Wednesday, April 30, 2025
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The Mankad, sporting etiquette and the so-called “Spirit of Cricket”

Oliver Thomas
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The Mankad, sporting etiquette and the so-called “Spirit of Cricket”

Culture wars are fought over social issues, where polarized groups compete for the acceptance of their respective belief systems. Debates over the idiosyncrasies of cricket don’t often fit this definition. Yet, the U19s Women’s Cricket World Cup fixture between Pakistan and Rwanda has seemingly done it.

On the 15th January, the Pakistan bowler Zaib-un-Nisa dismissed the Rwandan batter Shakila Niyomuhoza by a run out at the non-striker’s end, commonly known as a ‘Mankad’. According to the game’s lawmakers, the Marylebone Cricket Club (MCC), the run out was legal: “If the non-striker is out of his/her ground at any time from the moment the ball comes into play until the instant when the bowler would normally have been expected to release the ball, the non-striker is liable to be run out.”

The rule is in place to ensure that non-striking batters don’t receive an unfair advantage by leaving their crease before the ball has been bowled. However, what followed has been a polarized social media examination into the sporting merits of Zaib-un-Nisa’s decision to enact this form of dismissal.

So, if the dismissal is legal, why all the controversy?

Historically, the sport has followed a form of ‘etiquette’, coined by the London-based MCC, as the ‘Spirit of Cricket’. This is the expectation that players will follow certain traditions and forms of behaviour when playing cricket. The ‘etiquette’ for the ‘Mankad’ is for the bowler to hold the ball over the stumps, warning the non-striking batter of their intention to enact the dismissal the next time around. Still, even with this warning, many consider it to be an ‘ugly’ dismissal.

Stuart Broad, fast bowler for the England men’s test team, has stated how he believes the ‘Mankad’ to be ‘unfair’ and that it ‘requires zero skill.’ While England’s One-Day International captain, Jos Butler, says that he would ‘call the batsman back’ if a teammate used the ‘Mankad’, as ‘no one wants to see it’ in the game.

Yet, with all the eccentric rules that cricket has (watch the 2019 Men’s Cricket World Cup final to learn a few), who decides which are ‘sporting’? Who judges whether something is skillful or not? And who polices this ‘Spirit of Cricket’?

While the level of skill required is up for debate, it doesn’t explain the centrality of ‘sportsmanship’ in this conversation. Harsha Bhogle, Indian cricket commentator and journalist, believes that there are colonial undertones in the cricketing world’s moral reflections on the ‘Mankad’: “The English thought it was wrong to do so (the Mankad) and because they ruled over a large part of the cricket world, they told everyone it was wrong. The colonial domination was so powerful that few questioned it.”

This suggests a continuation of an imperial mindset, where the ex-colonisers still have the moral authority to decide the values and beliefs in the global cricketing community. An argument particularly pertinent when considering how cricket was used as part of the British empire’s ‘civilising mission’.

Anthony Bateman, an honorary visiting research fellow at the De Montfort University, wrote in his book Cricket, Literature and Culture: “Not only was cricket coming to represent what were believed to be the ‘higher’, ‘civilised’ values of the coloniser over the colonised, but its discourses endowed it with the ability to transform the colonised into English gentlemen.”

Intriguingly, the first ‘Mankad’ was enacted by Indian cricketer Mulvantrai Himmatlal Mankad in a test match against Australia, only a few months after the Partition of India in 1947. It’s difficult to argue with certainty that Mankad’s use of this dismissal was consciously part of a wider rejection of British ‘civil’ values from Indian life. Or, to an even greater degree of uncertainty, that the use of the ‘Mankad’ today is an act of agency against lingering colonial power structures in cricket.

However, the polarity in conversations over something as mundane as a cricketing dismissal should force some reflections on the origins of these ‘sporting morals’ and whether they are still applicable today.

Image Credit: CC2:0//Getty Images/David Munden.

Meat and Potato: Why You Should Want Other People to Eat Less Meat.

Matthew Oulton
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<strong>Meat and Potato: Why You Should Want Other People to Eat Less Meat.</strong>

For a long time, I was one of those people who thought that being vegetarian was the right thing to do, but couldn’t quite bring myself to do it. I recognised that the environmental impact of meat was bad, and probably disproportionate, I felt uneasy with the idea of killing animals, and I had the vague sense that eating another animal was wrong, but I liked meat so much that I pushed it from my mind.

Before you think you’re in for a lecture, don’t worry. I am not about to try and badger you into giving up meat. I have tried every argument I can muster to persuade my girlfriend, who I live with, not to eat meat, and to no avail. If I can’t persuade the person I probably know best, what chance have I with you, a complete stranger?

Instead, I am going to make a different case to you. Regardless of whether you eat meat, you should want other people not to.

Meat consumption has both positives and negatives, and your decision on whether to eat them will balance this. On the one hand, almost everyone can acknowledge that meat is not great for the environment, it requires a lot of resources, kills animals, whose lives we can agree attract some value. On the other hand, meat is nice, eating it is fun, and it is an important part of many food cultures and cuisines[1].

There are both positives and negatives to eating meat, but crucially, the positives all accrue to us as individuals, whilst the negatives are mostly societal. The downsides then, are known in Economics as ‘externalities,’ because they don’t just impact me and the people who I buy meat from, they also impact other people who are ‘external’ to the transaction. As a result, it makes sense for even the most ardent of meat-eaters to want meat for themselves, but veg for everyone else.

So how can we encourage other people to eat less meat?

If you like meat a lot and there are lots of people who are more lukewarm, small incentives against meat-eating won’t affect you much. They may, however, change the behaviour of other people.

For example, colleges could make some small changes. They could charge a different amount for meat and vegetarian meals [we would need to check whether this is actually the case at all colleges]. The fact that the charge is the same is, to be frank, slightly baffling; surely a vegetarian meal costs less? Rather, in an example of how prices in Oxford often owe more to tradition than supply and demand (a discussion for a different column), the prices are almost certainly determined by the (majority) meat-based meals.

