Thursday 9th April 2026
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Review: Paul Hillier, Theatre of Voices – Stories

Katy Wright
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Review: Paul Hillier, Theatre of Voices – Stories

The conductor Paul Hillier’s latest recording with his vocal ensemble Theatre of Voices covers an eclectic programme of twentieth century composers, the coherence of which he justifies through the centrality of John Cage’s influence. The pieces demand that the performers are not only vocalists but actors too, and it is in this respect which the Theatre of Voices excel. All of the performers fully engage with the dramatic personas of the texts, the colloquial accent in Sheldon Frank’s ‘As I was saying’ particularly effective in its humour. The performance of ‘A-Ronne’ by the Italian composer Luciano Berio is a strong start to the album, with the atmosphere created through the hushed mutterings particularly effective. The intimate feel of Cage’s ‘Story’ makes it a particular highlight, with its rhythmic precision and colourful word-painting really bringing it to life. Unfortunately, the rest of the disc slipped just below this high standard. The meditatory feel was not captured in Jackson Mac Low’s ‘Young Turtle Asymmetries’, and the musicality sometimes came secondary to the elevation of the dramatic personas.

T
he conductor Paul Hillier’s latest recording with his vocal ensemble Theatre of Voices covers an eclectic programme of twentieth-century composers, the coherence of which he justifies through the centrality of John Cage’s influence. The pieces demand that the performers are not only vocalists but actors too, and it is in this respect which the Theatre of Voices excel. All of the performers fully engage with the dramatic personas of the texts, the colloquial accent in Sheldon Frank’s ‘As I was saying’ particularly effective in its humour. The performance of ‘A-Ronne’ by the Italian composer Luciano Berio is a strong start to the album, with the atmosphere created through the hushed mutterings particularly effective. The intimate feel of Cage’s ‘Story’ makes it a particular highlight, with its rhythmic precision and colourful word-painting really bringing it to life. Unfortunately, the rest of the disc slipped just below this high standard. The meditatory feel was not captured in Jackson Mac Low’s ‘Young Turtle Asymmetries’, and the musicality sometimes came secondary to the elevation of the dramatic personas. 
However, the recording itself is less than ideal. The balance of the voices sometimes needs adjustment and the degree of resonance sometimes exceeds the amount required in order to emphasise the theatrical nature of the pieces. Yet the interaction of the performers within the sonic space cannot be faulted. There is a real sense of dialogue, and each individual captures a sense of wonderment in the exploration of the percussive capacities of vowel sounds and how they combine to form words. 
Although it is far from easy listening, Hillier and the Theatre of Voices attack the pieces with infectious energy. Their animated approach will appeal to many and will certainly lighten any day. 

However, the recording itself is less than ideal. The balance of the voices sometimes needs adjustment and the degree of resonance sometimes exceeds the amount required in order to emphasise the theatrical nature of the pieces. Yet the interaction of the performers within the sonic space cannot be faulted. There is a real sense of dialogue, and each individual captures a sense of wonderment in the exploration of the percussive capacities of vowel sounds and how they combine to form words.

Although it is far from easy listening, Hillier and the Theatre of Voices attack the pieces with infectious energy. Their animated approach will appeal to many and will certainly lighten any day. 

Knowing the score

Naomi Miller
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Knowing the score

Ask the average person in the street what they think of chamber music, and they’ll probably come back with the answer that it’s something that old (subtext: boring) people listen to. If you’d looked at the audience for the average chamber music concert ten years ago, you’d probably have been proved right. But times are changing, and it’s thanks in large part to the work of the Cavatina Chamber Music Trust. You might never have heard of it, or you might vaguely recall seeing its name or logo on concert posters or programmes scattered round Oxford, but it’s an organisation we should all know about.

Ask the average person in the street what they think of chamber music, and they’ll probably come back with the answer that it’s something that old (subtext: boring) people listen to. If you’d looked at the audience for the average chamber music concert ten years ago, you’d probably have been proved right. But times are changing, and it’s thanks in large part to the work of the Cavatina Chamber Music Trust. You might never have heard of it, or you might vaguely recall seeing its name or logo on concert posters or programmes scattered round Oxford, but it’s an organisation we should all know about.
Cavatina’s aim is simple: to bring chamber music to young people and young people to chamber music. Run by Pamela and Simon Majaro, who were both recently awarded MBEs for Services to Music, its activities range from organising music lessons and providing instruments to children from deprived areas, to supporting workshops run by world-renowned ensembles or joint concerts between student and professional ensembles. Its ticket scheme, however, is what it is best known for – the trust allows concert venues all over the country, from the Holywell Music Rooms, or St Hilda’s Jacqueline du Pre to the Wigmore Hall in London, to offer free tickets at some of their concerts to concert goers aged between 8 and 26 years old. The scheme isn’t everywhere yet but we’re lucky at Oxford, as ever, to be at the forefront of the wave hitting the rest of the country – the Oxford Chamber Music Society and the Oxford Chamber Music Festival all offer free tickets to under 26s, and more recently the top student ensemble Oxford University Sinfonietta has also been supported by Cavatina.
You might go to chamber music concerts all the time – in which case, take advantage of hearing world-famous ensembles like the Wihan quartet for free. You might have been to one in the past and been put off by the outdated feel – in which case, try again and marvel at how things have changed. You might never have been to one – in which case, seize your opportunity. At the end of the day, these are free tickets to stunningly good concerts, and the start of something really special for performers and young audiences alike.

