Monday 23rd June 2025
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5 minute tute: Spending cuts

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How will Oxford be affected by the cuts?

Given the high proportion of Oxford people employed in the public sector (education, health-care and other services), Oxford is likely to be hit hard. But we will be hit as service-users as well as workers. Oxfordshire NHS is set to cut at least 1,900 jobs in the next few years. The County Council has to find deep cuts in spending on education and social care services. It has already lifted the cap on charging the elderly and disabled for social care. A possible indication of the kind of thing to come is the closure over the summer of a centre for the homeless, the Gap in Park End Street, as the City Council, County Council and NHS withdrew funds.

How will they affect people on low incomes?

Very badly. A study by Howard Reed and Tim Horton estimates that cuts in public services on the scale proposed in the 2010 Emergency Budget will add up to the equivalent of a more than 20% cut in real income for those in the poorest 10% as compared with a less than 2% cut for the richest 10%. The Institute for Fiscal Studies has shown that the new reforms to tax and cash benefits announced in this Budget hit the poorer harder, as a proportion of income, than the better off. These measures hit the poorest, for example, by changing the rules on the indexation of benefits and putting a cap on Housing Benefit.

Is the north of of England losing out?

The Reed-Horton study also did an analysis of the regional impact (within England) of the cuts in public services spending announced in June 2010. It estimated that, relative to income, the cuts in public services will hit the North and the Midlands hardest (though London is likely to be hardest hit in absolute terms). This study only focuses on cuts to public services, moreover, and doesn’t factor in the cuts to cash benefits. I suspect that doing so would accentuate the regional disparity we see rather than reduce it.

Should we have ring-fenced the NHS, or will this simply exacerbate problems elsewhere?

With respect, this is the wrong question. The key question is why the government thinks we should cut the deficit mainly through spending cuts and not through extra tax. The fairest way of sharing the load of paying off the deficit (‘we’re all in it together’) is through the tax system, because one readily calibrate the tax so that the better off carry a proportionately heavier load. By contrast, putting the emphasis on spending cuts almost inevitably shifts the burden onto the more vulnerable in society.

The week that was: Cash for Cashmore

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What happened

Oh, you know the drill. Boy meets girl. Boy marries girl. Boy becomes Principal of Brasenose. Boy and girl use College expenses money in what, it is alleged, were unauthorised expenditures. It’s an expenses scandal of the classic kind. Principal Roger Cashmore and his wife went to Greece, North America and Pakistan. All the while, the story goes, they were charging BNC fee-payers for upgraded Business Class travel. In one case, according to a Brasenose report, ‘authorisation was expressly denied but the trip went ahead regardless’. Cashmore obviously denies this. He claims that he was not not granted authorisation, if you get my drift. This wily donnish manouevring didn’t work: the governors of Brasenose appear to have sacked Prof. Cashmore in an attempt to restore their credibility. That’s not the line. The line is he’s gone on research leave. It’s research leave which involves taking up two salaried positions, but they don’t want me to tell you that.

What the papers said

It’s a Cherwell exclusive, whoopee! And because we’re Oxford journos we get to write the story for the nationals as well. And by the nationals I mean the Telegraph. As ever it was the Oxford angle that sold it rather than anything else. Anyway Cashmore was hardly hounded out by the press- it was merely that an internal memo was leaked. Not so exciting. In truth it was a non-ish story, with the intense drama of a geeky Father Christmas lookalike sitting in aeroplane seats a few inches wider than normal- which, let’s face it, is what happened.

What now?

Name-living-up-to continues apace: Cashmore has just been appointed chairman of the Atomic Energy Authority at twenty-five grand for two days’ work a month. He’s also our new chairman of the Nuclear Research Advisory Council- £315 a day to you, guv’nor. Fee-payers and donors haven’t seen their money wasted this badly since, er, it was used to subsidise the administration of Brasenose expenses. Given that Oxford is a public body (in the same way the NKVD was a public body) you’d think there’d be some kind of uproar about this. Clearly there are more important scandals. Still, let’s look on the bright side. Brasenose, like the property developers they effectively are, will be looking for a new Principal. In immortal Porterhouse style the academic wranglings will be amusing to watch. But what of the money? Lost, I fear, in the bank accounts of British Airways. For the donors and fee-payers of Brasenose, it’s a pretty crap situation. They get nothing. He still wins.