Where colleges provide vegetarian ‘cards’, they should also switch the default, handing out ‘meat’ cards instead. This would make handling a price differential logistically easier, but also make a vegetarian meal seem less like a bizarre lifestyle decision, like consuming only fruit juice or being a member of the Socialist Workers’ Party. Furthermore, it would reduce the possibility that a vegetarian might absent-mindedly forget to collect a card and begin eating a meat-based meal[2].

All these suggestions aim to reduce people’s marginal consumption of meat, not to drive them into vegetarianism. However, for the odd meal, which people were almost undecided on anyway, it might persuade people to take the veggie option.

Now, if you are a meat-eater, you would be slightly worse off; after all, you would have to pay more for your meals. But the difference we are talking about is trivial and could be implemented mostly by lowering the price of vegetarian meals[3]. Such a change would be enough to make people think a little more about the choice of meal without imposing undue costs on anyone. If you really enjoy meat, surely paying a couple of pounds more per week for it isn’t going to put you off?

The result would be that if you really like meat, you now get the best of both worlds. You can eat your meat but enjoy the externalities of other otherexternalities other people’s actions.

However, by moving vegetarian meals from a fringe option into the mainstream, colleges could prompt a substantial shift in overall consumption. If replicated at other universities and in workplace canteens, you could see a significant move which would benefit all of us. And if a few people decide to try out the vegetarian option to see if it’s worth the additional pennies, then all the better. Who knows, you might find, like I did, that you really don’t miss meat as much as you thought you would.

Image credit: Honolulu Media / CC BY 2.0 via Flickr

[1] Not least my native British, which, it has to be said, is not the friendliest of cuisines to vegetarians; meat and two veg without any meat is just broccoli and carrots drenched in some coloured vegetable stock masquerading as gravy.

[2] Of course, you could take this to extremes, assuming vegan, nut-free, gluten-free, sorbitol-allergic meals, but so few people would benefit that the social advantage would be outweighed by the sheer number of people inconvenienced.

[3] Since there are fewer vegetarian meals than meat ones, increasing the price of meat meals negligibly could finance a much more substantial reduction in vegetarian meal-pricing.

ChatGPT: The future of journalism?

Oliver Hall
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ChatGPT: The future of journalism?

It’s fair to say that software company OpenAI’s latest public beta, ChatGPT, has taken the world by storm since its release in late November last year.  It has provoked debate on countless levels from ethics to the future of work.  As a young and aspiring student journalist I have found myself told repeatedly in the last two months that this is the worst possible time to be looking to enter the industry but I have confidence – confidence in human judgement and appreciation of detail.

First and foremost, journalism is about credibility and accuracy. While ChatGPT can generate information that is factually correct, it inherently lacks the necessary human judgment to verify the credibility of the information. A human journalist takes into account sources, biases, and other factors when reporting a story, but ChatGPT simply outputs information based on its training data. This raises the risk of spreading false information or misleading stories, which would damage the credibility of journalism as a whole, something which has seen a concerning trend in recent years even without AI.

Journalism is also about empathy and understanding. It is not just about relaying information but also about putting it into context and making it relevant to the audience. ChatGPT, being an AI language model, lacks the ability to understand human emotions, culture, and experiences. It simply cannot provide the depth of understanding and context that a human journalist can bring to a story.

Third, this industry is about diversity and representation. AI language models are only as good as the data they are trained on, and if the data is biased, the model will be too. ChatGPT, being trained on massive amounts of data from the internet, can perpetuate existing biases and perpetuate them in its outputs. A human journalist, on the other hand, can bring a unique perspective to a story and ensure that marginalized communities are represented in the media.

And finally, journalism is about accountability. While ChatGPT can be programmed to adhere to ethical guidelines, it lacks the ability to make ethical judgments in real time. A human journalist can be held accountable for their actions and decisions, but ChatGPT cannot be held responsible for the information it generates or the consequences of those actions.

In conclusion, while ChatGPT has the potential to assist journalists in their work, it cannot replace the human element of journalism. The future of journalism lies in the ability of human journalists to provide accurate, empathetic, diverse, and accountable reporting. The role of AI language models like ChatGPT should be to support and enhance journalism, not replace it.

Now that is all well in good but what does concern me, and might you, is that those last 700 words or so were in fact written by the AI bot itself.  Even more scary is the fact that those words are coherent, and I generally agree with them.

In places though, the piece seems formulaic and one-dimensional.  The key lies in the inputs and requests that you submit.  When I asked for the same comment piece ‘in the style of Jeremy Clarkson’, it opened like this:

Listen up folks, I’ve got something to say about this ChatGPT business and its supposed future in journalism. It’s a load of old tosh, if you ask me. And let me tell you why.

First of all, journalism is all about trust and accuracy. And I’m sorry, but ChatGPT simply doesn’t cut it in that department. It’s just a machine spitting out information based on its training data, without any human judgment to verify its credibility. I mean, have you seen some of the stuff it comes up with? It’s like trying to get driving directions from a satnav that’s had a few too many pints at the pub.

Impersonation in the extreme?  Perhaps, but the ability of the model to learn and adapt its styles is remarkable.

The impact on the business world is potentially huge too.  In an economic environment of mass tech layoffs in the wake of the world reopening after COVID lockdowns, Microsoft has bet big.  Their $10 billion investment has left Alphabet feeling more threatened than ever and for the first time in years, there is the prospect of Bing becoming a serious player in the market again.

Don’t get me wrong, I am truly confident that the future of journalism is not articles written by bots or models but there is no doubt that it has a role to play.  In terms of writing plans, giving ideas, and assisting writers across all fields the potential is game-changing but the newsroom and its employees are safe for now.