Cavatina’s aim is simple: to bring chamber music to young people and young people to chamber music. Run by Pamela and Simon Majaro, who were both recently awarded MBEs for Services to Music, its activities range from organising music lessons and providing instruments to children from deprived areas, to supporting workshops run by world renowned ensembles or joint concerts between student and professional ensembles. Its ticket scheme, however, is what it is best known for – the trust allows concert venues all over the country, from the Holywell Music Rooms, or St Hilda’s Jacqueline du Pre to the Wigmore Hall in London, to offer free tickets at some of their concerts to concert goers aged between 8 and 26 years old. The scheme isn’t everywhere yet but we’re lucky at Oxford, as ever, to be at the forefront of the wave hitting the rest of the country – the Oxford Chamber Music Society and the Oxford Chamber Music Festival all offer free tickets to under 26s, and more recently the top student ensemble Oxford University Sinfonietta has also been supported by Cavatina.

You might go to chamber music concerts all the time – in which case, take advantage of hearing world-famous ensembles like the Wihan quartet for free. You might have been to one in the past and been put off by the outdated feel – in which case, try again and marvel at how things have changed. You might never have been to one – in which case, seize your opportunity. At the end of the day, these are free tickets to stunningly good concerts, and the start of something really special for performers and young audiences alike.

Review: Friendly Fires – PALA

Dominic Riding
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Review: Friendly Fires – PALA

 

Friendly Fires’ self-titled debut album burst onto the indie scene in 2008 with a sound that combined the layered vocals of the Mystery Jets with the electronic dance-pop of Klaxons, but remained unique and distinctive. After the critical acclaim and Mercury and Brit nominations that followed, expectation has weighed heavy on the trio from St Albans for their second effort. Defying those who would dismiss the band as simply another short-lived offshoot of nu-rave, guitarist Edd Gibson recently claimed in an interview that their new album Pala is ‘a natural progression, not a deliberate departure’.

And, on first listen, Pala is an album that will not disappoint; it is drenched in summer sun, tropical birds – whose chirping introduces the atmospheric title track – and Aldous Huxley’s Utopian novel Island, to which the title alludes. The opening track and first single, ‘Live Those Days Tonight’, bristles with attitude and edge and promises to be an indie dancefloor favourite. Elsewhere, the infectiously danceable ‘Hurting’ incorporates an ambient electro breakdown and the glitzy ‘Show Me Lights’ continues the tropical flavour with a steel drum effect accompanying its joyful chorus.

Unfortunately, the second half of the album doesn’t maintain the pace or variety of the first, and the closing songs tend to blend into one another. Pala is still an impressive follow-up album and offers many gems on repeated listens; a particular highlight is ‘Blue Cassette’, a meditation on loss and memory with an anthemic chorus in which Ed Macfarlane’s voice soars, brimming with emotion, when he sings: ‘As I hear your voice, it sets my heart on fire’. The upcoming single ‘Hawaiian Air’ starts where the earlier escapist hit ‘Paris’ left off, and it is a holiday song perfectly suited for sing-along treatment on a glorious day at Glastonbury.

 

 

 

Review: Kate Bush Director’s Cut

James Black
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Review: Kate Bush Director’s Cut

No one could accuse everyone’s favourite aunt Kate Bush of complacency. Whilst her latest album is ostensibly a reissue of eleven tracks taken from two previous albums (1989’s The Sensual World and 1993’s The Red Shoes), it amounts to a full on reimagining of songs that Kate (first name terms) has expressed some dissatisfaction with. Some tracks have been merely remastered, some have been completely rerecorded.

The problem with albums like this is that they often amount to no more than a vanity exercise; an excuse for an artist to revisit their glory days. The most they can generally hope to achieve would be reminding the listener of how good (or bad) the originals were. Director’s Cut mostly avoids this trap through the extensive reimagining the songs undergo. Those who know her best will know that Kate has learned a lot since 1993 – for one, she has discovered autotune, and mercilessly beats us over the head with it on ‘Deeper Understanding’.

But sometimes the polish Director’s Cut gives its source material feels unnecessary and in places uncomfortable. One of the reasons Kate is so great is because she’s kind of endearingly crap (watch the video for ‘Wuthering Heights’ and disagree with me – 4 minutes of karate-inspired mime in the middle of a field). For example, the warm sound of the electric piano on the new version of ‘This Woman’s Work’, whilst nice, pales in comparison to the much more raw and tender acoustic in the original recording. Ultimately, Director’s Cut is an interesting exercise in original artistic intentions, but personally I felt better served by the originals. Sorry Kate.