‘Europe will either deepen or die’

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Paddy Ashdown could have been Prime Minister. But no. He was leader of the Liberal Democrats instead, slogging it out on what George Lucas might call the ‘Outer Rim of British politics’. He was party leader from 1988 to 1999. He’s a great elder statesman. So why won’t he join them in Government? “I’m nearly seventy for fuck’s sake’, he bristles. ‘My time for big jobs is over.”

Unlike most politicians Ashdown is a man of many identities: born Jeremy, nicknamed Paddy, and now elevated to the peerage as Baron Ashdown of Norton-sub-Hamdon. He came from nowhere- never went to university, not particularly interested in politics until his ’30s, and before that a soldier with the SBS. Despite, or perhaps because of this, he’s an amiable chap. Even before I meet him at the Union, his stately procession down St Michael’s Street is accompanied by recognising shouts from passing tourists and, especially, inebriated tramps. He greets all with a chortling ‘why hello there!’ and a bone-crushing shake of the hand.

Ashdown is here on behalf of the excellent student charity Oxford Aid to the Balkans, but I’m here to talk about other stuff. Such as, is the West in decline? “Yeah. The thing is that power is migrating fast out of the institutions of the nation-state which we created, and on to the global stage. The real powers that are growing are the powers that are no longer affected by borders. The globalisation of power is one of the phenomena of our time.”

A common Liberal theme is to accept the decline of British and Western power in global power-politics. This is an accurate stereotype, fitted by Ashdown. “We’ve moved away from a mono-polar world. I think the pattern of world power will look much like Europe in the nineteenth century. Canning called it the European Areopagiticus, the European concert of powers. We are seeing the end of five hundred years of western power, western institutions and western values. The west used to even 10 years ago propose and dispose in every corner of the world. It can no longer do so.” Different values mean different ideologies, and hence conflict. Though Ashdown isn’t so worried it’ll bring about war. “If you realise that globalisation and unregulated power is a key issue you can make it safer by creating institutions that will bring governance and the rule of law to the global space.”
What of Great Britain’s role in this new global order? It’s Europe, Europe, Europe I’m afraid. “Our strength internationally will depend on our ability to be able to create genuine integration in European policy. And the more we can do that the more we will be taken seriously by the US. Now, no one is doing that. No one is saying it. The population is hostile to it. But that remains the fact.

“The reality of it” he broods mournfully, supping at a crisp pint of Young’s, “is that Europe will either deepen or die. And if it doesn’t deepen we have consigned ourselves to perfectly sovereign corks bobbing around in the wake of other people’s ocean liners.” I rather like these Ashdown-isms. Dumbledorean in style and substance, not unlike the man himself. (He’s not infallible though, later referring to a quotation by Keynes as by Bernard Shaw. Sacrilege!)

His views on British politics are distinctly Coalitionish. “I think the mismatch between a centralised system that tries to dominate everything and the reality of the way which people live their lives is what is breaking up politics.

“The solution really is to reduce Westminster to an institution which looks after only those things which must be looked after at the level of the state and hand as much power back down to people in their own communities. I think one of the baleful developments of our time is that politics has been professionalised. You go into it at the age of eighteen in short pants. I arrived in this by accident.”

But what we need above all, in the age of economic uncertainty, is an end to managerialism. ‘You can’t run politics without creeds. We have been trying to but you can’t.’

Ashdown thinks Con-Demnation will last five years. ‘If you were a betting man, I’m not sure you’d put much money on it. But do you know I think it will. It has surprised me- it really has- for three reasons. First there is genuine congeniality which stretches quite a long way down, it is not just Cameron and Clegg. Secondly in a strange way, I hadn’t spotted it but Nick had, Cameron wants to be Disraeli. I’m not sure it’s our job to help him be Disraeli, but there is a reformist streak there. The coalition agreement is a genuinely reforming document. The third thing is the public is prepared to give us a chance. They can see how bad the economic situation is and are prepared to give us a space to put that right. Even if the outcome is pretty painful.”