Image: CC2:0//Via Flickr.

Diary of a Wannabe Bilingual

Mei Law
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Diary of a Wannabe Bilingual

I’ve never been a linguist. No amount of toil or prolonged manic Duolingo frenzy has ever or will ever change this. Nor will beginner podcasts, exchange trips, Quizlet revision lists, pen pals, foreign television, conversations with bilingual friends, or manifestation. Yes, I really have tried every possible option. I don’t mean to say that I was ever a bad student (God forbid), just that it never stuck. No matter how intensely I may have wanted it, it simply wasn’t destined to be.

It wasn’t until recently that I devoted any time at all to thinking about why this could be or what this could mean. Language is, first and foremost, a means of communication. Being bilingual would undoubtedly have been a practical skill. Beyond this, the notion that bilingualism is a marker of identity solidified my (already ardent) intent to master a second language. I knew it to be a special badge that gestured towards belonging to something bigger than you, like the key to a secret society where the agenda was always to exchange inside jokes and mock the oblivious excluded commoners. And it was generally accepted that the English were the most painfully uncool, tacky, and obnoxious club out there, second only to the Americans. Jokes aside, if what I was really after was a sense of belonging, why was I not satisfied with my English?

I was brought up by an English mother and a Thai father. That I never learnt a word of my father’s first language and am to this day unable to communicate with my grandmother fluently has always been a sore spot. If I only share a language with half of my extended family, then it follows that my identity is not linguistically grounded. But then, I never watched the same television series (I’m thinking specifically here of ‘Strictly’), or grew up eating the foods that my mother’s family enjoyed so I always felt that I lacked the cultural milestones that otherwise would have given us a lot in common. In the end, neither language nor cultural associations connected me to my family.

I belong to an expat family; expatriates that live outside of their home country. Twenty years ago, my parents (desperate to escape the confines of the United Kingdom) packed us up to leave and never looked back. Over the course of my schooling years I juggled three different languages as well as any primary school student can be expected to juggle (read, not very well): French in Mauritius, Japanese in Tokyo and Mandarin in Hong Kong. The common phrase I managed to retain across these languages is ‘Sorry, I speak English’ (very telling, I know). Other bits and pieces I’ve picked up along the way relate to specific -and not very useful – memories and experiences. I remember the incoherent and curse-word ridden French phrases scrawled across the school bathroom doors in Mauritius, how to explain how I want my hair done in Japanese (I was one of those who insisted on side bangs when I was in year 4), and how to ask the bus driver to stop in Cantonese, all of which doesn’t leave me much to work with today, and definitely doesn’t qualify me as being bilingual.

In the wake of moving around a lot as a child, and later as a teen, learning a language always seemed like an activity confined to the classroom, and one which I would inevitably abandon a few years in when my parents packed up to move us across the world again. It became an awkward cycle of doing well enough to pass whatever exams were coming up before starting the next. Later, gawky teen summers spent in the UK made it clear I didn’t fit in quite as seamlessly as I’d hoped; conversations usually involved nodding along and pretending I knew who the Go Compare guy was, or butchering pronunciations of British cities and streets (how is anyone going to get Marylebone right on the first try?) But when I went back home, I needed help from friends to translate the menus and I could never escape being profiled as a ‘gweilo’ (Cantonese slang literally translating to “white ghost” or “white devil” used to describe foreigners).

I looked back on the many years I spent on the defensive when people asked where I was from. I felt the need to accompany my answer with a justification as to why I couldn’t speak the native language. It’s hard to convince someone that my ‘home’ was the same place in which I couldn’t communicate with the majority of the population. Many clumsy explanations later, it began to feel like I had no tangible connection to my homes, past and present. I recognised more and more the implications of the subtextual coding of language as identity and where this left me: I was in a delicate state of limbo between not being British enough in the UK and being too British abroad, and I was condemned to this cultural no-

man’s-land. 

It’s funny because the notion of ‘home’ seems so deeply private. It appeared antithetical for me to have been so desperate to cling to a culture of people Ididn’t know, and to have been so conscious of how to justify myself to those people. ‘Home’ is meant to encapsulate where you fit into the wider world. I’ve come to realise that it is not as intimate or straightforward in reality as people might think. It bears notions of belonging, family, community, and background, and when these can’t be neatly reconciled, it’s bound to be confusing. I’m sure this is a sentiment shared by many, perhaps by fellow expat babies, children of a diaspora, mixed kids, and probably more.

Amidst these reflections I do not dispute for a second my immensely lucky and happy upbringing. Growing up an expat afforded me humbling exposure to the world, to which I owe not just the unique experience of having my playground span continents, but also my

present sense of self. Today I am acutely aware of both the privileges and disorientations packaged up in expatriate culture. I suppose being an expat itself symbolises a weird intermediate state of community, like how once you get through security in the airport you’re technically in international waters already; you’re not quite one or the other but somewhere in the middle. To continue this awkward metaphor, I just had to find comfort and stability in this boat in the middle of the sea, turning this rudderless boat into a home, if you will (this is working better than you can imagine because we actually did live on a boat in Hong Kong). Now, the feeling of shame in admitting my monolingual limitations has almost dissipated.However, I will admit that every so often when it comes up in conversation I still feel a creeping urge to redownload Duolingo…

Tales from the Trip

Ayaat Yassin-Kassab
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Tales from the Trip

1st February, 2023

Tripping: falling, floating, flying. Pop culture depictions of psychedelic experiences are kaleidoscopic, glittery with the potential for mind-expansion. Puddles become waterfalls, potholes become craters, everything amplifies, and emotions intensify. Those trips sound incredible, and while they aren’t completely out-of-reach, what’s more likely to happen is something confusing, ridiculous, and simply funny; something akin to the below submissions by Oxford students of their trippy times…

The Human Sacrifice Incident

From my perspective, I started seeing what I could only assume at the time was extra dimensions. The only explanation was that I had reached apotheosis, and so I saw myself and the other people in the room I was in, as cosmic deities. Being gods, it seemed necessary that we had to make human sacrifices. I sourced a human body  in order to perform some sacrificial ritual; I was on my knees clutching my vape in two hands as it if were a blade and (at an incredibly slow speed given how high I was), plunged it into the chest of my friend… who was just on the floor laughing and going with it. Then, I collapsed on the floor like a limp corpse.