 

An odd future for hip hop?

Thomas May
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An odd future for hip hop?

Back in mid-February this year, Odd Future Wolf Gang Kill Them All gave their debut televised performance on Late Night with Jimmy Fallon. From the moment the two masked rappers took to the stage amidst a haze of buzzing synths, the song ‘Sandwitches’ slowly but surely descended into madness as the group charged through the studio terrorising the interviewees. On the surface, Odd Future’s performance gave an impression of ragged, messy spontaneity, almost accidental in its brilliance. But by the time the audience had joined in with the chorused shouts of ‘WOLF! GANG! WOLF! GANG!’, any question over the level of calculation behind the performance had become merely academic; Odd Future had made their entrance and suddenly the world was listening.

A sprawling collective of 11 rappers, producers and ‘non-musical’ members, Odd Future’s central figure is Tyler Okonma, a.k.a. Tyler, The Creator. A producer of considerable talent, as well as one of the group’s most accomplished rappers, Tyler released his sophomore solo record Goblin to widespread acclaim. As the first Odd Future associated album to be released through a record label, Goblin signals the advent of a new era for Odd Future as they cement their place in the mainstream consciousness.

‘I’m a fucking walking paradox’, declares Tyler at the opening of Goblin’s lead single ‘Yonkers’, his hollow off-kilter beats limping awkwardly beneath the distinctive rasp of his voice. As a Slipknot-obsessed skater boy who now, aged only 20, has found himself hailed as the saviour of modern hip hop, every aspect of Tyler’s success seems contradictory. Wildly ambitious, claiming in interviews that he’s ‘coming for Kanye West’s head’, Tyler appears to crave mainstream success as much as he fiercely rejects all notions of conformity.

The absurd, almost cartoonish, levels of violent imagery in Odd Future’s lyrics should have rendered widespread acceptance impossible, but in fact the most polarising aspect of their music has been instrumental in their rise to prominence. That Odd Future’s intentionally transgressive approach has been so enthusiastically embraced by a wide base of listeners is symptomatic of today’s post-modern, ‘anything goes’ musical climate. Indeed, the unprecedented success of Odd Future’s music is a 21st century phenomenon through and through.

Without help from a large record label or, until recently, significant media coverage, this gaggle of teenagers have generated their very own multimedia brand through their Tumblr, YouTube videos and album artwork. The technology at Odd Future’s disposal, in both music production and distribution, has provided channels for their vision to reach their listeners completely unadulterated. And that’s one of the greatest attractions of the group’s music. Seeing directly into the minds of the members of Odd Future can at times be disturbing but listening to the grotesque stories that they spin, like Tyler’s twisted ‘Sarah’ in which he graphically kidnaps and murders the girl who rejected him, is strangely fascinating.

The aura currently surrounding Odd Future has put them in a bizarrely strong position to do, pretty much, whatever the hell they want. The hype accompanying their recent appearances at Notting Hill Arts Club and Camden Crawl only confirms the tangible sense of excitement amongst listeners as they anticipate the collective’s next move. Whatever degree of self awareness may or may not exist behind Odd Future’s hyperactive facade, the belief and energy which courses through their music has made them almost impossible to ignore. As news broke of the signing of a major deal with Sony to start their very own Odd Future Records, what began merely as a blog curiosity has become an international sensation and it seems it’ll be a long time before Tyler and co. are ready to release their stranglehold on the musical limelight.

Mambazo are on a mission

James Nottage
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Mambazo are on a mission

After a career spanning 47 years and an output of original studio albums nearing 50, you would think that Ladysmith Black Mambazo would be somewhat inured to the life of a touring group, to the point of going through the motions. Not quite. According to Albert Mazibuko, one of two surviving original members of the South African choral group, ‘life on the road is still wonderful, and we love it… it keeps you on your toes, it’s beautiful’. A relentlessly positive man, when asked about his future he says he envisages spending the rest of his life with the group: ‘you know, I still give myself another thirty years. I’m sixty three, so I’ll see when I’m ninety-something’. 

Mazibuko presents their new album, Songs from a Zulu Farm, as something of a change: ‘We thought about it and said, wow, man, we have been working so hard all these years – let’s go back to our childhood… when you’re children it’s so wonderful, connecting with nature’, perhaps an explanation for the profusion of songs named after animals. Upbeat as he is about recording, performing is the topic that truly gets Mazibuko passionate. The group’s UK tour began on the 19th May, and rarely is a man so excited to be headed to Ipswich. He says that ‘people… give us the happiness as we are sharing our music with them, so [performing] is very important’. This is what they are about. The founder described the group as on ‘a mission’ and this mission, to Mazibuko, is the spreading of happiness.  