Many say that outcome will be painful for the Lib Dems as well, as their support haemorrhages to the two bigger parties. On this the Peer is chirpy. “There is always a possibility. You can’t be in politics unless you take risks, and that is what I could never tolerate about the old Liberals. If you want to be a cosy furry little think-tank on the edges of British politics whose ideas are always robbed by others then fine. Don’t take any risk. You have to make compromises about power. The party understands that now.”

All the same, the Lib Dems being the main coalition partner is still a way off. “We have our fate in our own hands. Look we can fuck up, in which case we get smashed. On the other hand if we show- and I think that Nick has a real ability to show- that we can handle power, that we can take tough decisions, if he handles that well he looks like an alternative Prime Minister at the end of this process.”

That little ambition is behind Paddy these days. What does he want to do now? “My garden my grandchildren- and my eighth book! The 17th anniversary history of the Cockleshell Heroes. I shall really enjoy that paddling up the Gironde, struggling up the Pyrenees. Then I will see what happens after that!”

Restaurant review: YO! Sushi

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The interior of YO! Sushi resembles a cross between an Ikea store and a hospital: it’s cavernous, bright, white, full of mirrors, and both the kitchen and air conditioning ducting are on public display. Most strikingly of all, the food – in colour-coded and lidded bowls – circultates on conveyor belts, so you can pick out a Prawn and Chive Maki instead of collecting a flat-pack sofa. It’s an undeniably amusing way to dine, and also provides plenty of conversation topics.

And the food itself is impressive, too. Though we really couldn’t claim to be anything approaching Sushi experts, we agreed that the food was uniformly fresh, exciting and varied. Small portions mean that nothing’s overwhelming or monotonous, and the exotic flavours and tastes of each dish are allowed to complement each other. Ginger and chilli form the backdrop to many of the dishes, so it’s interesting to see what each of the other ingredients brings to the combination. Particular favourites were the Spicy Seafood Udon (a hot, clean soup), the Prawn Tempura and the various hand rolls, but nothing was less than excellent. Miso Black Cod was perhaps the most exciting single mouthful of cod I’ve ever eaten, but, at £5, it’s a bloody expensive mouthful. The free and endless supply of delicate strips of pink ginger provided as palate cleansers made up for it, though – they’re incredibly moorish and impressively refreshing. The service is also good: the conveyor belt is the most unobtrusive waiter you’ll ever meet, and the actual staff are knowledgeable, helpful and attentive. They’re also clearly used to dealing with chopstick incompetents.

With all this in its favour, then, why is YO! Sushi still not a regular destination for the discerning diners of Oxford? Two years after it opened on George Street, something of a mysterious silence surronds it: lots of people have been; few people go frequently. I suspect it has something to do with Ikea. The absence of the Sweedish giant doesn’t provoke nearly the same passionate confusion as the lack of an H&M, and for a good reason. There simply isn’t the demand for sparkling efficiency and flat-pack plastic table lamps in Oxford – probably because they don’t sit too well with all the oak panelling and ancient stonework.

The same goes for YO! Sushi. It falls uncomfortably between two camps: it’s certainly a cut above the average high street offering in terms of quality and freshness, but it’s certainly not the same experience as Pierre Victoire or even Chez Gerard. However good it tastes, the food still arrives on a conveyor belt. And it’s not cheap, either. Unless you’re very restrained – and said conveyor belt makes this rather difficult – you’ll leave with a bill that wouldn’t embarrass one of Oxford’s finest eateries but still feel that you’ve been to a fast food chain, albeit a posh one.

Students of Oxford generally want one of two things: a cheap(ish) and cheerful high street chain, preferably with the addition of some kind of voucher, or an impressive and elegant dining experience. Through no fault of its own, YO! Sushi falls squarely between the two.

YO! Sushi is currently offering 25% off for students, and their ‘Blue Mondays’ promotion offers a range of dishes for £2.20 every Monday.

Review: The Social Network

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Films have never really sat at ease with modern technology; particularly in the past decade, there have been increasingly numerous attempts to represent the worlds of hacking, chat rooms, mobile phones and the Internet, yet none have ever seemed realistic. While the genres of these films have ranged wildly – from indigestible romantic schmaltz such as ‘You’ve Got Mail’ to preposterously stupid action flicks like ‘Swordfish’ – they have all utterly failed to capture the reality of a society now totally at ease with and reliant upon the internet. Thankfully, Hollywood’s bewilderment and confusion of how to approach this new medium has finally been solved; the answer, it turns out, is to ignore the subject as much as possible.

