Dr. Sandra Scott’s CV reads like my Sky Plus planner. She’s been on almost everything: Big Brother (celebrity and plebeian), Hell’s Kitchen, I’m a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here and, of course, Tool Academy. She is reason when all descends into madness, as an on screen Psychiatrist she’s there to ensure the contestants are kept mentally stable and offers psychological support. You would think, with all that under her belt, she’d be an avid reality TV watcher. But no, ‘

Watching reality shows is usually work – I associate it with working’. A pretty poor excuse, in my opinion, and, almost as an afterthought, she claims she watches The Apprentice. A top quality production without doubt, but if it doesn’t have racial slurs, on-screen masturbation or kangaroo testicles it’s just not my kind of ‘reality’. As she has such intimate knowledge of the ins and outs of the production of reality television, I ask if she’d ever go on as a contestant: ‘I think I’d like to see how I’d cope. With all this experience you think you should know exactly how to play the game and how to come across well.’ It’s quite clear, to anyone with any concern for his or her pride and dignity, that reality television is the worst thing to do ever. No matter how great the prize, how hungry you are for fame, you will end up knickers-out on page four of OK!. With her insight into the workings of reality TV shows, you would think her aversion would become more acute; would she actually subject herself to one? ‘No, no I wouldn’t’. Sensible woman.

Her career progression has been a series of serendipitous events. Educated at the University of the West Indies, she was drawn to psychiatry simply because she thought it would be less physically demanding than other fields of medicine; evidently the right move, and a decision process dear to my own heart. The start of her television career was slightly more dramatic. In a casual meeting with David Wolstencroft, the writer of Psychos, she managed to get pretty ‘huff cuff’ (an excellent term I will definitely be incorporating into my vocabulary). ‘I was talking to him, and mid-sentence, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a person collapse. I went over and sorted them out, and then came straight back. I just sort of went into auto-pilot because I was quite drunk.’ Dr. Sandra Scott is evidently a woman who can work under pressure. Wolstencroft was equally impressed and his production company Kudos hired her to work on Psychos, an ‘uncompromising portrait’ of a psychiatric hospital in Glasgow. One of the characters was not very loosely based on Dr. Scott and she was consulted to provide realistic details and themes. Eventually they offered her a place on screen and the rest, as they say, is history.

Dr. Scott is a psychiatrist first and foremost. She works for and is a trustee of children’s charity ChildHope and her professional work has primarily been with children and teenagers. The context in which she works on television is rarely sensitive or serious, and I ask if her role on screen differs from the one she plays elsewhere. ‘On television, I’m not doing psychiatry. They’re not patients. I’m not monitoring their mental states in the same sort of way. I’m doing psychology.’ She is careful to make this distinction. There is some suggestion that the psychological help provided on reality television is little more than pseudo-science, for want of a better term. Dr. Scott is obviously aware of this suggestion and was wary about even being interviewed, a wariness born out of her extensive experience of journalists and journalism – ‘the press is quite hostile, you quickly learn savviness, through necessity.’ However, she seems to embody the counter-argument. Rarely in the interview does she deviate from talking about the seriousness, both of her work and of her approach to it. She claims to care about the people who subject themselves to the public humiliation that we call reality TV. ‘You are dealing with people’s emotions, and they are real people. And they have issues. It is just not useful as the professional there to help them to be poking fun and being unpleasant.’

She also claims to have lovely things to say about each and every contestant on Tool Academy. That can’t be true. We must be talking about two completely different sets of people, has she not been watching the program? I mean, come on, it’s a group of twelve men, who all considered themselves fit for a program searching for the ‘ultimate lad’. Anyone who self-identifies as such must either be delusional (I don’t think some of the contestants would have lasted long had that actually been the title) or slightly repellent. Her personal favourite is Harry. ‘I will always have a special place for Harry, he made me cry. I don’t think I’ve done that before.’ My personal favourite is Harry too, but for slightly different reasons. Hers are more professional, she feels he made real progress, ‘because he found it so particularly difficult to express himself emotionally, and then he did it so beautifully.’ Apparently it was ‘exceptionally moving’. I suppose you need to be less of a cynic and more romantic to be in this line of work.

I can see the appeal in working on reality TV. Not only do you get to see the hilarity first hand, you also get to work with the dishy men that present the shows. Just being in the same building as Dermot O’Leary would make me cry out with desire. Dr. Scott has even been in the same bed as Rick Edwards; what wouldn’t I do to trade places with her?! Unfortunately I am unable to uncover much dirt. ‘He’s very professional. He’s a good person to work with because he brings the humour so I don’t have to get involved with that.’ This works well with Dr. Scott’s sense of integrity. Working in a position of support, she’s careful to provide a sincere alternative to the wise-cracking presenters. ‘People trust me, and I would never want to betray that trust for some cheap gag.’