Travelling with Nelson Mandela to the Nobel Peace Prize ceremony as well as performances at his inauguration and birthday the following year mean their music is to many tied up with memories of South Africa’s nineties rebirth. Mazibuko says that Mandela’s bestowal of the title of ambassadors for South African music on the group ‘made us want to do more, and try almost to be perfect… to not disappoint this guy and our country. It’s a great thing’. 

This encouragement may have been what spurred the group to the establishment in 1999 of the Ladysmith Black Mambazo Foundation. Mazibuko describes it as the starting point for an eventual goal ‘to form a school to help teach indigenous music to South Africans’. Protection of traditional culture is the aim, mainly from American music, but he is optimistic about the future, hoping ‘some group [will] come out and do as we have’.

Ladysmith are in the UK doubtless best known for their collaboration with Paul Simon on ‘Graceland’, and understandably so: it’s a corker. Beyond that people seem to at best be able to pin them down as belonging to that most elastic of genres, World Music. This is a pity. Their harmonies are sometimes staggeringly beautiful, and the sense of joy and wonder that Mazibuko talks about so passionately is palpable, despite the language barrier. Perhaps this is because of their attitude: when pressed on the fact that most of their music is written in Zulu, a language with which most of their international fans are not familiar, he was sanguine: ‘the words are not important – it’s the sound and the feeling and the energy behind it that’s important… it speaks to the blood because it’s from the blood’.

A cynic could attempt to cavil with Mazibuko’s positivity but it seems genuine. When he says ‘This tour is about happiness, about celebrating life’, you believe him.  

Penny Pinching: 4

Nick Pointer
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Penny Pinching: 4

I’ve never stepped foot in a casino, never had a cheeky flutter at Ladbrokes, and as for the lottery, well unless we’re talking about having chips and Chinese gravy from Wok n’ Roll (will you get stomach cramps, won’t you?) then no, I haven’t done that either. Working with formulae, statistics and probabilities all day means that, the way I see it, it’s pretty likely that these people are better at their job than I am at making what is in effect an uninformed, emotional and hasty guess. However, this column is charged with both making and saving you money, so in the name of thorough journalism, this week I broke my twenty-one-year gambling embargo.

After a delightful dinner at Noodle Nation (even a ‘money-saving expert’ has to splash out sometimes), I saw the opportunity to observe others at work in their natural environment – Ladbrokes – in the hope of picking up some tips before I took the plunge. The game of choice, it turns out, is the Roulette, but don’t be fooled; this isn’t the roulette of the movies, with a vast wheel spun by a cool croupier, surrounded by cheering punters. In reality the device in question was a jumped-up ItBox–like machine, resplendent with grubby fingerprints, a coin-in slot and a surly attendant at the main desk, which some-what diminished the charm of the whole experience from the off-set. Again, unlike Hollywood would have us believe, with professional gamblers carefully placing chips in a seemingly random yet meticulously calculated pattern across the betting mat, the only acceptable strategy here seemed to be to pump money into the machine, a pound at a time, with each pound being put solely on red or black. The punter would be obliged to reinvest any winnings, seemingly until bust. That is, unless the total reached the value of a meal in Noodle Nation, satisfying the need to ‘win back the meal’, at which point an unnecessarily loud and conspicuous cash-out would take place. 
To me, the whole spectacle seemed no more than the modern day equivalent of the tuppence arcade machines. For anyone bereft of the joy of experiencing these first hand, these consisted of a glass fronted arcade machine with multiple platforms, all piled high with two pence pieces. Undulating mechanical arms swept backwards and forwards, titillating the user with the suggestion that they might just push a couple of the coppers off their respective ledge and into the collection box below. Children spent hours naively plugging in more and more coins until finally, the threshold would be reached, upon which a depressingly meagre pile of coppers would be toppled into the collection box. These would, of course, be immediately reinvested in trying to win even bigger, until they too were all gone, with no payout. If it all sounds rather irrational, pointless, yet disarmingly entertaining then you’ve got the picture. This similarly applies to roulette machines, as I was to learn.
Pumping in my first pound, I plumped for red, and doubled my money. Despite my attempts to cash-out, I was told in no uncertain terms that reinvestment was the best option. Reluctantly I once again pushed ‘all on red’. Black 21. Fuck it, I thought, and stormed out. Passing the nearby newsagent I popped in for a consolation Coke, where I thought I’d just check how much lottery tickets were, for the article you know… 

I’ve never stepped foot in a casino, never had a cheeky flutter at Ladbrokes, and as for the lottery, well unless we’re talking about having chips and Chinese gravy from Wok n’ Roll (will you get stomach cramps or won’t you?) then no, I haven’t done that either. Working with formulae, statistics and probabilities all day means that, the way I see it, it’s pretty likely that these people are better at their job than I am at making what is in effect an uninformed, emotional and hasty guess.