For a film that depicts the founding of Facebook – possibly the most famous and popular Internet brand in the world – ‘The Social Network’ tries as hard as it can to avoid getting bogged down with computer screenshots and overly complex technobabble. Instead, the film focuses on the human drama and relationships behind the website’s founding, and it is this focus that elevates ‘The Social Network’ to far more profound dramatic levels than one might otherwise expect. It tells the story of Mark Zuckerberg, whose obsession with climbing up from the very bottom of the social hierarchy leads him to create thefacebook.com, thus beginning a complex web of deals, betrayals and lawsuits, as the website balloons beyond everyone’s expectations.

Aaron Sorkin’s script is magnificent, feeling completely natural while it constantly brims with sharp humour and eloquent put-downs. He charts the rise of Zuckerberg and Facebook’s co-founders at Harvard, and ingeniously decides to concentrate upon the relationships that are made and lost along the way. It is, to a large extent, a character study, examining – or imagining – the motivations that drove Zuckerberg, yet it is also a script that offers profound insights into our current obsession with the ubiquitous website and with the Internet in general. Its relevance and unflinching critique of modern society are reminiscent of Sidney Lumet’s ‘Network’ – a film still remarkably relevant today – yet Sorkin wisely avoids the large number of lengthy soliloquies that robbed that earlier film of a sense of realism. Here, everything feels utterly true – regardless of whether or not it is factual – as Sorkin perfectly captures the lives of modern university students.

It helps that Sorkin’s droll witticisms and emotional crescendos that fill the script are carried off perfectly by the youthful cast; Jesse Eisenberg is particularly impressive as Zuckerberg himself, managing to communicate both the character’s cold, logical intelligence and his rather more emotional and base desire for acceptance. It is a careful balancing act of sure-headed arrogance and youthful insecurity, and Eisenberg’s restrained yet heartfelt turn ensures that the film remains compelling throughout. He is also ably supported by the surrounding cast, with Andrew Garfield as Eduardo Saverin and Justin Timberlake as Sean Parker both proving particularly convincing in their respectively sympathetic and antagonistic roles. Indeed, while Timberlake’s presence has a certain ingenious irony, with a professional musician portraying the co-founder of Napster – the company that almost brought the music industry to its knees – this is not just stunt casting; on the contrary, Timberlake offers a thoroughly impressive performance, and his embodiment of the character’s swagger and slightly hollow bravado proves that his future may not just be in music.

Overseeing all this is David Fincher, with what must be the least intrusively directed film of his career. Previously, his love of long montages and technical innovations somewhat overwhelmed films such as ‘Fight Club’ and ‘Panic Room’, never allowing the audience to forget about Fincher’s presence, while ‘The Curious Case of Benjamin Button’ seemed to exist solely to see whether Brad Pitt could be made to look like a tiny old man. Following that 3 hour, sub-‘Forrest Gump’ car crash of a film, it is rather pleasant to be reminded what a thoroughly sure-handed and subtly skilful director Fincher can be when his visual and technical flourishes are restricted by the material. For the most part, he silently, expertly finds coherence and humour in the story, coaxing sublime performances from his young cast whilst rarely making his presence felt overtly. He also seems to understand completely the simultaneously tragic and comic nature of Sorkin’s script, and often undercuts the seriousness of the actors’ performances with a sly tweak in the soundtrack or an ingenious trick of editing. Fincher is fully aware of how this is a tale at once compelling and ridiculous, and is intelligent enough to know that the material would not suit a humourless, po-faced treatment.

It is unsurprising to discover that neither Sorkin nor Fincher have any personal interest in Facebook, and that neither of them have accounts on the website. This disconnection allows them to examine the phenomenon of online social networking from a dispassionate and unflinchingly honest point of view, yet they never seem ignorant of its workings or appeal. The final, dialogue-free minute is the perfect end to the film, wordlessly offering an intelligent, insightful representation of how our relationships have been changed forever, yet will forever remain the same. It succinctly sums up the film’s worryingly accurate conclusion that the Internet has not only failed to eliminate each individual’s loneliness, but that it may, in fact, have exacerbated our isolation.

