Tuesday 1st July 2025
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A Hull of a good band

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The fishing industry in Hull was once a competitive power. The docks were flourishing, the sea was teeming and Hull was holding its own against Iceland in the fearsome Cod Wars. ‘They’re run down now’ laments Dave Hemingway.
Hemingway was a drummer for The Housemartins, an integral component of the vocal duo (Hemingway and Paul Heaton) that defined the successful contemplative pop of The Beautiful South. He started playing drums at school, joined a band called The Gargoyles and found himself at the energetic Adelphi Club. There was a time, around 1983 when the Hull Docks were really alive. ‘Not so much now,’ Hemingway admits.

Even Paul Heaton, chief songsmith of The Beautiful South, felt the pull of that old scene. One of the most successful Housemartins albums was called ‘Hull 4 – London 0. His song, ‘Pretenders to the Throne’ compares ‘Paris with its bustling cafes’ to ‘Hull with its musical flair’. Maybe you had to be there, back in the early 80s, to understand what Heaton was really on about.

Hemingway describes the scene as if he’d never left it, a memory that success has never dulled. Even though the Greatest Hits of The Beautiful South sits in one quarter of British homes; even though, back in 1994, The Housemartins were supported by the likes of the little known Oasis; even though The South, Hemingway’s latest venture, sold out Hull arena at the start of their tour. He’s philosophical about his success: ‘some bands make it, some bands don’t, that’s the way it’s always been’.

Some of it seems pretty silly now. The Gargoyles wrote a spoken word song that has to be heard to be believed: ‘The Humber bridge is about a mile long / as it strides the mighty humber. And our foreign brothers across the sea / they just stare at it in wonder’. Chief Gargoyle Eddie Smith once performed a set naked on Hull Tower. ‘The Gargoyles were more obvious. Paul’s sense of humour was… wry, let’s put it that way’. Heaton’s celebrated humour shines through in ‘Liar’s Bar’, a popular Beautiful South track: ‘And the gravedigger’s smiling at his reflection in his spade … they’re singing whiskey, whiskey, so good they named it twice’ but it seems to develop rather than depart from the old Hull jokes.

Hemingway can’t stress enough that The Beautiful South were always ‘about the songs’, just shamelessly good pop. His latest project is a new incarnation renamed The South. They keep mainly to its back catalogue. But they’ve got a new bassist and fans of older music might not recognise Alison Wheeler’s voice, but she’s been with them for the last five years.

He remembers coming to Oxford. ‘Alison was at Cambridge, so we had a thing going with the crowd.’ This was in 2007, and there wasn’t a bad turn out: ‘it wasn’t embarrassing, let’s put it that way,’ Hemingway says straight up.

Something like that doesn’t come around often. ‘From the outside it must be quite hard to see’ he thinks, but at the time it was magic. The band piled into the back of a van, did the rounds of the North and the Midlands; they played the Rockgarden in London, and slept on floors. They’d take the names and addresses of their audience to build up a cult following. ‘Maybe something like this still goes on now, I don’t know’, he says. Actually, Hemingway’s fondness for sharing, for music, not just for making it big does seem different to us. They don’t seem spoilt. It might be that The Beautiful South have had their heyday. Like the docks, maybe they’ll never be quite the same again. But they weren’t about stardom. Listen to their songs instead: they’d always ‘Carry on Regardless’.

 

From Russia with LOL

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A wise man never told me: ‘Make ‘em laugh, son. Make ‘em laugh.’ Whether it’s the opposite sex, victims or audience members you’re trying to attract, dangling the possibility of laughter before their eyes is a sure-fire way to reel ‘em in. So the team behind this production of Uncle Vanya have played a crafty card in declaring their comedic intentions from the outset.

But they’re also running a bit of a risk. It’s one thing to say your play is funny, another to deliver to the giggling masses, and late 19th Century Russia doesn’t immediately bring a smile to your face.

That said, I reckon there’s plenty of occasion for a guffaw in the script, and I certainly commend the principle of their approach. The preview had some smirkful moments, too, but generally the cast need an extra dollop of comedic confidence to properly bring it home.

This Chekov fella ain’t no Spike Milligan, so it was all going to be in the acting. And turning to more serious waters, the emotive force of the script is heavily dependent on the actors’ taking quite highbrow writing and making it personal. So the pressure’s on.
In general the acting is pretty strong, but I would hope that in the week running up to opening night they start to have a bit more fun with it, to get into the roles they clearly know well, and thus give the audience something to write home about.

Lizzie Hunter in the unflattering role of Sonia (‘Why am I so plain?’) has really got to grips with her character, and gives a strong performance which pays off in the later, more tragic, scenes, though she could take it up a notch before they hit the garden proper. The enviably-bearded Calum Mitchell was also pretty convincing and Tim Smith-Laing brought his less noteworthy facial hair to the title role well, though it remains to be seen how he’ll carry off what is clearly a very demanding part.