However, this column is charged with both making and saving you money, so in the name of thorough journalism, this week I broke my twenty-one-year gambling embargo. After a delightful dinner at Noodle Nation (even a ‘money-saving expert’ has to splash out sometimes), I saw the opportunity to observe others at work in their natural environment – Ladbrokes – in the hope of picking up some tips before I took the plunge.

The game of choice, it turns out, is the Roulette, but don’t be fooled; this isn’t the roulette of the movies, with a vast wheel spun by a cool croupier, surrounded by cheering punters. In reality the device in question was a jumped-up ItBox–like machine, resplendent with grubby fingerprints, a coin-in slot and a surly attendant at the main desk, which some-what diminished the charm of the whole experience from the off-set. Again, unlike Hollywood would have us believe, with professional gamblers carefully placing chips in a seemingly random yet meticulously calculated pattern across the betting mat, the only acceptable strategy here seemed to be to pump money into the machine, a pound at a time, with each pound being put solely on red or black. The punter would be obliged to reinvest any winnings, seemingly until bust.That is, unless the total reached the value of a meal in Noodle Nation, satisfying the need to ‘win back the meal’, at which point an unnecessarily loud and conspicuous cash-out would take place. 

To me, the whole spectacle seemed no more than the modern day equivalent of the tuppence arcade machines. For anyone bereft of the joy of experiencing these first hand, these consisted of a glass fronted arcade machine with multiple platforms, all piled high with two pence pieces. Undulating mechanical arms swept backwards and forwards, titillating the user with the suggestion that they might just push a couple of the coppers off their respective ledge and into the collection box below. Children spent hours naively plugging in more and more coins until finally, the threshold would be reached, upon which a depressingly meagre pile of coppers would be toppled into the collection box. These would, of course, be immediately reinvested in trying to win even bigger, until they too were all gone, with no payout.

If it all sounds rather irrational, pointless, yet disarmingly entertaining then you’ve got the picture. This similarly applies to roulette machines, as I was to learn. Pumping in my first pound, I plumped for red, and doubled my money. Despite my attempts to cash-out, I was told in no uncertain terms that reinvestment was the best option. Reluctantly I once again pushed ‘all on red’. Black 21. Fuck it, I thought, and stormed out. Passing the nearby newsagent I popped in for a consolation Coke, where I thought I’d just check how much lottery tickets were, for the article you know… 

Penny Pinching: 3

Nick Pointer
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0
Penny Pinching: 3

Making money as medical test subjects has always been a great student tradition, and who can blame us? In this year’s Freshers’ Fair, one company promised over £1.5k for three months of testing, which entailed no more than 15 hours of contact time. Now I’m not exactly drawing heavily on two years of physics to tell you that that’s a good deal, and with overdrafts to pay, stash to buy, and the prospect of yet *another* summer with the financial burden of having to go to Zante on a two week bender, for some these kinds of offers are too good to resist.

Suggest this to your parents, however, and they’ll let loose an endless supply of horror stories, if not from a Radio 2 phone-in, then from a friend of ‘‘someone from the club’’. The more enterprising of you may have already tried to extort compensation from your seniors in return for agreeing not to participate, although your success will wholly depend on your powers of persuasion, and the size of your trust fund.  Ostensibly, their attempts to shock even the most cash-strapped and principle-free student into a cowering mess are because they ‘love you’; well don’t be fooled. They’re almost certainly cashing in on the testing racket themselves, and want to keep you from getting in on the action. Probably.
What those trying to warn students of the risks of medical testing are overlooking is that contracting a mild form of a serious illness is an unrivalled asset to any student. Some might go so far as to describe it as ‘banter’.
Picture the scene: you’re working the Park End lounge room (standard), despite carrying a potent and highly infectious disease that was *worth it* to pay off your overdraft/for that phenomenal time in Amsterdam/to buy your own fucking washing machine so you’ll never again return to find a layer of dust and washing powder all over your freshly washed garments. Not that I’m bitter. Anyway, on approaching a ‘looker’, it’s your move. Previously you’d be stuck with such lead balloons as ‘I swear so many people have that dress!’ or ‘Did we crewdate once?’. However, with your new found asset you’ll never be short of a sob story about how you’re coping with your condition day by day, with highs and lows, etc etc; just substitute ‘highly infectious’ ‘for ‘impossible to catch’ and you’re good to go. Just don’t mention any of your other diseases that are ‘impossible to catch’.
Whilst there are many who won’t hesitate to dissuade you from medical testing, when I was asked by my editor, ‘How against sperm donation are you?’ I thought the answer was pretty clear cut – ‘Where do I sign up?’ However, a quick internet search stopped me in my tracks, as I read about the legislation that gives any donor-born child the power to legally track down and contact their biological father after a certain age. The thought of previously unknown offspring unexpectedly bursting into my life already keeps me up at night, so to increase the chance of this happening to ‘actually-pretty-damn-likely’ for a quick cash-flow fix seemed madness. A peek on a leading clinic’s website revealed the worst; one satisfied donor enthused, ‘I try to donate sperm once a week, but work commitments mean that it’s not always possible. I continue to keep in close contact with the clinic, and I find the payment helps cover my weekly train fare to London.’ Train fare to London?? What do they take us for, a bunch of tossers?

