In the Bekaa Valley, trays of raisins and cannabis leaves dry together under the sun. The herbal reek of hashish is headily overpowering, as men roll long cigarettes of Red Lebanese, the local speciality, over dishes of mezzeh on a plastic tablecloth. In this village in the Bekaa Valley, cannabis is as much of a time-honoured tradition as the local cuisine. The family of our campsite owner Mohamad lives in the remote outskirts of Dar Al Wasaa village, in the northern Shiite territory of the valley. Their low-walled garden is tucked into rocky hillside, where a rolling plateau of wild lavender shrubs is hemmed in by the snowy folds of Mt Lebanon and the silhouettes of cedar trees. In the wilds of these planes, flat leafed cannabis plants grow. But the cannabis farmed here is not just a commodity; it is an integral part of the area’s cultural identity. It is the valley’s life-blood, and, as Mohamad’s brother puts it, lighting a joint on the barbeque, “Hashish is very special here, it has a special place in Bekaa’s history.” He laughs, and tells me how he spent his boyhood combing local roadsides for the occasional untamed spiky-leaved plant, drying it out on his bedroom windowsill. When I ask why the crop is so important for local business, he responds darkly, “This is Lebanon. Things are more difficult here. I mean, who can make a living by just growing tomatoes?” Until relatively recently, he explains, hashish had value as a kind of social currency. It was used in a system of collective barter and exchange, where it was given in the place of dowries and used to settle debts. One thing is clear, away from the sterile brashness of central Beirut and the seedy glitz of its downtown, the poverty in these remote parts of the Bekaa Valley is real. This community needs to farm hashish to survive. 

In the Bekaa Valley, trays of raisins and cannabis leaves dry together under the sun. The herbal reek of hashish is headily overpowering, as men roll long cigarettes of Red Lebanese, the local speciality, over dishes of mezzeh on a plastic tablecloth. In this village in the Bekaa Valley, cannabis is as much of a time-honoured tradition as the local cuisine. The family of our campsite owner Mohamad lives in the remote outskirts of Dar Al Wasaa village, in the northern Shiite territory of the valley. Their low-walled garden is tucked into rocky hillside, where a rolling plateau of wild lavender shrubs is hemmed in by the snowy folds of Mt Lebanon and the silhouettes of cedar trees. In the wilds of these planes, flat leafed cannabis plants grow. But the cannabis farmed here is not just a commodity; it is an integral part of the area’s cultural identity. It is the valley’s life-blood, and, as Mohamad’s brother puts it, lighting a joint on the barbeque, “Hashish is very special here, it has a special place in Bekaa’s history.” He laughs, and tells me how he spent his boyhood combing local roadsides for the occasional untamed spiky-leaved plant, drying it out on his bedroom windowsill. When I ask why the crop is so important for local business, he responds darkly, “This is Lebanon. Things are more difficult here. I mean, who can make a living by just growing tomatoes?” Until relatively recently, he explains, hashish had value as a kind of social currency. It was used in a system of collective barter and exchange, where it was given in the place of dowries and used to settle debts. One thing is clear, away from the sterile brashness of central Beirut and the seedy glitz of its downtown, the poverty in these remote parts of the Bekaa Valley is real. This community needs to farm hashish to survive. 

The Beatles – arguably the most successful band in the history of popular music. Simon Cowell – a music producer with an estimated net worth of £200 million. Jade Goody – a media personality who was ranked on Channel 4’s 100 Worst Britains, yet also the most mourned individual of 2009. Other than fame, only one thing ties these three together. It may be going a bit far to call this thing an institution, but there is no question about the fact that Max Clifford is a big deal. Clifford left school with no qualifications and was given a leg up by his brother into a job which would train him as a journalist. However, after taking redundancy, he made a move across enemy lines to become a publicist for EMI records. It was here he began to build up what can only be described as an unparalleled CV. With clients ranging from Frank Sinatra to David Beckham, Clifford must be very good at what he does. 