The vodka-swilling character of Astrov – played by the scandalously clean-shaven but fantastically named Bevil Luck – provides several opportunities for humour, but unfortunately (pun carefully avoided) a couple of them were missed in the preview, and I craved more drunken variation in his performance. When Sonia uses the old ‘what-if-my-imaginary-friend-fancied-you’ line, for example, Luck’s dismissive response was skated over, dampening what clearly could have been a gagtastic moment.

Maybe it was the combination of sun and aphids flying into my eye (both of which I’m sure will be absent from the real thing), but I felt that Chekov’s humour was still yet to be caught. Hopefully it will be well and truly nabbed by 7th week, as there’s real potential here. With a bit of fine tuning and more gusto from the actors, this production could give its audience that half-grin which makes the more tragic theme of ‘wasted life’ all the more penetrating.

All in all, this is worth a watch. You’re unlikely to get many chances to see such a classic play for such a price and in such a lovely location (the action takes place among three conveniently placed trees in Merton gardens).
Not yet at the standard it could be, but such is the peril of the press preview, and the finished product could well offer up a nice slice of… whatever people eat in Russia.

 

Dirty sexy Shakespeare

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If Shakespeare were alive today, he’d be working for HBO. We often think of our nation’s greatest poet as a lyricist of genius above all, but two plays staged in Oxford this seventh week show him for what he really was: the noblest hack-writer who ever lived.

Titus Andronicus, the Pulp Fiction of Elizabethan drama, is the earliest and by far the most unrelentingly gruesome of Shakespeare’s tragedies. The young playwright gets his teenage kicks, punches and rapine in a script following a vendetta between Tamora, Queen of the Goths, and the title character, a distinguished Roman general. If a tragedy’s quality were measured by its bodycount, this would be a very straightforward review to write.

As it is, Helen Slaney’s cast make the reviewer’s job very difficult. Bits of their production are awful, bits of it are serviceable, and bits of it magisterial. Let’s get the worst of it out of the way first. Titus Andronicus, the bastion of the Roman empire in her dying days, is cast as a woman. ‘A kind of wronged mother-figure.’ This is utterly gratuitous and deprives Andronicus of his air of wild danger. He is a man fighting the insidious tentacles of a woman’s conspiracy, and this dynamic is central to the play.

Some of the acting, moreover, is really not very good at all. There is a lot of greenwood in this cast, and inexperience leads some of the characters to an overstated and mawkish awkwardness. The Emperor Saturninus in particular sounds like a voice actor in World of Warcraft. Tamora’s sons Demetrius and Chiron are gormless. Other actors do a better job: Tamora herself may not have the air of glacial command you’d expect, but she is convincingly nasty, while Andronicus’ brother Marcus is played with great flair by Naomi Setchell. The laurels, however, go to David Cochrane as Aaron the Moor, who enjoys himself immensely as the Tamora’s cheerfully brutish lover.
The play’s strongest point is its physical theatre. The cast use the space with imagination and verve to create a Rome full of reeking culverts the colour of old blood and sharp-cast shadows. The endless body-parts are supplied by rags soaked in red-dyed water, while Slaney replaces Lavinia’s hacked-off tongue and hands with strips of fabric. There are times when the scenes have an imperious authority that makes the viewer’s breath come shallow. When all things are weighed up, then, this play is more good than bad, and definitely worth an evening of your time.
The Victorians scorned Titus Andronicus because of its unrestrained gore and its ranting incoherence, but it chimes very well with an age that could produce the TV series Rome. Perhaps we are more like the Elizabethans now than we were two hundred years ago. The popularity of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, on the other hand, is apparently indefatigable, and of course it makes a return to Oxford this Trinity.

The cast of The Dream, however, refuse to let Shakespeare do their work for them. Chelsea Walker has ripped out the first and fifth acts and stripped down the complex machinery for the late slot at the BT. The result is brilliant. The cuts raise the play’s intensity while keeping its essence, and Walker’s direction and staging adds a genuine hint of menace to the script.

The real joy, however, is the cast. The majority of the actors are reunited from The Odyssey, and they bring the intimacy and chemistry from that project, with none of its overblown camp. Puck is king in this production, and Ollo Clark is more than up to the task. Richard Williams’ Oberon is elegant and distrait, like an aristocrat sotted with laudanum, and he waltzes around Titania as though this were more ballet than theatre. The husky Ruby Thomas, meanwhile, turns in her best performance of the term as Helena.

