes unpaid internships

Smith affirmed his support for the Intern Aware campaign in a letter to Brasenose JCR, which states, “The consequences for social mobility of allowing unpaid internships to continue as a normal or quasi-normal part of career development are obvious.”

In the letter, Smith also said that he had raised the issue with the government in the past, and that he had written to the Chief Executive of HM Revenue & Customs and the Secretary of State for Business, Innovation and Skills for a second time, asking them to take action on the matter.

Brasenose JCR mandated its President, James Blythe, to write to Andrew Smith at the beginning of Trinity term. The letter asked the MP to back the campaign by Intern Aware.

It stated, “Unpaid internships are damaging to both young people and society as a whole. They exclude those who cannot afford to work for free and entrench regional and class inequalities.

“We would like to see you supporting young people by taking a stand on this important issue.”

In his reply, Andrew Smith wrote, “I strongly share your concerns, and am one of the Parliamentary supporters of the Intern Aware campaign. The issues you raise are ones I have pressed with the government.”

Smith’s reply was well received by Brasenose JCR. Blythe told Cherwell, “I am delighted by Andrew Smith’s prompt and positive response to the JCR’s letter and by his support for the Intern Aware campaign. It is fantastic that Brasenose students have an MP who is on their side on this issue.”

Blythe also condemned unpaid internships as “a major problem for lots of students, and a substantial barrier to social mobility in general.”

Intern Aware campaigns “for interns to be paid at least the national minimum wage”, and considers unpaid internships to “exclude those who can’t afford to work for free.” A poll carried out for the organisation found that 84% of over-35s believed that young family members were unable to afford to take up an unpaid internship.

Intern Aware works with lawyers to win back wages denied to interns. According to Intern Aware’s website, “most interns who are working are entitled to be paid at least the national minimum wage.” It goes on to say, “every time an intern has taken their employer to court for not being paid the minimum wage, they have won.”

One Hertford Geographer told Cherwell, “I for one am glad to hear that an MP has taken this action on behalf of Oxford students. It is good to know that we still have some voices in Parliament, willing to respond to our concerns.”

Review: The Complete Works of William Shakespeare (Abridged)

Matt Broomfield
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Review: The Complete Works of William Shakespeare (Abridged)

★★★☆☆

Three Stars

Evidently, the three-man cast of The Complete Works of William Shakespeare Abridged are exceptionally comfortable and well-rehearsed in their roles. However, this self-assurance and familiarity with the script is at once the play’s strength and its greatest weakness.

Gags were delivered with all the slickness you would expect from a company playing the final night of a three-month tour. However, the show now moves to a four-week residency at the Leicester Square Theatre, and the cast may well find London audiences less forgiving than the merrily shit-faced farmers, rambunctious school-children and affable pensioners who made up the audience for this performance in the grounds of Ludlow Castle in Shropshire. 

The knockabout slapstick humour of the script would benefit from a little less fluency and assurance, and a cast more willing to think on their feet. When I saw the riotous One Man, Two Guvnors over Easter, the lead role was taken by an understudy. He therefore approached the performance determined to wring every ounce of physical comedy out of the role, holding nothing back as he bounced around the stage like a madcap jester in a mustard-checked suit. It is this exuberance which was missing here from the performance of road-weary actors arguably stifled by their familiarity with the script.

Personally, though, I have an almost endless capacity to be amused by people falling over — and there were also moments of genuine wit amongst the pratfalls and funny walks. An opening monologue where a haplessly confused academic accidentally conflated Shakespeare’s biography with that of Hitler as he frantically shuffled his cue-cards worked well, as did the combination of all of Shakespeare’s comedies into a single scene full of frantic cliché. (“Enter stage left a heavy-handed metaphor for the colonial experience, pursued by two cross-dressing identical twins and a Jewish stereotype”.)