Making money as medical test subjects has always been a great student tradition, and who can blame us? In this year’s Freshers’ Fair, one company promised over £1.5k for three months of testing, which entailed no more than 15 hours of contact time. Now I’m not exactly drawing heavily on two years of physics to tell you that that’s a good deal, and with overdrafts to pay, stash to buy, and the prospect of yet *another* summer with the financial burden of having to go to Zante on a two week bender, for some these kinds of offers are too good to resist.

Suggest this to your parents, however, and they’ll let loose an endless supply of horror stories, if not from a Radio 2 phone-in, then from a friend of ‘‘someone from the club’’. The more enterprising among you may have already tried to extort compensation from your seniors in return for agreeing not to participate, although your success will wholly depend on your powers of persuasion, and the size of your trust fund.  Ostensibly, their attempts to shock even the most cash-strapped and principle-free student into a cowering mess may be because they ‘love you’; well don’t be fooled. They’re almost certainly cashing in on the testing racket themselves, and want to keep you from getting in on the action. Probably.

Those trying to warn students of the risks of medical testing are overlooking the fact that contracting a mild form of a serious illness is an unrivalled asset to any student. Some might go so far as to describe it as ‘banter’.Picture the scene: you’re working the Park End lounge room (standard), despite carrying a potent and highly infectious disease that was *worth it* to pay off your overdraft/for that phenomenal time in Amsterdam/to buy your own fucking washing machine so you’ll never again return to find a layer of dust and washing powder all over your freshly washed garments. Not that I’m bitter.

Anyway, on approaching a ‘looker’, it’s your move. Previously you’d be stuck with such lead balloons as ‘I swear so many people have that dress!’ or ‘Did we crewdate once?’. However, with your new found asset you’ll never be short of a sob story about how you’re coping with your condition day by day, with highs and lows, etc etc; just substitute ‘highly infectious’ ‘for ‘impossible to catch’ and you’re good to go. Just don’t mention any of your other diseases that are ‘impossible to catch’.

Whilst there are many who won’t hesitate to dissuade you from medical testing, when I was asked by my editor, ‘How against sperm donation are you?’ I thought the answer was pretty clear cut – ‘Where do I sign up?’ However, a quick internet search stopped me in my tracks, as I read about the legislation that gives any donor-born child the power to legally track down and contact their biological father after a certain age. The thought of previously unknown offspring unexpectedly bursting into my life already keeps me up at night, so to increase the chance of this happening to ‘actually-pretty-damn-likely’ for a quick cash-flow fix seemed madness. A peek on a leading clinic’s website revealed the worst; one satisfied donor enthused, ‘I try to donate sperm once a week, but work commitments mean that it’s not always possible. I continue to keep in close contact with the clinic, and I find the payment helps cover my weekly train fare to London.’ Train fare to London?? What do they take us for, a bunch of tossers?

Penny Pinching: 2

Nick Pointer
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0
Penny Pinching: 2

With term fully underway, it’s quickly become clear that despite my best efforts, my outgoings are outstripping my incomings at a rate of knots, and so this week I’m bringing you a serious guide to my favourite money saving method, based on a philosophy I like to call: ‘Washing – it’s optional, right?’

As anyone who lives in college can attest, washing machines and dryers are horrendously overpriced, and that’s assuming that they’re not broken. Having to wait over a week for them to be repaired, trekking to the laundry at 2am in an attempt to find a free machine, only to return an hour later to find someone’s already dumped your finished load on the dusty, washing-powder-streaked side starts to get a little old after a year or two; however, it’s easier than you might think to avoid this whole debacle entirely.
Bed sheets are, unless you’re regularly sharing your bed, a very personal aspect of one’s life, and as such I find that building up a solid relationship with them is essential. Now everyone knows a relationship can’t blossom overnight, so despite the protests of your friends and colleagues (and possibly even lovers), I urge you to at least try the ‘one-change term’ – bring two sets of sheets, and change them in 4th week – job done. If this seems a little extreme for you, with three sets of sheets (and who doesn’t have three sets of sheets lying around), the three-change-term is a little more work, but just as effective in avoiding those pesky machines.
If the topic of saving on washing ever pops up in conversation (and let’s face it, it’s a winner in the Park End lounge room), girls in particular seem to love telling guys that our underwear can be worn ‘inside-out, back-to-front, and inside-out-back-to-front’ – the 4-shot pants. Well let’s debunk this myth once and for all; underwear is cut a certain way – it’s the equivalent of saying, ‘Oh, you know how you can reduce the wear on the seat of your jeans? Put them on backwards every other day’ – try floating this the next time some weirdo starts chatting you up with money saving chat over a VK Orange and see how it goes down. Honestly, there’s enough going on down there that an ill-fitting, scratchy and uncomfortable (the buttons? And stitching? They’re on the outer side for a reason) pair would ruin anyone’s day.
People, and by people I mean girls, also go on about dry shampoo as if it gives you a previously unattainable level of attractiveness, solves your recurring pimple problem and does your tute sheets for you. I can assure you that, as it’s just glorified talcum powder in a bottle, with the added ‘benefit’ of coming in a variety of revolting fragrances, it’s about as pleasant as filling your hair with a fine chemical dust can ever be, with the added features that most of said dust won’t comb out, and will, if you sensibly opted for the fragrance-free version, make you smell like you work in a talc factory. This is not attractive to anyone.
So while I’m all in favour of saving some dollar here and there on sheets, clothes (do t-shirts ever need washing?) and sports kit (both cost-effective and a legit tactic to ward off a closely marking opposition player), I’m certainly not going to extol the virtues of, say rubbing your face with sand to reduce oily-build up between showers, or chewing parsley between brushes to keep fresh and ready for action. Because that’s literally mental.