Blonde Billionaires with Perfectly Coiffed Hair

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The season of midterm elections in the United States is upon us, and with primaries out of the way, battles between candidates of the major parties are already underway. But in the debates now taking place nationwide, there’s a new breed of candidate afoot.

I’m not talking about the Tea Party, although they’ve certainly produced their fair share of lightning-bolt upsets in the race for Senate and House seats. Some of their female candidates for the Senate like Sharron Angle in Nevada or Christine O’Donnell in Delaware might provide high shock value, but for so many people, it’s more of a disbelieving shock that they actually won their primaries. More intriguing by far are the female pro-business candidates in Connecticut and California, places where the Tea Party movement is not as firmly rooted and where independent businesswomen have instead taken the reins, intending to capitalize on their experience in an election where the economy takes precedence over all else.

In Connecticut, Linda McMahon defeated Rob Simmons in the Senate primary, a respectable politician with a track record of state leadership and national service. Her prior claim to fame stems from her family’s building of World Wrestling Entertainment. She’s used her millions in various ways – she has invested a lot in self-financing her campaign, but earlier in life set some aside for the purchase of a swanky yacht entitled “Sexy Bitch”.

On the opposite coast, Carly Fiorina is using her background as a former executive at Hewlett-Packard to promote her candidacy for the Senate as one of bringing business expertise to the political world. Fellow Californian Meg Whitman extols the same sort of message, asserting that her decade-long tenure as CEO and President of eBay gives her the experience necessary to bring true financial reform to her state if she is elected governor.

Only time will tell if these women will be given the chance to prove their claims. But one thing is certainly clear – the Republican party, and by extension the American political landscape, has permanently been altered. No longer will the Grand Old Party be seen solely as a bastion of male dominance. And women, who usually vote Democrat in larger numbers, may begin to re-examine their choices. In 2008, Hillary Clinton’s famous 18 million cracks in the presidential glass ceiling represented a breakthrough for female politicians. Two years later, the ceiling of the branches of Republican Party – Senate, House, and gubernatorial – already broken through in a few places, may be shattered completely, by a trifecta of blonde billionaires.

Freshers’ guide to Oxford cinemas

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Oxford still refuses to offer a film studies course, so when you feel the urge to educate yourself cinematographically, you have to take the matter into your own hands. Finding a good venue that screens decent films for a decent price is easy to do in Oxford. But it’s just as easy to be ripped off seeing something gut wrenchingly awful, and everything inbetween. So here’s a guide of where to go and what to do.

ODEON – Anyone from a major city or town will likely be already well acquainted with the multi-screened, sticky floored, popcorn drenched glory of the UK’s biggest cinema chain. Oxford, for reasons unknown, is lucky enough to have two of them. These are where you’ll find all the major releases alongside countless random 3D and CGI films about talking animals, but for the smaller films and the smaller prices, you’ll have to go elsewhere. Those familiar with ‘Orange Wednesdays’ will know that the half price deal on Wednesdays for Orange customers is your best bet, otherwise student tickets will set you back £6.40 a pop. And if you forget your bod card, well, you don’t even want to know.

ULTIMATE PICTURE PALACE – It may not be quite what you’d expect from such a ridiculously ambitious name, but it is definitely something that has to be experienced at least once during your time at Oxford. Very old-school in style, with the small town American ticket booth out front, this ‘palace’ offers a mix of larger and smaller releases, as well as world cinema, on a monthly rotation. The retro décor, eccentric ownership, and the fact that they offer tea in a mug for £1.50 give it a homely and endearing quality that has to be seen to be believed. Student prices are a £5.50 a film.

PHOENIX PICTUREHOUSE – Deep in the heart of Jericho, this is undoubtedly Oxford’s best independent offering. Part of the already well-established Picture House chain, it will satisfy the needs of any self-professed art-house lover. The interior décor is classy, the films are nothing but well chosen, and there is a fully furbished bar to enjoy it all in style. Student prices are £5.10 matinee and £6.10 for peak times, which isn’t that cheap, but you’re paying for a much better experience than you get at the Odeon.