The Great Sheep Abduction of 2020

It was August, just before uni started. At the end of the pandemic, me and my mates decided ‘right we can kind of go out a bit more now’. So, we all rented a farmhouse by Brighton. And this farmhouse was pretty big, and it had quite a bit of land attached to it. The first night we get there and we all drop pills. Later on, everyone had gone to bed and I was still feeling it a bit, so I decided to go on a walk. I started walking into a field, and in this field there were loads of sheep so I was kind of running to get through it because, in my paranoid state, I didn’t want to get attacked by sheep or have a farmer catch me or whatever.

I get to the end of the field and it’s one of those fences you have to hop. So, I hop over the fence and as I’m turning to come back down the side of the fence: no sheep in the field. Completely empty field. I went back the next day: completely completely empty field. But then two days later, when I pinged again, I went back to the field to see if it was just hallucinations. And it was, but this time I saw a bunch of alien ships taking the sheep away like when I wasn’t looking. I turned away and I turned back again really quickly and there were a bunch of aliens there taking the sheep.

The Kaleidoscopic K-Hole

Joe and I just lie in the caravan and wait for our bodies to start moving. You eventually get flung hundreds of metres into the air and look back down at Earth, allowing your mind to give in to the experience and not be afraid of the height. Body straight, you then start to plunge down again, slowly flipping forwards as you go and you fall into the song and colours and random images from memories you don’t even know you had, like that time in Croft Road where I woke up crying because I had a dream (that was all in crochet cross-stitch) of a girl stood next to a Ferris wheel crying. You then continue to zoom and flip through textures, patterns, colours, sounds, and memories before slowly being returned by your guide to the caravan. Pretty fucking cool.

The Kidnapping Survivor

So, I’m at a house party in year twelve and I eat a whole edible around 9pm . Two hours later, it still hasn’t hit so I  have another one. The party ends and still nothing has happened. These must be bad edibles. My friend’s mum comes to pick us up and I sit in the back of the car. One second, I’m sitting in the back of my friend’s car, and then the next second I’m convinced that I’m being kidnapped by her mother. I’m panicking, staring out the window trying to remember the trees so that when I jump out I can find my way home. I don’t know where she’s taking me, and I don’t know what she wants with me. I feel like I’m in a Taken movie. Paralysed with fear, I’m staring at my friend in the front of the car wondering why she’s turned on me – why isn’t she stopping her crazy mother from taking me hostage? Thirty minutes later we pull into my drive and the nightmare is over. She must have changed her mind about the whole kidnapping thing. I walk into my house with a new lease of life, and pop on the regularly watched YouTube video of ‘how to make myself un-high’. A bit of googling in the morning reveals to me that my dosage should only have been half an edible. Another day, another slay. I’ve made it out alive. I’m a survivor.

The Yonder Yogi

When I get high I always feel really in tune with my body and all I want to do is stretch. However, I’m not exactly someone who does yoga regularly, so what ends up happening is that I instead perform these incredibly unimpressive and mediocre yoga poses, and yet I feel like I’ve contorted myself into a pretzel. My boyfriend tends to take a picture of whatever silly pose I’ve put myself in while I’m thinking that I’ve achieved new levels of human flexibility, then we have a good giggle about it in the morning.

The Structural Sublime

My friends and I took edibles and went on a day-long walk around Oxford on a really sunny day last Trinity. We entered Keble and, upon walking into the main quad, I experienced the sublime at its architectural beauty.

…

So, there are some magical moments amongst the weirdness and terror of tripping. Either way it’s no surprise that when the sublime eventually was reached, it happened in Oxford’s most impressive college…

Battling the Blues

Jessica Mason
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Battling the Blues

Jessica Mason guides us through the dark, blue days of January…

Last Monday was ‘Blue Monday’. It was the first day of the first week of term: Monday the 16th of January. Blue Monday is supposedly the saddest day of the year because all the celebrations are over and the darkness of January begins to settle in. It can feel like there is nothing to look forward to, and the sun is nowhere to be seen. What a way to kickstart the term… 

For me, January has always felt very desolate. Everything seems still; everything is frozen in its sad blue-grey tones; nature dies. And this January, it was like a part of me died too. ‘Blue Week’ seems a more pertinent term than ‘Blue Monday’. My planner was teeming with tasks: sort out lecture timetable, plan essay, write essay, reply to that email from that tutor, read this, and that, go to that seminar, meet this friend, sort this out, sort that out. It felt crowded. I am in a weird place in my life right now and it feels like everything is holding its breath. Although I’m constantly running around from place to place with a tote bag so full of books that it’s slowly bending my spine, it feels like I’m waiting. I am waiting for something to change. Amongst the cold greys and whites of winter there is a distinct emptiness. ‘Blue Monday’ was first calculated by measuring the number of flights that people were booking to foreign countries. When our surroundings leave us dispirited, we try to escape to paradise. It’s an attempt to fill our future with saturated colours and sunlight. I think Blue Monday is so blue because we feel like we’re missing something. January leaves us trudging around doing the same old things, but it’s like we’re living in that awful wan blue filter that they used in the Twilight movies. 

It feels really hard sometimes to just go about our days when we’re not coaxed through them by sunshine that dwindles only after 9pm, or bright colours that actively make us want to go outside. I’ve reached the point where my alarm goes off in the morning and I just stare at my wall in a state of complete exasperation because my bed is cosy and warm and I know that I will be shivering as I half-shuffle, half-jog to the bathroom. 