Utterly predictable pop-cultural references added nothing to this ‘revised’ version of the RSC’s original. Wikipedia is a little unreliable! Young people these days like Facebook! Justin Bieber’s fame is perhaps disproportional to his abilities! The show could have done without these moments of groundbreaking observational humour. Likewise, opportunities for audience interaction passed by as they have done in a thousand amateur pantomimes. A less formulaic and more laidback approach to this over-long section of the show would allow for the evident natural improvisational wit of the performers to shine through.

The much-vaunted idea that anyone can understand Shakespeare if it is well-performed is completely fallacious, and this show must be commended for its attempts to bring his work to audiences which would otherwise run a mile from Titus Andronicus or The Two Noble Kinsmen. A moment where one of the cast realises the true power of the Bard’s work as he delivers the ‘what a piece of work is a man’ speech from Hamlet genuinely reminded me of the beauty and clarity of the playwright’s best work.

In places, the script is very funny, and the actors’ physical humour keeps the audience ticking over well enough through lean patches. There is a sense, though, that they are going through the motions at the end of an arduous tour, and it is a shame their comedic talents are not given more room to breathe. Ultimately, this production is too professional for its own good.

The Complete Works of Shakespeare (Abridged, Revised) will be performed at the Leicester Square Theatre, London from 16th July to 11th August. Tickets can be bought from directly from the theatre, here.

Twin girls released from hostage situation

Esther Hodges
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Twin girls released from hostage situation

The girls had been involved in the situation since 3.40 BST this morning, when armed police were called to deal with a “domestic related incident”.

Although thought to be armed, the father, 38, made no threat to the girls. He has been in regular communication with police and one of the girls was released at 09.45. The second girl was released shortly before noon.

The man’s motive for holding the twins is unclear. He has made no demands and didn’t ask for anything in return for his daughters’ release, although he is thought to be estranged from the girls’ mother. He is not believed to be a threat to the public.

He remains inside the flat on Morton Avenue. He does not own the property. A cordon has been put in place around the building, and Thames Valley Police have closed Morton Avenue to “allow police operations to safely take place”. However, residents are assured that the situation is under control.

Up to fifty police officers are involved in the situation, some of them armed.

Superintendant Christian Blunt, who is involved with the police operation, said, “I’d like to provide reassurance to the public that we have this fully in hand, we have the area contained and we have firearms officers that are deployed and are currently dealing with this incident.”

A statement from Kidlington Neighbourhood Policing Team said: “This is a contained incident and neighbourhood officers will be carrying out patrols speaking to residents.”

Les Holstead, local resident, informed the BBC that Morton Avenue was normally a quiet and peaceful area, but that police had told residents to stay indoors for their own safety, due to the fact that arms are involved.

Motorists are strongly advised to avoid roads surrounding Morton Avenue as there will be little or no access until the situation is resolved.

 

The Ultimate Tennis Style Icons

Tamison O'Connor
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The Ultimate Tennis Style Icons

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Jean René  Lacoste, 1928 – Creator of the piqué polo shirt, Lacoste was the first tennis player to compete in short-sleeved knit shirts instead of the dress shirts that were seen as traditional tennis attire. The French tennis player earned his nickname “The Crocodile” as a result of his tenacious playing style: this nickname was to inspire the logo that is now recognized around the world as the Lacoste sports brand.

  

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Fred Perry, 1936 – Like Lacoste, Perry was a top tennis champion who contributed to the transformation of traditional tennis clothing. Whilst competing at Wimbledon in the 1930s, Perry would wrap medical gauze around his wrist so he could easily wipe the sweat from his brow during play. This was later developed into the sweatband, an innovation Perry’s company mass produced alongside piqué polo shirts similar to Lacoste’s.

   

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ALICE MARBLE AND KAY STAMMERS, 1938 – with Marble working her oversized box coat, and Stammers in her culotte-style shorts and neat preppy blazer, these two American tennis pros sure new how to make an entrance at Wimbledon.

 

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LEA PERICOLI, 1965 – Pericoli often collaborated with Teddy Tinling, a sought after designer who revolutionized female tennis apparel in the ’50s and ’60s. The success of her 1964 Tinling fur-trimmed tennis dress generated so much buzz, subsequent tennis outfits were kept top-secret right up until the start of each match. Above she is shown in her Tinling rose trimmed dress.