What about her relationship advice? ‘Communication, equality and respect’ are crucial to a stable and happy relationship. She takes care to stress that ‘equality’ is not about being the same. ‘You’ve both got to be contributing. Once you get out of the romantic phase, people end up feeling used or a burden. A degree of equality is important.’ It is interesting that equality features so much in her relationship ethos. After all, Tool Academy is styled on the idea that the man is to blame. The bloke is supposed to be in need of reform, when in reality the women on the programme are no less reprehensible. ‘It’s a reality show, it’s entertaining, the focus is the blokes. But within that, it always takes two to tango’. Dr. Scott does not take her role lightly, and she seems to be a model of sincerity in a very unreal reality world.

“Le Manoir aux Quat’Saisons is the fulfilment of a personal vision, a dream that one day I would create a hotel and restaurant in harmony, where my guests would find perfection in food, comfort, service and welcome.”
Raymond Blanc O.B.E

Intelligent. Daring. Adventurous. All have been used to describe the cuisine at Le Manoir – and in my opinion, quite rightly so. The modern French menu has been described as “a twist of imaginative genius” and features Confit de Cabillaud, Suprême de Canard and Soufflé à la pistache. If the sound of these doesn’t tantalise your taste buds, I don’t know what will!

There are few people who have never heard of Raymond Blanc OBE – the world-renowned owner (Chairman and Chef Patron) of Le Manoir aux Quat’Saisons and one of the country’s most respected chefs. RB (as he is known by his staff) created Le Manoir to fulfil “a personal vision” and has been delighting his guests there since 1984. Awarded two Michelin stars a year after opening, these have now been retained for an incredible 27 years (the only hotel ever to have done so).

It was with great anticipation that I left the dreaming spires of Oxford behind me and set off for Le Manoir. Despite the grey, gloomy English weather, nothing could dampen my spirits as I drove (somewhat bleary-eyed) down country lanes towards my destination, listening to Radio One’s very own ‘Moylesy’ (naturally). Nestled in the picturesque village of Great Milton, there isn’t a more perfect setting for one of Britain’s finest gastronomic experiences. Idyllically situated in 30 acres of land and surrounded by immaculate, manicured lawns there’s an orchard, lake and a two-acre vegetable and herb garden.

“Would you like your car valet parked, Madam?”, a smart gentleman in a waistcoat asked me on my arrival. “Hmm, probably not a good idea”, I thought to myself. Compared to the Mercs, Bents and Jags he was clearly used to driving, my car (VW Golf, Racing Green, Reg.’02) would have been a bit of a let down. Needless to say, I declined his kind offer. Being early, for once, I was presented with tea and biscuits (scrumptious!) in the drawing room. Roaring fire. Heavenly sofas. Pure luxury. I could have stayed there all day reading about English Country Homes & Gardens, fantasising that I was Lady of the Manor. However, reality came with a jolt when I was collected ten minutes later and ushered towards the kitchens… my day at Le Manoir had begun!
Kitted out from head-to-toe in chef’s cap, whites and ‘safety shoes’ (clodhoppers), I certainly looked the part. But did I feel it? Questionable. Recent experience working in a ‘Fawlty Towers’ hotel had given me some inkling of what to expect in a commercial kitchen, but now I was well out of my comfort zone. A tour of the kitchens followed with Executive Head Chef, Gary Jones. Then, I was put to work sorting salad leaves with Chef Chris. This proved to be slow work (for me). A tiny dot, mark or tear (or lack thereof) would determine the leaf’s fate: compost or plate. So there I was, contemplating what exactly constituted the “perfect” leaf, whilst Chris whizzed through his pile like Jenson Button on the Bugatti Circuit.

Next, the canapé section with Chef Warren. Polishing 40 slates with sunflower oil was my second task of the day. Pointless? That’s what I thought at first. However, the resulting shiny-black-sheen persuaded me otherwise. Thus, the perfect backdrop had been created for the culinary show that was to ensue. Savoury profiteroles – light, yet crispy – had been piped full with chicken liver parfait-mousse and mango pureé. Little drops of heaven. Incredible! You’d have to try one to believe it, but these were something else. Next came quenelles of goat’s cheese. Perfectly shaped ovals complete with a stripe of honey, and toasted oats and fine black truffle powder atop. These rested on a delicate piece of toasted bread barely a millimetre thick. Another three canapés completed the masterpiece and we were nearly ready for service. At 11.45am, dishes were placed on the front kitchen counter for the head chef to taste and approve. Advice and criticism were duly offered. Despite the change of gear following first orders fifteen minutes later, operations remained smooth. Too used to watching a certain ‘celeb’ chef on the TV, I was expecting profanities to be uttered left, right and centre. But, no. For the next three hours the show continued in an orderly fashion.