With term fully underway, it’s quickly become clear that despite my best efforts, my outgoings are outstripping my incomings at a rate of knots. So this week I’m bringing you a serious guide to my favourite money saving method, based on a philosophy I like to call: ‘Washing – it’s optional, right?’

As anyone who lives in college can attest, washing machines and dryers are horrendously overpriced, and that’s assuming that they’re not broken. Having to wait over a week for them to be repaired, trekking to the laundry at 2am in an attempt to find a free machine, only to return an hour later to find someone’s already dumped your finished load on the dusty, washing-powder-streaked side starts to get a little old after a year or two. Well, it’s easier to avoid this whole debacle than you might think.

Bed sheets are, unless you’re regularly sharing your bed, a very personal aspect of one’s life, and as such I find that building up a solid relationship with them is essential. Now everyone knows a relationship can’t blossom overnight, so despite the protests of your friends and colleagues (and possibly even lovers), I urge you to at least try the ‘one-change term’ – bring two sets of sheets, and change them in 4th week – job done. If this seems a little extreme for you, with three sets of sheets (and who doesn’t have three sets of sheets lying around), the three-change-term is a little more work, but just as effective in avoiding those pesky machines.

If the topic of saving on washing ever pops up in conversation (and let’s face it, it’s a winner in the Park End lounge room), girls in particular seem to love telling guys that our underwear can be worn ‘inside-out, back-to-front, and inside-out-back-to-front’ – the 4-shot pants. Well let’s debunk this myth once and for all; underwear is cut a certain way – it’s the equivalent of saying, ‘Oh, you know how you can reduce the wear on the seat of your jeans? Put them on backwards every other day’ – try floating this the next time some weirdo starts chatting you up with money saving chat over a VK Orange and see how it goes down. Honestly, there’s enough going on down there that an ill-fitting, scratchy and uncomfortable (the buttons? And stitching? They’re on the outer side for a reason) pair would ruin anyone’s day.

People, and by people I mean girls, also go on about dry shampoo as if it gives you a previously unattainable level of attractiveness, solves your recurring pimple problem and does your tute sheets for you. I can assure you that, as it’s just glorified talcum powder in a bottle, with the added ‘benefit’ of coming in a variety of revolting fragrances, it’s about as pleasant as filling your hair with a fine chemical dust can ever be. Dont forget to factor in the added features that most of said dust won’t comb out, and will, if you sensibly opted for the fragrance-free version, make you smell like you work in a talc factory. This is not attractive to anyone.So while I’m all in favour of saving some dollar here and there on sheets, clothes (do t-shirts ever need washing?) and sports kit (both cost-effective and a legit tactic to ward off a closely marking opposition player), I’m certainly not going to extol the virtues of, say rubbing your face with sand to reduce oily-build up between showers, or chewing parsley between brushes to keep fresh and ready for action. Because that’s literally mental.

Penny Pinching: 1

Nick Pointer
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0
Penny Pinching: 1

Unless you’re a member of the Bullingdon Club, go to Christ Church, or have managed to wrangle some extra pocket money out of your college’s bursary scheme, you will be well aware that life as a student is wrought with fiscal uncertainty. Sure, the student loan is a significant boost to the old savings account, but once you factor in croquet cuppers stash, nights out and a subscription to Good Houseke- sorry, GQ, there’s not really much left to be getting on with.