But I think there is also value to be found in these harsher winter months. January is the time for new beginnings. This is the time where we can sit in the frozen silence and work out what we want for ourselves, before the sunshine and the bright colours return. Winter is a time to reflect and to grow. We can take a breath and really look at ourselves. I’ve been learning how to bring myself comfort, and how to be kind to my desperate little existence. 

One of my friends sat me down recently and told me that I needed to be gentle with myself. It often feels like Oxford expects a lot from us. The pressure can be crushing some days, but it’s important to just take yourself out of this isolated social sphere every now and then. For example, I like watching trashy tv shows, or going on walks down the canal. It makes me feel like a person, after playing at being a soulless academic machine all day. Last Thursday I was feeling really overwhelmed and when I got back to my room I dramatically flung myself onto my bed, and then eventually convinced myself to go to the kitchen and make some pesto pasta (I’m currently in my chef era). When I got to the kitchen three of my friends were there eating at the table, and they stuck around and waited for me to cook and eat so we could spend some time together. I think there is something so beautiful about the simplicity of those moments. We exchanged stories about our day and ate in each other’s quiet company. We were all so exhausted but when I got back to my room it felt like I had been inflated again. The simple act of speaking to friends helped bring me out of my sulk and made me feel lighter.

I have hope for better days of warmth and sunny colours. I know I will feel whole again one day. But for now, it’s important to be gentle with myself; watch trash tv, go on walks, and have dinner with my friends. These things are my sunlight in these harsh blue months.

West-Eastern Storyman: Lord Patten on China and Diplomacy

Luke Dale
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West-Eastern Storyman: Lord Patten on China and Diplomacy

Lord Patten’s address on “China and the Future Global Order” began in the wrong place at the wrong time, as he delivered two opening anecdotes not about the dominant Asian power and its geopolitical significance, but rather about the Europe of bygone centuries.

The first was from the Congress of Vienna. During those days in 1814-15, as the aristocratic diplomatic corps of the old monarchies descended on the Habsburg capital, their lavish lifestyle aroused the scorn of certain ambassadors. “The Congress does not march to its goal,” wrote one; “it dances”. And yet—as Patten emphasises—the diplomacy of that celebrated conference delivered peace for a Europe stepped-in so far in conflict. The manner and ritual of diplomacy may have changed, but the fact remains: well-brokered treaties can usher in decades of prosperity.

The second anecdote was from the life of Jewish author Stefan Zweig. This son of Vienna, who toured that city’s high society circuits a century after the restorationist diplomats, was later forced to flee his home under the threat of Nazi persecution. Having settled in Brazil, he wrote “The World of Yesterday”, a literary ode to the dying life of the Habsburg Empire which Lord Patten numbers among his favourite books. Zweig and his wife committed suicide after completing the book, with no hope for a return to the eulogised status quo ante. Patten suggests that Zweig would have been heartened by post-war developments, but this story is essentially tragic—the cruelties unleashed when the seething cauldron of international relations is allowed to boil over.

Two anecdotes: one with a message of hope, the other of losing it. To say that these represent two possible outlooks on China’s relationship with the Western Bloc would be impossibly reductive. But nor were they just arbitrary, indulgent ramblings of the kind popularised by another Balliol politician. Both historical vignettes speak to the complexity of international relations and its continuity between past and present, between West and East. And as the last colonial governor of Hong Kong, Lord Patten’s life serves to bridge these eras and civilizations.

This governorship he presents as a kind of Indian summer on the Pearl River Estuary, his paternalistic leadership serving to sweeten the memory of imperial rule. In fact, Patten is not just looking back through the rose-tinted glasses of an inherited colonial ethic: his time in office was indeed one of democratisation, liberalisation and a distributive economic policy of such a vigorous nature that, as he recalls, the CCP accused him of being a socialist. But the arbitrariness of his accession does have a whiff of old regime Europe to it: “I became governor of Hong Kong because I lost my seat in Bath.” he muses; “Sweet are the uses of adversity”.

Such experiences naturally shape the political outlook of their subject. To some extent, it seems, Lord Patten senses a loss akin to Zweig’s grief for a departed belle époque. His lifetime has seen, he reminds us, unprecedented peace in Europe. Born on the day the Wehrmacht surrendered in Crimea, the post-war order, forged in his infancy, created a world in which Westerners lived under extended conditions of prosperity and, after 1991, security too. The CCP’s—and particularly Xi Jinping’s—pivot to a less open policy, both economically and socially, threatens this peace. For Patten, the possibility of an invasion of Taiwan is a case in point: a westernised democracy facing an ever-less cooperative revanchist neighbour. If this cauldron boils over, the rules-based international order may be the first victim.

The volta facie of CCP policy, from Deng’s apparent willingness to integrate fully into the global economy, to Xi’s record of non-adherence to international treaties (including trade treaties) is of course far from inexplicable. To explain it, Lord Patten furnishes us with another fascinating anecdote, this time from his own life. He recalls a visit of Wang Qishan, the current Vice President of the PRC, to Oxford, where he expressed particular interest in the Bodleian’s Tocqueville collections. Wang admires L’Ancien Régime et la Révolution above all else, presumably because he has never been made to write a collection on it. The text, Patten suggests, gives him two crucial insights applicable to China: firstly, people don’t get easier to govern as they grow wealthier; and secondly, authoritarian regimes are more vulnerable when they try to reform. In a remarkable show of east-west engagement then, it seems the CCP’s anti-revolutionary policy is taking notes from the errors of the Bourbons. Of course, this hammers home an earlier theme: the principles of governance are perennial and international. The earlier invocation of nineteenth and twentieth century European diplomacy is to be understood in this context.