  

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MARIA BUENO, 1966 – three-time Wimbledon champion, Bueno was also a fan of Tinling’s designs. Here she rocks a futuristic flared tennis dress with PVC detailing at the midriff and hem.

  

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GURTRUDE “GUSSIE” MORAN, 1950 – Not everyone was crazy for Teddy Tinling though. In 1949 Moran was the target of much disapproval from the All England Lawn Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club after wearing a Tinling creation so short, her frilly knickers could be seen as she played. Ever since, she chose to wear fashionable shorts beneath her skirt instead, such as her leopard print pair pictured above.

 

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BILLIE JEAN KING, 1967 – As a six-time Wimbledon women’s singles champion, King had a reputation for being fierce on court. But that didn’t stop her from bringing style to her games. Her preppy Lacoste twin sets were always given an edge by her fashionable frames, as shown by her miu miu style cat-eye glasses above.

 

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CHRIS EVERT, 1974 – Evert was well known for her cute tennis dresses that matched her American sweetheart persona. Even in 1976, when she opted for plain tennis whites whilst playing at Wimbledon, she gave her look a twist with her frilly pink panties that could be seen poking out from beneath her skirt.

  

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MARIA SHARAPOVA, 2008 – If any player today can be labeled as fashion conscious as her predecessors, it’s Sharapova. In 2006, she collaborated with Nike to create her own Audrey Hepburn-inspired LBD to wear during night matches. Above she is pictured in her Nike Wimbledon tuxedo that she wore in 2008 with a pair of £2,500 diamond and platinum earrings.

 

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Laura Robson, 2013 – Robson was the 19-year old newbie who stole the hearts of the British nation this tournament. Kitted out in Stella McCartney for Adidas, she sported the latest in tennis fashion wearing pieces from McCartney’s debut tennis line.

 

Crazy Fairytale Tennis: A Fortnight At Wimbledon

Emma Alexander
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Crazy Fairytale Tennis: A Fortnight At Wimbledon

Andy Murray looked down, then up towards the cavernous Centre Court roof. He wiped at his face, before lurching into juddering speech.

“Right, I’m going to try this, and it’s not going to be easy…”

His voice broke. He breathed. He wiped his eyes. He tried again.

This was Wimbledon 2012 – the infamous runner-up speech where the mask slipped a little, and the British public first truly opened their hearts to the young man from Dunblane. He was trying to do what no man had done in over 70 years at SW19. It certainly was never going to be easy; and he certainly tried again.

This year, Wimbledon was chaos. Three days in, and events prompted this from Chris Evert; “I never, ever, envisioned a day like this, ever, in tennis history at a Grand Slam. I am still in a daze… and this is only the 3rd day…” Nadal had been booted in Round One; Federer was shockingly ousted in Round Two. Ten years ago, the resilient, elegant champion rose into the top four for the first time; today, he falls from it for the first time since. Serena, too, had faded against Sabine Lisicki in the fourth round. We watched a changing of the guard; the old order has faded.

So out of chaos, a hero rises – or so the narrative goes. On the women’s side, for a time, Lisicki was that hero. The perpetually smiling young talent won the hearts of many as she progressed further and further through the draw; past Williams, then Kanepi, then Radwanska in dramatic fashion to reach her first Grand Slam final. It had all the makings of a proper fairytale.

The final was a different fairytale though, with Marion Bartoli, the star. Just one player has been a fixture of the WTA Top 20 for every week of the past 6 years, and last Saturday she was finally rewarded for her consistent brilliance. Even the sexist comments of commentator John Inverdale would not dampen Bartoli’s spirit. She said afterwards, “Have I dreamed about having a model contract? No. I’m sorry. But have I dreamed about winning Wimbledon? Absolutely, yes.” This, and the sportsmanship demonstrated by herself and Lisicki as they walked off court, arm in arm, was wholly inspiring.