I was next made responsible for arranging the previously sorted salad leaves on plates. Easy? Not quite. There is a certain technique to doing this, which I’d like to think I mastered by the end. Speed was also required -very testing for the perfectionist! Lunch service sped by and soon it was time to wipe down the surfaces and have a break. Here, I was able to talk to Kate, one of the only female chefs in this testosterone-fuelled kitchen team. Having studied Food Science at Dublin, she had gone on to work at the city’s Michelin-starred Chapter One before coming to Le Manoir. I was bowled over by her dedication; despite only having an hour off each day (with shifts from 8am til 11.30pm) she used most of her break to write her kitchen section’s shopping list.
Back from the break, my final task was making popcorn, a bar snack. Even this had a fancy twist to it and was tossed in vanilla salt. However, before it was deemed ready, I had to sift through the whole lot, removing any remaining un-popped kernels. Apparently, this had become a routine activity following an incident where a guest had chipped her tooth. This was a costly mistake for Le Manoir, which they clearly did not wish to repeat.

The Guide Michelin describes a two-star restaurant as “table excellente, mérite un detour”. If your GCSE French doesn’t stretch this far (mine did not, so thanks freetranslation.com): “excellent cooking, worth a detour”. I can safely (and humbly) say that from what I saw, no one would, or could, walk away disappointed having eaten here. However, on a student budget this kind of luxury may have to be put on hold for now. Thankfully, Brasserie Blanc in Jericho (Walton Street) offers simple, high quality nosh at affordable prices. I would recommend going for the ‘Roast Sirloin Sundays’- £14.50 inc. a large glass of wine- delicious and a welcome change from eating in Hall.

Driving back to Oxford following my day at Le Manoir aux Quat’Saisons I realised how much I had learnt and how little I actually knew about cooking. The techniques used in professional kitchens of this calibre are so high-tech and the pace of activity so quick that even I, a reasonable home cook found it hard to follow. Sadly, Monsieur Raymond Blanc OBE, the great man himself, was not around when I visited. Perhaps I will have to accept the invitation to return and make sure I go when he is!

C**t has outbid you! Would you like to bid again?

Yes, I bloody would. I really want this White Leather Sexy Must-Have Rhinestone 70s Catsuit. Actually no, I really need it. I can already feel it, this is going to become one of my most-worn, most-loved, staple closet items. It is going to be the flagship piece, the jewel in the crown, of my new capsule wardrobe. In fact, I think I’ll wear it to Park End this Wednesday, and then to my Old English tutorial the day after, and then to go as Gary Glitter to the Bad Taste bop, or, failing all that, I’ll just wear it in bed. In fact, maybe I won’t even wear it in bed. Maybe I’ll just hang it up on my wall and stroke it. I don’t care what the Fire Warden might say; if it’s a fire hazard, it’s my fire hazard. I’m going to tell everyone who sees it the story of how, in the last nail biting seconds, C**t bit the dust and I triumphed as The Highest Bidder. She came, she saw, and she took that bitch doooooown.

C**t has placed a bid of £178. Would you like to bid again?

My fingers stroke the keyboard. 48 seconds left. The red ticking time bomb in the centre of the screen makes me start to panic. I mean, when you actually think about it, numbers are just, like, squiggles, aren’t they? Like, what do they actually mean? At that moment, I have a brief out of body experience. I look down at myself. It’s 4.08am, and the milkman is delivering. I’m hunched over my laptop in Mr Men pyjamas, my leg is jigging up and down like a need a wee (I do, I’ve been glued to this auction for the last 53 minutes), and I’m talking to myself about Gary Glitter. Can you really do this to yourself, Rebecca? What would your mother say? What would the domestic bursar say? What would NatWest say? I sigh, click ‘cross’, and buy a consolatory pair of pineapple shaped earrings for 99p. Welcome to eBay.

The phenomenon of eBay is changing the way we shop. Since its start in 1995, there is no longer any need to leave the house. Who needs daylight anyway, when you can just as easily buy a 2001 Mega Sun Used Sunbed from cosmo2tan in India? EBay is a nowhere world, that is, paradoxically, fast-paced and frenzied, but also lonely and silent. It is an auction room of a billion, and just one. Bidding on eBay is like fighting in a retail war-zone, where you never see the faces of the people you shoot down. This cyberspace of cut-throat haggling and anonymous bitchiness is a place where speechless negotiation, soundless transaction and the electronic shaking of hands occur across the world by the second.