Unless you’re a member of the Bullingdon Club, go to Christ Church, or have managed to wrangle some extra pocket money out of your college’s bursary scheme, you will be well aware that life as a student is wrought with fiscal uncertainty. Sure, the student loan is a significant boost to the old savings account, but once you factor in croquet cuppers stash, nights out and a subscription to Good Houseke- sorry, GQ, there’s not really much left to be getting on with. As someone with far less dignity and a much higher maintenance girlfriend than the average student, over the next eight weeks I’ll be trying a variety of money saving methods so you don’t have to.
A new term, with fresh prospects, no exams (if you’re lucky enough to be in the second year), and some cracking weather means it would be a shame not to exploit the finer cultural, scenic and epicurean sides to our city. By which I mean, getting bladdered at every possible opportunity. 
The thing about university clubs is that there are lots of them. Too many, if I’m being honest with you – I can say for certain that no sleepless nights would be had on my part if (just picking at random from the OUSU website), ‘Oxford Uni Conservative Association’ was shut down. I don’t even know what Conservatives are – for a bit I was pretty sure it was something to do with an ugly extension that poor people use instead of a morning room, but then my granny kept banging on about Johnny Foreigner, who I presume is some kind of figure head to these people. Anyway, whilst the majority of us would not be particularly peeved if Underwater Hockey practice was cancelled due to a spate of drownings, the outcome is that a great number of meetings are held all over Oxford with embarrassingly few attendees. Naturally, in an attempt to draw a crowd, many of these offer free wine. I think you can see where I’m going with this. In exchange for a brief/moderate/awkwardly long conversation with an art nut/keen green/proud biologist, you win at least a couple of glasses of Tierra’s finest, and in the best case scenario, even a couple of cheeky bottles of red in tow. My editor has asked me to stress that this is a hypothetical situation, and even in the hypothetical situation, they were gifted by the club president anyway. Probably.
A quick search of ‘how to get drunk on the cheap’ online yielded some… interesting suggestions, but as a devotee to the piece I embarked on a night out as per its instructions. The results were a mixed bag: I can exclusively reveal that losing sleep (not napping during the day counts, right) and missing dinner (to be fair I forgot to book hall) gave me a dizzy and nauseous turn, rather than heightening my prelash buzz. Avoid. The dubious doctrine of get your drinks over the counter sounded mental earlier in the day, but after a couple of tasty lagers I was more than game for a cheeky shot of Listerine. The minty freshness is only topped by a pretty savage afterburn, followed by more of that nausea from earlier. Avoid. The pinnacle of the internet’s wisdom was simply learn the art of flirtation. If you have ever had a girl buy you a drink in Oxford, please write in so I can learn your secrets and pass them off as my own in a future article – ‘VK Orange? Classy choice. Mine’s a vodka Red Bull’ went down like a lead balloon. Baffling.

As someone with far less dignity and a much higher maintenance girlfriend than the average student, over the next eight weeks I’ll be trying a variety of money saving methods so you don’t have to. A new term, with fresh prospects, no exams (if you’re lucky enough to be in the second year), and some cracking weather means it would be a shame not to exploit the finer cultural, scenic and epicurean sides to our city. By which I mean, getting bladdered at every possible opportunity. 

The thing about university clubs is that there are lots of them. Too many, if I’m being honest with you – I can say for certain that no sleepless nights would be had on my part if (just picking at random from the OUSU website), ‘Oxford Uni Conservative Association’ was shut down. I don’t even know what Conservatives are – for a bit I was pretty sure it was something to do with an ugly extension that poor people use instead of a morning room, but then my granny kept banging on about Johnny Foreigner, who I presume is some kind of figure head to these people.

Anyway, whilst the majority of us would not be particularly peeved if Underwater Hockey practice was cancelled due to a spate of drownings, the outcome is that a great number of meetings are held all over Oxford with embarrassingly few attendees. Naturally, in an attempt to draw a crowd, many of these offer free wine. I think you can see where I’m going with this. In exchange for a brief/moderate/awkwardly long conversation with an art nut/keen green/proud biologist, you win at least a couple of glasses of Tierra’s finest, and in the best case scenario, even a couple of cheeky bottles of red in tow.

My editor has asked me to stress that this is a hypothetical situation, and that even in that hypothetical situation, they were gifted by the club president anyway. Probably. A quick search of ‘how to get drunk on the cheap’ online yielded some… interesting suggestions, but as a devotee to the piece I embarked on a night out as per its instructions. The results were a mixed bag: I can exclusively reveal that losing sleep (not napping during the day counts, right) and missing dinner (to be fair I forgot to book hall) gave me a dizzy and nauseous turn, rather than heightening my prelash buzz. Avoid.

The dubious doctrine of get your drinks over the counter sounded mental earlier in the day, but after a couple of tasty lagers I was more than game for a cheeky shot of Listerine. The minty freshness is only topped by a pretty savage afterburn, followed by more of that nausea from earlier. Avoid.

The pinnacle of the internet’s wisdom was simply learn the art of flirtation. If you have ever had a girl buy you a drink in Oxford, please write in so I can learn your secrets and pass them off as my own in a future article – ‘VK Orange? Classy choice. Mine’s a vodka Red Bull’ went down like a lead balloon. Baffling.

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