So what to say about the inspiration provided by the men’s final? Exhausting. Exhilarating. 3 straight sets. Novak Djokovic has inflicted misery on other players – not least Murray himself – by pulling off jaw-dropping comebacks from the brink of defeat over recent years, and so we could barely even dare to hope that Murray might pull it off. Nobody has won Wimbledon since 1927 without having won the first two sets. However, statistics lie. Nobody else since 1927 has pulled off as many improbable victories as Novak Djokovic; to the racing minds of the nervous Murray fans, losing always felt so possible. Murray was up a break in the third then lost it… and then he was broken again. In the mind of a Murray fan, an inevitable fifth set wilting beckoned, as did the sight of Djokovic holding thetrophy aloft.

The last game was full of grit, panic, elation, edge-of-your-seat torture. Murray was serving to become Wimbledon champion. He meandered to the baseline as the crowd screamed and chanted his name. Then, Djokovic went long. Murray’s forehand thwacked away a winner. Djokovic went long. 40-0 and suddenly, finally, winning was a formality. Or not – a volley, a winner, and an error, then another, and break point Djokovic. The formality was teetering on the brink of collapsing back into miserable uncertainty. Yet, the break point was saved – gallantly. Then another. Then another. Deuce. An incredible rally followed, in which Murray capitalised on the weakness of Djokovic’s smashes and demonstrated his incredible speed around the court to catch a drop shot. A fourth championship point.

It took 77 minutes after Djokovic’s final backhand limply fell against the net for a picture of an overzealous fan, who had got the words, ‘Andy Murray Wimbledon Champion 2013’ tattooed on his posterior, to begin circulating on Twitter. Ivan Lendl even smiled.

As for the rest of us, we were happy to see a shy, brilliant man finally get what he deserved. Murray constantly thanked the crowd, and his fans, and everyone who had ever sent him good wishes along the way. The truth is, no British sporting star has ever had to face a moment of such incredible pressure comparable to the moment at 5-4 in the third set where Murray walked out to serve for sporting immortality. The weight of expectation has been a burden and had encouraged disdainful attitudes towards his immense success when Murray didn’t quite give us everything we wanted at the time. Yet, how can anyone refuse to be in awe of the genuine passion and effort and determination that Murray has displayed – whether he was tearing up over a Runners Up plate, or leaping into the air following an incredible 5-set comeback?

It’s been a 77-year-long wait for a male singles champion. Thank you, Andy. It’s been worth it.

"Pay up, pay up, and play the game!"

James Tozer
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"Pay up, pay up, and play the game!"

Monday marked the tenth anniversary of Roman Abramovich’s arrival at Chelsea, sauntering through the gates of Stamford Bridge with his burly troupe of henchmen and altering the Premier League forever. By the time everyone’s favourite Russian oligarch turned up in 2003, football had already undergone a revolution on the pitch: Before the henchmen came the Frenchmen, with Arsene Wenger’s new-age arsenal of yoga, yoghurts and young Gallic imports transforming the highest level of the English game into something rather sexier than the old Division One. In fact, it was this fresh brand of fluid, ultra-athletic and attacking football that attracted Abramovich to our shores in the first place, thrilled by Manchester United’s high-octane 4-3 dismantling of Real Madrid in 2002.

But Abramovich’s arrival led to a second great paradigm shift in English football – the game off the pitch is barely recognisable from ten years ago. Our man Roman cannot be held entirely responsible for the enormous influx of money into the Premier League, he’s had a hand both from TV rights (recently renegotiated to a minimum of £60m per team per season) and other foreign tycoons, but he certainly set a precedent as the first ever mega-bucks chairman to muscle in from abroad, effectively buying the Premier League. Blackburn had, of course, won the league on the back of enormous financial investment in 1994-5, but the circumstances were rather different; by the time the Abramovich era began, more than a decade of the Sky-fuelled ‘Premiership’ had moved the financial goalposts somewhat. Abramovich proved to the bored billionaires of the world that our silverware was, essentially, on sale. Moreover, in football he found a different (and rather more exciting) product on sale, unavailable in any other market: people.