Before I met Clifford, he had just spoken at the Union. After an emotive and compelling speech in proposition from Professor Jean Seaton and a very “British” rebuttal from Bob Marshall-Andrews QC, Clifford was going to have to do a very good job arguing in favour of the motion “This house fears the Rise of Media Monopolies”. And I’ll be honest, he wasn’t at all how I’d expected. Softly spoken, humble, it wasn’t what you’d imagine from the UK’s greatest PR mogul. However, what he perhaps lacked in presentation, he made up for in conviction and content. His warning of the power of Rupert Murdoch and the influence this man had over David Cameron was delivered in an eerily serious tone, to which even the charismatic and apparently fearless Marshall-Andrews had no response. “When I found out my phone was hacked, I took on News International. None of the other people named would, including cabinet ministers and very powerful people, because they were scared and frightened of News International’s power.” So does Clifford believe that publicists have too much power? “No… I think because of the media generally speaking no. Publicists seek to have too much power, so do journalists. Journalists resent publicists or PRs because they want to have total control themselves. But the journalists, and largely speaking the media, still have the upper hand, although I would like to change that as much as I possibly can, and I do”.

 Having the job of interviewing a PR powerhouse who has just shaken one of the most influential debating chambers in the world can only be described as a bittersweet experience. On the one hand you have a chance to grill this individual on any topic you desire, on the other you’re so nervous that just holding onto the dictaphone is difficult, let alone working out how to use it. After convincing myself that it was unlikely that his tirade against the media held Cherwell specifically in mind (although you never know) we turned towards the topic of super-injunctions. Clifford has been responsible for the majority of kiss-and-tell stories that have splashed the front pages of tabloids, and is currently representing Imogen Thomas, the Big Brother star caught in the centre of the super-injunctions scandal after an alleged affair with a premiership footballer. “Yes, I’ve taken out super injunctions; I’ve got lawyers to take them out on behalf of clients, but they’re wrong because it’s a law for the rich. Ordinary people can’t afford super-injunctions which cost fifty, sixty, seventy thousand pounds from the lawyer, the QCs, the whole process. That alone makes it wrong. Also its been introduced by judges, not by parliament. In a democracy that means it’s wrong.” For a resource which would make any publicist’s job easier, Clifford’s outspoken disdain of super-injunctions is clearly a very powerful message. 

Clifford has acknowledged the shrewd and calculating nature of the PR industry.  In the past, he has used contacts in high-end brothels to detract attention from his own clients, and he was responsible for one of the most famous, and entirely fictional, tabloid headlines of all time, ‘Freddie Starr ate my hamster’, to garner interest for Starr’s up-coming tour. In 2009, he admitted advising two high-profile gay footballers to stay in the closet to save their careers.   When I asked if Clifford thought there had been any progress made in the standing of gay footballers in recent years he responded, “Sadly, no… I said 10 years ago that hopefully it would change, but in my mind it hasn’t. Hopefully the FA will one day start to do something about it as they promised they would a year or two ago.”

Clifford is now 68, and despite over 40 years in the industry, he shows no sign of retiring. While it would appear that the name of the game has not changed much over the course of his career, the internet has changed almost every aspect of public life: “There is so much out there which is absolutely ridiculous. I mean, the super-injuctions: in the last week or so there have been two or three people named as having taken out super-injuctions who haven’t. But actually the newspapers, magazines, television have far greater impact and influence in my opinion. I’ve had seven people coming out on Facebook pretending they’re Max Clifford who have nothing to do with me at all, but that couldn’t happen in a national newspaper.”

And yet despite this marathon of a career, it seems that Clifford has few regrets. “Have I made mistakes? Of course. I’ve had things I’ve been involved in and thought, ‘I would have done that differently’. Of course. But I love what I do and I’ve done it my own way. I’ve had far greater freedom than any journalist… by and large I’m happy with the years gone by.”

So, what do you get up to in your free time at Oxford?” Relatives ask me, probably imagining something along the lines of rowing on the Isis, fine dining at formal hall, singing in the chapel or playing croquet. Quaint, old-fashioned, undeniably Oxbridge things. Though I have to admit, I  do enjoy  some – ok, most – of these things, when I think back on last term, it’s taking a coachload of kids and students on a trip to the Roald Dahl Museum that first springs to mind. 

Not exactly sure what I’d expect while trawling   around Freshers’ Fair, I had somehow managed to get involved in organising events for Jacari, a student-run charity providing free after school home teaching for over 200 local children who don’t speak English as their first language and are falling behind at school. As a treat for both the kids and volunteers, whose help can make a huge difference to a child’s self-esteem and school performance, we put on events: bowling trips, trips to see the new Harry Potter film, or, in this case, something a little more educational. It’s my responsibility to make sure they all have a good time.