MAGDALEN FILM SOCIETY- Making good use of Magdalen’s auditorium, the film society screens a variety of cult offerings from multiple countries and periods, based around a weekly theme. The screening quality, though decent, might not be quite up to the standard of any of the cinemas, but the prices more than compensate. At £10 for a termly membership, £20 for a year, and £45 for life, it’s easily the cheapest way to watch a good film in a good setting. £3 will get you in for an evening, which often means two films in a row if you fancy staying. They generally screen six or seven films a week over three or four evenings. They also provide free wine.

Fragments from the Fringe

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It was Fringe by name, and Fringe by nature this year at Edinburgh’s International Arts Festival. With more artistic haircuts, woolly cardigans and chunky glasses than Babylove’s wildest dreams, the Royal Mile was a haven for all those culturally inclined for the entirety of August. A little pretension never hurt anyone, but there certainly would have been some major casualties in Scotland’s capital if it did.
Amidst the frantic flyering and self-promotion from the endless roll-call of performers desperate for their X Factor-style big break, the University of Oxford and its thespian darlings were clawing their way to the front. With five a cappella groups warbling away in the key of Glee, the Imps and Revue flying the flag for comedy and the inaugural Bookstacks project piled high with serious theatre, Oxford didn’t disappoint in terms of quantity.

Quality wise, the Oxford drama scene’s offerings at the Fringe were uniformly impressive, ranging from the musical (Out of the Blue’s annual Fringe extravaganza) to the magical (Keble’s Simon Kempner psychologically gripping show SIL3NC3), and plays including Awful Pie Theatre’s Ubu, and ONEOHONE Theatre Company’s series of interactive experiences that push conventional theatre boundaries.
Exhausting as it may be, the Fringe is a genuinely unique and exciting experience for anyone at all interested in the dramatic arts. A fixed smile for the all-too-often excruciatingly awkward comedy shows is a must though, as is an appetite for the occasional deep fried Mars bar. The vibrant atmosphere in the streets conjures the Festival’s real magic: the street performers; the Scottish weather; the dauntless enthusiasm of bright young things crying out ‘five star show’ up and down the Mile; more comedy than even Bob Hope could feign enthusiasm for in introduction; and more than a healthy trifle of pretension, all taken with a generous pinch of salt, make for a summer that’s really something.

As you take your seat you will first notice a cat in tight black furs playing a violin and swinging on the bars of a cage. A Soviet-style placard will boast the name of the capital where the action takes place: MOCKBA (Moscow).

The setting is 1930s USSR in the arrogant age of atheism. But with the arrival of the Devil and the recent ‘publication’ of a work on Pontius Pilate, the Soviet characters of the play are thrown into the dark and twisted world of the religious and the magical.

The whole design of the play is clever and sexy, with ostentatious make-up and costumes against a minimalist backdrop. A great performance of Margarita by Cassie Barraclough conveys the stifling atmosphere of this bureaucratic nation; she is a woman struck down by love for her Master, a severe hero character played by Ollo Clark. The fated lovers must have dealings with the ominous crowd of the Underworld in order to at last regain their freedom.

The plot is slightly unhinged by the rapidity of the story-telling, and the jumps between dialogue and musical farce are disorientating, but none of these criticisms weaken the play as a whole. The play is not in real-time and may be deemed complicated, but my advice to the viewer would be to leave rationale behind at the box office to become submerged in this world of madness and beauty.

My Edinburgh was dominated by two activities: rehearsing, and handing out flyers. Rehearsals are straightforward, flyering a little more hit and miss.

August in Edinburgh is not that cold, especially not if you’re running between endless venues with a packed must-see schedule. Posing outside for several hours in a row, whilst wearing very little, is more of an endurance test. That’s perhaps the best way to describe flyering. For just how long can you withstand the cold? How long can you bear to be blanked by hundreds of passers by? Saying the same thing so often that even when you aren’t meant to, you get the urge to hand out flyers in the street. We are just a few of hundreds walking about the city trying to sell ourselves.

We tried to be subtle: no walking up to members of the public with a transfixed zombie stare, no singing and dancing. Instead, the actors form a sort of vignette. Byron and his five prostitutes all tarted up against the door of a church. An eye-catching background with eye catching – er – costumes. In sunshine and in rain.