Abramovich’s tenure has been characterised more than anything by the ruthless hiring and firing of personnel, playing or managerial. Anyone who, like myself, has ever gleefully indulged in Football Manager, will be familiar with the addictive thrill that derives from the pseudo-omnipotence created by prodding around the great sporting stars of the world like ants. One can only imagine the sort of exhilaration that comes with this power in real life. (There have certainly been a number of occasions on which Chelsea’s owner has seemed very much like a spoilt child throwing his Playstation out of the pram.) It is no secret that he has made a significant financial loss on the club; Chelsea FC have been a very expensive, but very entertaining plaything.

And how he has played with it. Before his time, most of the top clubs had had a couple of foreign superstars: a Cantona here, a Klinsmann there, a Bergkamp, a Zola or a Di Canio. But these players were very much a luxury, crowd-pleasing extravagances. In the Abramovich era, it has become quite common to see the cream of world football gracing our fields. His early spending brought him Cech, Drogba, Essien, Makelele, Veron, and Crespo, the great hopes and the Galacticos, and egged on by his success, the Premier League has attracted all number of exotic speculators, from the Glazers to the Sheikh Mansour’s Abu Dhabi group, Stan Kroenke to Randy Lerner. Not all have been successful – notably the incompetent Venkys at Blackburn – and some have even had the ambition to build from below, like Tony Fernandes at QPR or Niccola Cortese at Southampton. But across the land, we have seen foreign emperors putting huge deposits down for their own little sporting colonies.

The results have been extraordinary. The new spending civil war has privileged us with the presence of some of the finest athletes in the world, and performances on a weekly basis. For a brief period, we had the dominant league in the world, ruling the latter stages of the Champions League, and stealing the finest crop of the continent, the Ronaldos and the Fabregases and the Robbens. We have since ceded superiority to the Spaniards, and the Germans, but such is the fickle nature of world football that our time will no doubt come again soon. The Abramovich era has blessed us with a national game of the highest quality – even this one-eyed Arsenal fan can admit that.

 

Party in the USA: New York, New York

Sybil Devlin
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Party in the USA: New York, New York

I once read that after you’d cried on the Subway three times you were officially a New Yorker. After a mere 3 days I do not pretend to be a New Yorker (though I did beam inside when I got asked for directions – it’s no big deal) nor have I cried at all on the Subway. I did, however, briefly attempt to masquerade under the title of “New Yorker”.

Tackling New York as a local turns out to be pretty hard when you’ve never been there. The first stop (excuse the pun) was the Subway. Whilst for the tourist this is just a means to an end, journeys on it turned out to be so much more. My first Subway ride gave me a snapshot of what true New Yorkers see (and probably hate) everyday – three boys dressed in low-slung jeans, baggy t-shirts and flat caps got on my carriage with a boom box (I kid you not) and started dancing; they were amazing! I felt like a true New Yorker, I was watching buskers who were actually really cool and American. That was until I realized that the whole carriage apart from me had their heads down (as I do when I walk past the mopey Ed Sheeran wannabe busking in Victoria Station). At that point I decided that the New Yorker image was just not what I was looking for in my 3 days there – I wanted to be a tourist. Map at the ready and proudly wearing my sunglasses indoors, I got off the Subway only to be confronted by a man doing pull-ups on the hand-rails. Navigating past this 15-stone gym-bunny and the hordes of svelte middle-aged women wearing trainers to work was a mission in itself. The Subway continued to provide fuel to the “Melting Pot” image of New York. On another journey a girl suddenly turned to me and my friends and shrieked “Oh My God! WHAT is your accent? I just love it”. It was such a cliché and I’m sure no one will believe that actually happened, but it turned out that she had just moved to New York. And there you have it; an aspiring New Yorker, making the wrong social moves on the Subway, disturbing her fellow commuters. Think Coyote Ugly meets Legally Blond. I took a taxi to go to The Empire Hotel and their rooftop bar, which is apparently really cool; I wouldn’t know I got rejected for being underage. Although I felt like I was in Gossip Girl it was all too unnatural; I didn’t get to see the New Yorkers at their best.