It can be a stressful role, as I quickly discovered when 25 excited kids piled on to the coach. I’d been slightly apprehensive about the journey, so had games of ‘travel bingo’, a CD of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and a few bags of sweets at hand. Perhaps these all  went down too well: the coach was filled with shrieks every time a yellow car or motorbike went past, and I was soon faced with constant demands for sweets from people who assured me that they were about to puke. When we finally arrived – I don’t think I quite understood before how many times it is possible to fit “Are we there yet?” into an hour long journey – I had my work cut out trying to stop the children from running around the museum. I caught one boy trying to lick chocolate from a remarkably realistic chocolate-bar door, and stopped another from walking off in what was supposedly Roald Dahl’s school uniform. By the time we got back to the coach I was as exhausted as they were.

Still, it was a great chance for those involved in Jacari to get together, and, judging from the grins on the kids’ faces as their teachers were forced to act out Dahl’s version of the Three Little Pigs, I think everyone enjoyed themselves. It was brilliant to see those who struggle so much at school completely throw themselves into a competition for the most imaginative ‘Story Ideas Book’, which all children are given on entrance to the museum. For the volunteers, it was a way to bond with their pupil outside their weekly lesson, as well as a perfect excuse to be a kid for the day – who wouldn’t enjoy writing a rude story in fridge magnets, or dressing up as Willy Wonka? 

But for me, best of all was listening to volunteers and kids share their experiences of Jacari. I met Jean, who had brought four pupils on the trip (most volunteers are allocated one or two but sometimes siblings get jealous!) and told me that every lesson since the ‘Mad Hatter party’, they’d nagged her about when the next event would be.  Another volunteer, Bekah, said that Jacari was “definitely the most interesting ‘outside’ thing” she’d done at Oxford so far. She raved about the chai tea and chapatis that greet her at her pupil Tahira’s house, and made me laugh by recalling a lesson in January when Tahira asked her politely whether she would like to come to her 7th birthday party on August 30th.  Zaza, who has been a Jacari volunteer since 2009, said that almost every week her pupils ask her if she has any children herself, and, refusing to accept she has none, insist that she brings them over next time for them to play with. She added, “I think Jacari is brilliant, it’s so nice for the children to have an older role model to look up to and the rewards of being a tutor are definitely worth it.” 

Jacari only asks its 175 volunteers, from both Oxford and Oxford Brookes Universities, to commit to one hour teaching each week, but many enjoy spending time with their pupil and family so much that they stay longer. Bekah had just come from making gingerbread with Tahira, and another volunteer warned me that he was running late for the trip because he’d been helping his pupil’s father fill in a form he’d had trouble understanding. For some of these families, many of whom are recent arrivals in the UK, having a native English speaker in the house – even if only for an hour or so – can be a real lifeline. 

Of course, the teaching part is crucial: the whole point of Jacari is to try to do something about the fact that educational achievement of pupils who speak English as an additional language is consistently lower than their peers at all ages. The fact that there are over 150 kids on the waiting list speaks for itself: families and teachers really do value that one hour a week. In the words of one local schoolteacher, “The support and guidance the students provide to our pupils is invaluable. Our learners thrive under their support and always, always make better progress in their subjects as a consequence.” 

But Jacari is about much more than just exam results. Families who are new to the area often tell us how much they appreciate simply having a friendly face to visit them each week. And the learning works both ways.  Adrianne, who taught the Kamala family for a year, recalled, “As well as English practice and schoolwork, I taught them a few words of French and they taught me some Somali; I checked their timetables and they showed me how to hold their new baby brother… being a Jacari tutor made me see the real people behind the ‘immigration’ headlines.” Adrianne, like many volunteers, became good friends with the whole family, and found it hard to say goodbye when she left Oxford last year. Some of the friendships formed are lifelong – one Jacari alumni even invited her pupil and family to her wedding. As for me, I admit that sometimes while in the middle of an essay crisis I don’t especially feel like going to teach a sweet but very stubborn ten year old girl whose homework is often so full of spelling mistakes I don’t know where to start. But when I get there –  when her twelve-year-old sister presents me with a huge plate of onion bhajis and gives me even more to take home with me –  when I am asked to talk to her countless Pakistani relatives on Skype – when I finally get her to understand the point of a full stop – you can guarantee I’ll be smiling. I always leave in a much better mood than I was in an hour before.

The Oxford bubble can be fun, novel and exciting, but at times it is also stifling. Jacari is a chance to escape it for an hour or so and make a very real difference to the lives of families whose experience of Oxford is far from the stereotypes.