Lord Patten lived the imperial life decades after most of Britain’s colonies broke free from their imposed tutelage. As such, he talks like a man from the deep past, weaving personal and historical anecdotes together with such effortlessness that one struggles to distinguish the two without reference to his birth date. His opinions carry the authority of all his cumulative experience. He warns us that Hong Kong is the canary down the coal mine: China mistreats her now only how it intends to mistreat other polities it gains dominance over. So the west must, he concludes, constrain if it cannot contain. Limit the extent of China’s wrongdoing, while accepting its inevitable role on the world stage. Such realpolitik may not reinvigorate the lost pax americana which his generation has so much enjoyed, but it perhaps takes its lead from the great nineteenth century statesmen whose determination for peace refused to let the perfect be the enemy of the good.

Image credit: Pruneau / CC BY-SA 3.0 via Wikimedia Commons

Whoops I did it again – Big Mamma’s latest opening, Jacuzzi, brings its famed glitz, glamour and gorgeous food to Kensington High Street

Oliver Hall
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Whoops I did it again – Big Mamma’s latest opening, Jacuzzi, brings its famed glitz, glamour and gorgeous food to Kensington High Street

Fun, daring, delightful.  Those three words have come to characterize the food and buildings of Big Mamma’s Italian restaurants across London and the around the world.  Jacuzzi Ristorante, their new site on Kensington High Street, is no different.  It manages to capture that magic and spectacle synonymous with its sister restaurants while being brilliantly unique with new and exciting dishes served alongside famed favourites in an indoor garden setting.

The group always prides itself on service and a relaxed environment and Jacuzzi is no different.  I was greeted at the door by a smiling Luisa and when we were seated the manager Ricardo was quickly over to talk through the menu.

The menu itself is incredibly diverse and draws on dishes from across Italy and its islands.  Well-known favourites from Ave Mario and Circolo Poplare such as the Spaghetti al Tartufo and Tiramisu return but they are accompanied by a superb selection of new inventions and twists on classics.

The drinks list is similarly eclectic.  Not only are there cocktails galore but the wine list is extensive and caters to all tastes and price points.  By the glass, there is a great selection of grapes and varieties from across Italy but buffs won’t be disappointed either.  Superb vintages of Sagrantino di Montefalco (2011) and Tignanello Antinori Supertuscans (2011-2019) are standouts.

I started things off with Lo Sgroppino, a truly unique drink with homemade sorbet, limoncello, and champagne.  The texture was thick and creamy and combined with the lemon and champagne for a perfect indulgence.  The OJ Spritz was a straightforward classic done well too.

For antipasti, we were suggested Crochette di Vitello Tonnato, Crudo di Gambero Rosso, and Burrata al Pistachio alongside a warm freshly baked focaccia.  The crochette are croquettes filled with pulled veal and a coating of tuna salsa.  The combo of flavours was intriguing and the caper on top finishes off the dish perfectly.  The burrata is light and fresh in contrast with some heavy options and the ceviche stood out.  These Gambero Rosso from Sicily are chopped and combined with a mix of lime, celery and red onion on a burrata base.  The punch of the fish is freshened by the citrus and the burrata for a complete bite.  Oysters came along as a surprise treat and my word was I happy to see them.  I’m usually firmly in the camp that believes that oysters are at their best plain, simple, and without dressing.  These though completely changed my mind about that.  They are served in a balsamic reduction that brings a sweetness to the salty shellfish.  I would still ordinarily revert to the more traditional serve but the dish is a must-order as a one-off.

Oysters
Burrata al pistacchio
Crochette
Gambero Rosso

Our pasta of choice was the Raviolone Bricolore.  A new dish, it consists of elongated ravioli parcels filled with either lemon or spinach ricotta.  The pasta itself is good and holds its firm consistency well but the dish is punctuated by a provolone cheese sauce, toasted hazelnuts, and toasted sage leaves.  In a peculiar way, those and the sauce and the most flavoursome element.

Raviolone Bricolore

Big Mamma has made its name on the perfect simplicity and freshness of dishes such as its Carpaccio so I was worried that the edition of truffle might spoil something superb.  Plenty of restaurants are trending towards the ruining of plates with needless editions of truffle oil or inauthentic flavourings.  The Carpaccio al Tartufo suffers no such fate.  The meat is topped with parmesan, truffle cream, horseradish and truffle shavings as well as a good helping of rocket.  Living up to the show of the dining experience it is split and rolled tableside in delightful parcels.  It certainly adds to the event but I did find myself unravelling to add seasoning and mediate the quantity of cheese in each bite.

Carpaccio al tartuffo

Desert wise it is difficult to know where to start.  Ricardo was keen for us to try chocolate fondue and it is the new showstopping addition to the menu here.  The chocolate is still sweet despite masquerading as dark on the menu but is irresistible when placed on the candle stand in the centre of the table.  The accompanying churros were what confused me most – long, chunky, and neither authentically Italian nor Spanish for that matter.  They were by no means bad but seemed a strange straying from the patriotic nature of the rest of the menu.  

Chocolate fondant

I had no such objections to the Pistacchio Profiterole Napoletana.  The serving of ice cream in the pastry ‘sandwich’ is beyond generous but doesn’t overpower.  The warm hazelnut chocolate sauce poured over the top is genuinely to die for.  Priced at only £12 it is easily large enough to share between two or even three people and kept me coming back for bites time and time again.

Pistacchio Profiterole Napoletana

The Limonemissu was the final delivery to the table and an example of a better-executed twist on the classic.  The génoise was thick but the mascarpone, marmalade, and limoncello balanced everything off and resulted in a much lighter way to finish the meal than the other desserts on the menu.