I decided to turn into the kind of person I brush past angrily in Oxford whilst muttering under my breath on my way to a tute. So I dragged my two friends to Times Square. It turned out they didn’t share my intrepid tourist ideals and wanted to go on more cultural visits. How right they were. Never go to Times Square. The lights were blinding, there were shops open at midnight and a mass of policemen with variously-sized guns. Later we decided to go to Central Park and take a boat out on the lake – a classic day out in New York. Enclosed by the Manhattan skyline, sitting on a small boat in the middle of the biggest urban park in the world was superb. I would recommend it entirely. Not only did the buskers out-do the English on the tube but even the park did; there were snapping turtles in the water in Central Park. Imagine a turtle swimming up to you in the Serpentine; it’s a ridiculous image.

The 9/11 memorial is well-done, considered and even slightly disturbing. They have two huge pools, with water cascading on all sides into a vast basin as a reminder of the destruction of the Twin Towers. It is incredibly emotive as each person who died in the tragedy has their name written on the sides of the memorial. I only realized once I’d been leaning on the side for quite a while, exhausted from the heat; it was quite a potent realisation to say the least.

After these three iconic New York attractions, my fellow travellers decided to save me from my tourist self and take me to Williamsburg. It’s like a New York version of Shoreditch but with more bagels and falafel. If you go there, head down to 11th street to Beacon’s Closet – a real Thrift Shop. I had to properly restrain myself from cracking out my rendition of Macklemore’s classic as it was clearly inappropriate with all the hipsters around. At this thrift shop you can trade in old clothes and get store credit (I’ve started coining American terms – I called a pharmacy a drug store and got thoroughly laughed at) or even money, but obviously bringing your charity bag all the way from England requires a lot of dedication. After shopping, if it’s a nice day, there’s a little park on the Hudson called the East River State Park which faces Manhattan. It’s an amazing place to watch the sun set over the skyline, without being choc-a-bloc with tourists taking pictures. I still acted like a tourist, but at least I was the only one. My day was complete with a bag full of clothes from the thrift shop and the sun setting over New York until my friends and I decided to go back to our apartment. We walked past a few cars which had been parked nearby and next to one of them there was a couple fighting; he looked like a mix between Jazzy J and Arnold Schwarzenegger. Unfortunately I couldn’t catch a glimpse of the girlfriend. This was awkward enough as I didn’t really know whether to barge through them or to surreptitiously change direction, but then I realized that music was blaring out of their car. It was your classic disgusting rap music – pussy this, fuck the police that. This was made worse when I realized that their young son was casually sitting at the steering wheel looking like a younger version of 50 Cent circa his ‘Hate it or Love it’ stage. It was a ‘cry or laugh’ moment so I assumed New Yorker mode and walked past straight-faced, minding my own business.

New York and Food. Give me more. We trekked for hours to find this place called ‘The Spot’ in Brooklyn, which promised pancakes and unlimited Mimosas. It was in loads of Time-Out type articles on good cheap-eats in New York but it was truly in the middle of nowhere; you could see locals looking at us wondering whether we were actively trying to get mugged. The place, however, was great; their glorified Buck’s Fizzes came in pint glasses and after two I was swaying back towards the Subway stuffed full with banana pancakes. Despite this I couldn’t stop myself from buying a $1 pizza slice. All over New York there are places which sell pizza slices covered in grease and bigger than your face. This phenomenon is possibly my favourite in all culinary history. On the more upscale side of food and drink, there is a great place on 66th street called Java Girl, which serves cawfee and shakes. It was populated solely by New Yorkers, who didn’t bat an eyelid or move a muscle from their laptop when the door opened or someone spoke. They had probably been going there for years and I have to say I started to feel like a New Yorker when I was sitting there with my huge mango shake. Alas, I was not. Still very much a tourist I committed cardinal sin #1- I forgot to tip.

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