There is probably no magical formula to succeed in this rather mundane activity. It’s almost luck if one of hundreds passing through the main streets comes to the play. Reams and reams of what we give out is probably not read, blending in with a crumpled pocketful of being just too polite to say no. So we cross our fingers, grit our teeth against the biting wind, lamenting that student theatre is not as easy to sell as Charlie and Lola the play, or just how much we took the Drama Officer Bulletins for granted.

Maids in Dagenham

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Jaime Winstone breezes into the room wearing a colorful silk dress and the easy confidence of someone who has always been undeniably cool. Cheerful and outgoing, her role as Sandra, the free spirit of the feted up-and-coming feminist blockbuster Made in Dagenham, suddenly makes much more sense. Her previous roles in films like Kidulthood and Donkey Punch would definitely qualify as ‘edgy’ but here she revels in the part of the sweet factory girl who dreams of being a model. Winstone says, ‘she’s such a sweet character, I just really relate to her. Sandra says, “We are going to make this strike happen, and I do believe in it, but it’s still a shitty factory, and I want more.”‘

She pauses. ‘Frankly,’ she adds, ‘for me it’s a real relief just not being chased by zombies.’ Made in Dagenham hopes to be a step up from Winstone’s recent project Dead Set, a horror series set in the Big Brother house. Telling the feelgood story of a women’s strike at the Dagenham Ford factory in the late sixties, it aims to blend serious equality issues with feisty, likeable characters.

Winstone is eager for the chance to bring a forgotten chapter of history back to life. ‘The locations we filmed in really gave us a sense of what it was like to be these women,’ she explains. ‘We could really feel the spirit of the characters. We all adopted the accent and joked that we were like a right bunch of Fag Ash Lils.’

Rosamund Pike, meanwhile, who played Miranda Frost in Die Another Die, looks every bit the off-duty Bond girl in black leather jeans and a lace biker-cut jacket. She is playing Lisa Hopkins – one of the film’s three central characters – a Cambridge-educated housewife inspired by the workers’ struggle. ‘She sees these women going out on a limb to fight for something they believe in,’ Pike tells me, ‘and she finds her voice, which is there all along but was lying dormant until her encounter with Rita inspired her again.’

She takes a moment to think.

‘Roles for women, you know, they don’t usually go to darker places.’ She is thoughtful, clearly untroubled by lingering silences. ‘I’m always trying to find characters that are not what they at first seem to be. Coming back to Made in Dagenham, she says of Lisa, ‘you think you’re dealing with a comfortable middle class toff who then turns out to be very ballsy and passionate.’

There is a similarly pensive moment with Winstone, when asked if the plight of the Dagenham strikers is still relevant forty years on. She nods in emphatic agreement, ‘especially with what’s going on now, with the aftermath of the recession,’she says. ‘I work in an industry where, apparently, women don’t have their say. For me this industry is based on tradition, where you’d have the starlets like Monroe and a male director.’ She stops again, only to return to her thoughts on the industry: ‘it’s 2010 now, we are catching up, but there is still inequality. I don’t know if that’s based on tradition, a British tradition, or if we’re just a little bit behind.’

Both women noticeably brighten when the conversation turns to their future roles. After playing the daffy Helen in An Education, Pike has been cast in more comedy roles, including the upcoming Johnny English sequel with Rowan Atkinson – ‘it has a really funny script,’ she says with relish. Her days reading English at Wadham have clearly been an influence – having just finished a stint playing Hedda Gabler for the Theatre Royal in Bath, she’s currently working on a BBC adaptation of D.H. Lawrence’s The Rainbow and Women in Love, and stars opposite Paul Giamatti in a forthcoming adaptation of Barney’s Version.

Like Pike, Winstone is keen to avoid placing herself within any one category. She hints that a West End production may be on the cards, but when pressed for further detail, refuses to get overly specific: ‘I wouldn’t wanna say, ’cause if it flopped, that’d be shit.’
Even with the occasional sleepless night or the creeping sense that ‘we’re just a little bit behind,’ it is inspiring to see members of both the current and up-and-coming generations of British actresses practising what they preach so relentlessly.

While either could trade on their looks alone, they continue to choose edgy, intellectual, and sometimes downright unpretty roles. Tradition may still reign in the film industry, but Pike and Winstone are clearly doing their share to see that the ladies catch up.