I find it highly distressing that I cannot see the person who has just outbid me. I’d appreciate a personal profile: you know, Favourite Colour, Favourite Food, Reason Why I’m Such a Dick etc. EBay cunningly obscures bidders’ usernames with the asterisk, presumably so you can’t hunt them down and kill them, not that the thought had ever crossed my mind. EBay does, however, permit you to take a look at their recent Bid History. This provides endless hours of fun, as the further you delve into someone’s bid history, the sharper the psychological portrait that materialises in the minds-eye. Take, for instance, bidder f******r, who has just, at the very last possible second, outbid me on a 1980s Oversized Lady’s Missoni Cardigan. A few clicks reveal their life and being. This is what I find:

Crafts > Glass Art & Mosaic Supplies

Home & Garden > Major Appliances

Collectibles > Collector Plates

Dolls & Bears > By Brand, Company, Character

I make up my mind that bidder f*****r doesn’t get out much. She (or he?) probably isn’t even going to wear my Missoni cardigan. She’ll probably use it to polish the collectible Lady Di memorial plates I decide she hangs in the downstairs toilet. That is, when she isn’t making hideous things out of Hobbycraft-style mosaics and then passing them off as Christmas presents, or operating heavy machinery in the Home and Garden. A real personal vendetta can develop. I contemplate trawling though each of her 31 bids, and outbidding her at the last second every time, just to really piss her off. I see she’s been looking at Kitchenware too. Now, hang on, that’s what I reeeally need, a spice rack, or, oooh, a hostess trolley, yeah? Then I forget about it all and move on to something else.

A closer look at the Seller can also divulge an alarming sense of character. I have decided to buy a Vintage Ralph Lauren Navajo Jacket from borntoride22 for a price that I cannot afford. Paypal and I both know that this isn’t in my account, but borntoride22 doesn’t, yet. Just before hitting ‘Buy It Now’ in a moment of fuckitall recklessness, I pause, my mouse drifts, and I click See Seller’s Other Items, just out of curiosity. I see they are also selling a set of steak knives, a ‘designer’ 3 pack of Primark trainer socks, a novelty pvc apron, an M&S cardigan, and a Clearasil face wash, marked ‘used’. In the Details section, there is written simply, ‘no haters please.’ My confidence falters.
Money ceases to be money on eBay. Student loan? What student loan, this is eBay, the UK’s biggest online marketplace, the land of flowing milk and honey, the Promised Land. No notes, no coins, just clicks, simple, harmless clicks. The dizzying expansion of British eBay to an international scale only compounds the problem. Everything is dealt with in dollars. What even is a $? A dollar to me will only ever be the symbol on the end of Snoop Dogg’s chain. I find myself staring blankly at the screen, coming to the mental conclusion that, basically, you just, like, take whatever number it is in dollars and divide it by, like, half yeah? No. Suddenly everything becomes doubly unreal; different currencies float around my brain and electronic money flits through cyber space like bats out of hell. A further critical sign of an unhealthy relationship with eBay is when you start to treat it like a person. It is taunting me. It is deliberately making me feel stupid. No, it is not. It is not a human, it is not real. But the infuriating messages it sends often seem to suggest otherwise. Having been thankfully outbid on a penis shaped tin opener (a drunken eBay rape, the new Facebook rape, don’t you know), I received the patronising, consolatory message “Don’t worry, this one got away but there’s plenty more fish in the sea!”. It is as if eBay is trying to give me a cheer-up-sonny pat on the head after an embarrassing dating failure. My hung-over self did not appreciate. Equally, the message “congratulations rebeccaholdsworth1! You have won!” has a nasty, mocking undertone which I do not care for. Have I won? Really? I’m starting to think that this cellotaped Annie Hall poster I bought, complete with biro-d on third nipple, means I’ve lost. Or that I’m a loser. Take your pick. When you finally bring yourself to log out of eBay hell, the departing message is the salt in the wound:

You’ve signed out. See you again soon.The bastards, they know they’ll see me again soon. It’s like crack, but with the added faff of Paypal.

So what’s stopping you? Sign up today! Hello Cherwellreader675! Welcome to eBay! One of the UK’s strangest shopping destinations. Waste time and money! Huge selections of rubbish on eBay. Don’t Shop Now!

“You start change from the ground up, and I really think it’s tiny niggly things that have become totally normal to us that are the most obvious aspects of Oxford that need to change…”

As Brasenose JCR reacts to fossilized Anglican rituals at formal with bad grace, Beth and Robin return to talk over the place of Latin liturgy in twenty-first century Oxford.

Produced by Evie Deavall and Oliver Moody

“I would be greatly indebted to the man who could tell me whatever could be appealing about those damp, dark, foul-smelling and tufted areas that constitute the main dishes in the banquet of love.”

Luke Maxted and Robin McGhee discuss the stormy marriage of the emotions and the intellect in student life, looking at the Cambridge years of the patron saint of British culture, Stephen Fry.

Produced by Oliver Moody