Limonemissu

The food at Jacuzzi is stunning but make no mistake, the experience of dining in a remarkable environment with such attentive and knowledgeable service is what makes the whole thing so special.  For me, the perfect kind of restaurant is one where you are happy to sit all afternoon or night and Jacuzzi achieves that and then some.  Hidden from the outside are four floors – each with its own theme and style that still manages to blend together.  The bottom sees the return of Big Mamma’s party toilets (disco-themed here), and the ground floor is adorned by trees and plants before ascending to the second takes you onto the terrace of an Italian villa.  Those same stairs continue onto a more conventional third level that still maintains the relaxed garden aesthetic.

The service rounds the whole thing off.  Attentive but not annoyingly so, Ricardo tells me that they have had none of the recruitment issues plaguing hospitality across the capital and the country as a whole.  Despite it being just their first week they have nearly a full complement and everyone we encountered was friendly and able to talk through each dish’s origin and construction in detail.  It’s these things that make all the difference.

Jacuzzi Ristorante is both alike the other Big Mamma restaurants and at the same time entirely unique.  It is this that makes the group so superb.  The constants of good service, stunning setting, and above all brilliant food continue but new, unique additions and environments make each one different.  At times it might all feel like a bit of a show but the quality of food ensures that the important things remain front and centre.

Luxury in Crisis

Hannah Selig
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Luxury in Crisis

In the run up to Christmas this year with sales galore and Black Friday on the horizon, The Times magazine Times published an article that has stayed in my head for the past month. Published on Thursday the 15th of December and titled ‘Yes, I live with my parents – but I still buy designer handbags’, it presents the perspectives of two under-30s who choose not to move into their own housing and instead spend ‘rent money’ on luxury goods. Among the high fashion named brands are Prada and Vivienne Westwood, with some items costing thousands of pounds. The £200 Ganni cardigan seems thrifty in comparison with the £1,200 Moncler coat and £2,300 Celine bag. Gowns, cashmere, jewellery – living at home has never sounded so expensive.

Despite how it initially looks, I can’t condemn either of the writers. What on the surface appears to be fiscal irresponsibility and the prioritisation of luxury over practicality, soon develops a far more tragic undercurrent; these young adults spend their hard-earned money on designer clothing and accessories because regardless of whether they purchase luxuries or live frugally, they are nevertheless unable to afford to move out of their childhood home. No amount of scrimping and saving will be able to grant them a path towards independence in the way that it did for their parents’ generation – so why not indulge? After all, the writers – whose names have been changed in the article – defend their choice to “shop sustainably, buying from brands that are pricier but guarantee that their pieces are ethically made”, and purchase “long-term sustainable, timeless pieces” instead of cheaply-made and rapidly discarded fast fashion items. Without rent or household bills to pay, it’s an attractive, even admirable option. 

The article describes expensive clothing as a “perk” of living at home, justifying that “in this climate you can’t let the perks pass you by.” But is that all it is? The writers both brought up environmental responsibility so I feel obligated to widen the conversation a little and wonder whether it is a financial privilege to have so much disposable income, despite the sad situation that has allowed it, or a sad sign of the times that symbols of success can only be purchased because actual housing security is so far out of reach. There is a much larger conversation to be had about the ethics of designer clothing and accessories in comparison to more affordable yet less durable options, but that is not the reason that this article has stayed with me into the new Hilary term. Instead, I am fascinated by how at odds the Times article appears to be with the views of the (Facebook-using) Oxford student body.

I present Exhibit A, Oxfess #19006 (published on Tuesday 13th of December 2022): “To those girls who wear £300/£400 fashion items around Oxford, read the room. The constant flow of Y2K Coach bags, D&G clothes, Burberry scarves, Vivienne necklaces etc shows a lack of understanding that most of us have to work for our money especially in this economy. Oh, and don’t justify with the ‘it’s a special piece’ or the ‘I earned it from my summer job/internship’ – you could only afford it because the rest of your life is fully funded for you by mummy/daddy. Please, please, wake up to most peoples’ reality as we struggle this Christmas.” Although the comments section (at the time of writing) remains overwhelming hostile towards this view – with responses such as “So long as these individuals do not mention their expensive items, I see no bad behaviour”, “DRIP IS NOW ILLEGAL”, and simply “What a stupid, stupid take.” – it seems that the Oxfess-following student body generally seems to agree with the original poster that it is irresponsible and insulting to flaunt designer goods in this current economic climate. Of the 72 reactions on the Facebook post, 48 are likes, 21 are laughing emojis, and the rest are shocked (3), crying (1), or angry (1). The consensus seems clear: in this economy, overt displays of wealth are inexcusable.

Of course, the circumstances are far from identical between the writers of the Times article and those referred to in the Oxfess post. At Oxford, there is only a very slim possibility of avoiding battels. Living at home is rarely an option considering that colleges commonly insist on first-year students using campus accommodation and very few students have family in Oxford. Everyone pays tuition fees and battels. To be able to purchase high-cost luxury goods on top of that implies a high level of financial privilege. It simply isn’t fair and I’m not surprised that so many people are angered by the overt display of expendable cash during a period of such economic inequality.

However, I wonder whether this will remain the attitude as we enter the same situation as the writers of the Time article. When confronted with an impenetrable housing market, will the same students who condemned buyers of luxury goods manage to retain their principles? It’s a difficult thing to abstain from glamour when there is little else to be happy about. Maybe the inconsiderate flaunting of luxury goods will slowly start to make sense. Or maybe it was never anyone’s responsibility to hide their wealth for the sake of others’ comfort in the first place. Honestly, I’m still making my mind up about it all. What I know for certain is that, even facing graduation this year with an English degree and a recession on the horizon, I don’t think I’m ready to give up on any hope of someday finding my own housing and instead resort to splashing out on designer items. But I still find it hard to judge those who do. Although I know it’s a slightly ridiculous comparison, I can’t stop myself from reading the words “If we are forgoing our independence, we may as well look good while doing it” and picturing the Titanic’s orchestra playing on even as it sank. The future looks bleak – but that’s no reason not to make the present a little less unbearable.