Two million feet and counting

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The latest press release from the Ashmolean says it all:
On Tuesday, 21 September 2010, at 4.23pm, Mrs. Diane Thomas, a primary school teacher from Gerrards Cross, Buckinghamshire, became the 1 millionth visitor to the Ashmolean Museum since it reopened to the public on 7 November 2009.

How many one-year-olds can claim to have seen a million inquisitive faces? With a high-octane exhibition of nineteenth-century art – yes, I did just describe it as high-octane – and the reopening of a gallery stacked with replicas of the world’s most glamorous classical sculptures, the Ashmolean has never been in ruder health.
But stay a moment. Who remembers the old Ashmolean? I’m not sure that I do.

In November 2008 BBC disclosed that the UK’s oldest public museum was going to close for a year – and so it did – but I certainly recall there being a fair amount of banging, clattering and general tinkering going on for over a year before that too. Whether it was the eye-sore of scaffolding scarring the east face or Chris Howgego, the University Lecturer in Numismatics, complaining about how his favourite fifth century tetradrachm was somewhere lost in storage, the old Ashmolean has always seemed on its way out and the brand spanking 61m-pounds-worth of new Ashmolean been a thing-in-the-making for the duration of my Oxford career.

It was pretty small, eccentrically themed and perhaps had too much more in common with the Pitt Rivers than, say, the British Museum to really live up to its impressive facade. As perhaps befits John Tradescant’s original bequest, I remember the Ashmolean chiefly as a cabinet of curiosities: Guy Fawkes’ lantern, Powhatan’s mantle (that’s Pocahontas’ dad, by the way) and at least two rooms devoted to Walter Sickert’s paintings – a man rather tenuously thought to have been Jack the Ripper when someone had stopped suggesting Lewis Carroll.

This rather quirky side to the museum hasn’t been renovated away. In fact, if anything, it has expanded to include such curios as the robes worn by T.E.Lawrence, Henry VII’s golden burial pall, the ‘Messiah’ Stradivarius that, contractually, no one is ever allowed to play, and a hitherto hidden 5,000-item textile collection.
What has happened, rather, is the creation of a continuum between previously disparate pockets of interest.

Previously the Ashmolean’s idea of labelling left something to be desired. Now the displays have, if anything, gone to the other extreme. There’s no chance of escape without being brashly, colourfully and repeatedly told something. If you don’t like your global cross-culturalism hammered home in colour-coded format, you might find the new approach a little bit intrusive. But if, like me, you don’t have much knowledge of either Regency busts or third century Gandharan iconography, it certainly beats the slightly bemused Grand Tour offered by its predecessor.

Items are arranged o tell a story that weaves between rooms: clear, informative and memorable. Departments, previously isolated, have clearly exchanged notes and things that once seemed remote from one another suddenly belong in the same cabinet.

This love of connection is reflected in the building’s redesign. The new open-plan layout has doubled the exhibition space: six floors contain 39 additional galleries, with four for temporary exhibitions. It is immense and potentially labyrinthine but somehow, as you set off, it seems to all make complete sense: the great central stairway, the mezzanines linked by suspended glass walkways and the intermittent partitions all make progression between the exhibitions seem effortless and obvious.

Bridges woven from perspex and concrete that looks more like cirrus cloud than any building material link epochs, continents and galleries whose only furniture is the light.

You can catch flashes of what’s what through the spaces and follow your fancy. It’s almost an objet d’art on its own, not forgetting the view from the gorgeous (if pricey) rooftop restaurant.

Maybe the most impressive feature of Mather’s design is that, if you hadn’t noticed the last three-and-a-bit years’ worth of fuss and the £61m hole in the University’s bank account, you’d never even know it was there until you went inside.

And now the curators have added a cast gallery that unfolds like a Who’s Who of Classical art. Rome and Olympia are brought to Oxford with life-size reproductions of The Death of Laocoon and Mylon’s taut Discus-Thrower. Just around the corner you will find an anonymous marble of an old and sagging fisherman standing impudently beside a Roman general.

So maybe I don’t really remember the old Ashmolean, but what’s important is that I was thoroughly impressed by the new one. And I even found that tetradrachm.