Baba, Bridge, and Academic Beat Downs

Huda Daghem
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<strong>Baba, Bridge, and Academic Beat Downs</strong>

Huda Daghem tracks the highs and lows of Oxford, and celebrates the joy we find in friendship…

It’s the end of term. The last essay has been submitted. Your final 9am tutorial has just ended on zoom because your tutor has Covid and apparently that’s still a valid excuse. You still have lectures to go to, but who cares when you’ve had your final teaching session. The only thing on your mind from 10am onwards is going out, finding the perfect stranger, unknown with no mutual friends and just enough charisma in the dark light of the club to get off with before you pack up the clothes, books, and annoyingly breakable potted plants from your Oxford room to head back to the middle of butt fuck Tory England. 

And yet. None of these dreams materialise. There is no perfect stranger. It’s just you and your friends trying your hardest to make the Cotton-Eye Joe remix and the ultimate-ick Central Cee track a decent vibe for your final night out. You think maybe Bridge should be under new management when the highlight of your night is the smoking area. And so even after resorting to Bridge, even though you should’ve known better because Bridge is … Bridge, you don’t get a break. You spend your last morning in Oxford wandering around Westgate, with £5 left in your bank account, smashing a Christmas ornament worth three times your net worth. What both the toddler and the dog present in the establishment restrained themselves from doing, you managed to achieve. 

At this point, you truly thought this was your definitive *shit* end to term; but you underestimated the power of patronising words spilling from the mouth of a  fifty year old white academic who has no experience of the world outside this bubble. Try as you might to forget their existence, report readings (collections to some of you) come every term. For some reason, as of yet undiscovered-despite persistent investigation -, tutors get a kick out of recreating high school parent evenings, in a much more soul crushing manner. Back then at least you were top of the class. Oh to be a big fish in a small pond … 

‘Get your act together’. Fair. You have no rebuttal. How could you when they begin to list off every one of your recent, and not so recent, academic failures, from failed collections to late submissions? 

‘Are you taking this seriously?’ No. Of course I’m not. I didn’t cry myself to sleep after finding out my collection mark on my way home from my only night out of term, I just had some dust in my eye. Why would I take the last  two and a half years of my life, that constitute the last of my parents’ savings and the start of a lifetime of debt, seriously? 

 Therein lies the paradox of Oxford. They know you too well, and yet not well enough. There is no more qualified group of people on the planet to judge your academic ability and find you lacking. And yet they have no comprehension of the being you are beyond these boundaries. They have no understanding of mental health. They have no understanding of the fact that you may have family events to celebrate, or relationships that require time, effort, and grieving periods. 

So when the chips are down, and the institution that you begged, pleaded and prayed day and night to accept you is the source of your despair, how do you keep your head above the water? 

Answer: Grab onto your friends; they make the best floaties. 

This even works for Bridge – here it came in the bathroom. Overcrowded, an assault to the nose and a little terrifying (that’s why women go to the bathroom in groups guys), you find yourself in the middle stall thinking of what songs will make an appearance on what is sure to be a horrifying dj set for the night. But lo and behold, you look down only to find that the condom you shoved in your pocket on your way out the door is suddenly redundant. We’ve fallen to the communists. The crimson tide is moving in. And any other out of date euphemism you can think of. Never before have you experienced a bigger pussy pause to your plans. But women are amazing. Truly and without sarcasm. The tampon machine may be broken but in less than 5 minutes your friends have cornered every person in that bathroom to ask for aid, for any resources they  can offer. The group chat has been popping off – your pleas for help have been heard from the RnB to the cheese floor – and in comes your friend, straight from the mosh pit, with a cotton pad suddenly stuffed under the stall of your cubicle. So you may be a sexy stranger down, and you spend the night in mild (read major) discomfort, but what the hell – you got an adrenaline rush, a trauma bonding experience, and a story you can exploit for a piece in the student newspaper. 

You can take one trip  to Cowley. A £2.50 bus ride, free entry and £4 cocktails for those of you that are inclined; Baba is the cheapest form of therapy out there. Now one might think this seems like some form of denial, maybe if one were prone to hyperbole it would even seem the start of the descent into alcoholism. But fear not. It is definitely not the latter.

In fact it’s not the former either. Maybe for the night you seek to exorcise the memory of the cold stone room wherein you were told graduation was a pipe dream. Maybe you’re even attempting another go for the one night stand. But you know what you have to face in the morning. The truth that the vac will be a drudging repetition of trips to the council library, or downstairs to the dining room, which you’ve commandeered and covered in books on banking and feminism in equal measure (trust, the irony is not lost on me). You’re not trying to forget that. You’re trying to live this one night with the people that make these other events worth it. Making sure the memory of this night and these people are just as strong as those of you crying in the library at 2:38am. Remembering that your friend was with you in Westgate at the great Ornament Incident of 2022 and eventually (imminently) this memory will make you both laugh rather than cry. 

You’re not suddenly going to be cured overnight. This isn’t headline news – mental health isn’t something that can be solved with a single doctor’s visit and a one time prescription from cornmarket boots.  You can’t overwrite the bad parts.The parts that are especially anxiety inducing and breakdown worthy. What you can do is accept them for what they are – shit. Shit but temporary. Some time soon you will be standing under the shadow of the Rad Cam begging your family to stop taking photos of you in your graduation gown – it’s embarrassing you still know people that go here. Outside of this bubble nobody cares about Marx’s Utopophobia or the rhetoric of lust in Troilus and Cressida. Once you leave, neither will you. What you will care about is the people and the experience, the bad and the good, and even the really horribly, terribly bad. Because even in those moments there is something good. And there are some people that will be your special friends even when you’re earning six figures in the city and have forgotten all about feminism and Marx. 

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