This production is genuinely, warmly funny, in spite of the odd bit of slapstick clowning. The cast have tapped a rich vein of Shakespeare, and it is a pleasure to watch it gush forth. The exchange of slapsies between Helena and Hermia – ‘how low am I, thou painted maypole?’ – is, for all its poetry, the stuff of chick-flick, and the characters are straight out of a romantic comedy. This is adroit and squarely in your face: everything, in fact, The Odyssey should have been. Shakespeare is as much a screenwriter as he is a poet, and if you animate the drama beneath the words, you have pure and brilliant modern theatre.

 

In praise of the older woman

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In Praise of Older Women’, eh? Where do I start? Well, I’d like to mention that Stephen Vizinczey’s, erm, modern classic was self-published in 1965 but has been out of print in Britain for the past twenty years. That’s a good thing. It’s also just been reissued by Penguin. That’s a bad thing. The, ahem, tastefully erotic lady on the cover, nipple suitably erect, is not so much a bad thing as a straightforward cringe, as is the horrendously self-obsessed, ridiculously generalised and quite frankly outdated prose contained within said cover.
I mean, I spent the best part of the book wondering what exactly it was meant to be. A novel? A memoir? A treatise? The blurb says ‘novel’, so we’ll go with that, but in reality it reads much more like a tedious old man writing an academic paper, at great length, about Werthers Originals. (Yes, despite the best efforts of the erotic lady, that’s how sexy it actually all is.) It wants to be Graham Greene circa The End of the Affair, all melancholy and profundity, but the unmistakeable scent of writerly pedantry and the all-pervasive obsessive self-interest are actually really, really boring.

You’re probably wondering about the actual subject matter. It won’t take long to sum it up: essentially, Stephen Vizinczey – whoops, sorry, I mean Andras Vajda, the main character – likes women. Especially Mummy’s friends. Under the tutelage of sexy women, boy thus grows into an irresistibly sexy man who has a string of OH GOD, NEVER-ENDING affairs with older women in a number of different countries. It’s like a Carry-On set in war-torn Europe: all the women are caricatured and furry (in all senses) and Andras Vajda never fails to get it up. Ever.

More frustrating than any of this, though, is Vizinczey’s ridiculous attitude towards the very women he supposedly venerates and idealises – at many points, it seems as if he, well, just doesn’t get it. ‘If deep down you hate [women], if you dream of humiliating them, if you enjoy ordering them around, then you are likely to be paid back in kind.’ Yes indeed! Thank you for pointing this difficult concept out. I’d also like to mention that if you kick your dog, it may bite you. Speaking of dogs, did you know that women can be trained? ‘I can neither respect nor trust senior cadets, generals, party leaders, millionaires, executives, nor any of their enterprises. Incidentally, this attitude seems to fascinate most women,’ writes Vizinczey, without a shred of irony.

And I’m not even going to mention the similarly irony-less poem which appears suddenly in the middle of the book, ‘Sermon to a Meeting of Onanists Anonymous’. Oh actually, go on then: ‘As a man’s cock rises so we rise above/our indifference to strangers/we learn to tolerate to care to love.’ Cor! Powerful stuff.

In conclusion, I suppose I have to acknowledge that it was 1965. Onanists Anonymous was a groundbreaking concept, I’m sure. And it may well be that we must excuse Vizinczey’s small-mindedness and self-obsession as being nothing more than a rather unfortunate product of its age. But then again, you know what they say about men with small minds…

 

Does work make you happy?

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Next to a photograph of a listening station in this exhibition is a quotation from the popular philosopher Alain de Botton. De Botton says ‘for thousands of years, it was nature – and its supposed creator – who had the monopoly on awe.’ This new show of photographs from the eponymous book seeks to challenge this premise and to argue that man-made objects deserve to be held in as high esteem as natural ones. Sadly, however, this interesting idea fails to find convincing expression in this exhibition.

De Botton is a charismatic fellow, and last year made an appearance at the Port Eliot LitFest to discuss his new book. He made it sound fascinating and fresh: a new approach to thinking about the workplace. De Botton argued the case for work as merely a job; he claimed that it is a modern misconception to think that our jobs have to provide us with meaningful satisfaction or that we have to define ourselves by what we do, rather than, say, our interests.

Although this exhibition shows leaves from De Botton’s book alongside the photographs by Richard Baker, without the conception of the work as a whole being evident, or without the charm of the author himself discussing it, these isolated pages seem to have no meaning, no wider significance. Without the context of the argument as a whole, they become merely fragmented thoughts.

Furthermore, the hypothesis that the show seeks to disprove – that only God can create anything beautiful – becomes truer and truer throughout the show, and is particularly emphasized in the final image, a medieval church cowering beneath a vast and bright red factory. The humbleness of the church, the simplicity of its design, and the fact that it was built purely for the act of worship and for no material gain, contrasts sharply with the monolithic factory. If God can inspire the construction of many of the most beautiful buildings in the world – Notre Dame in Paris, St. Mary’s Cathedral in Florence – then the inspiration behind the monstrosity of the factory seems diabolical. The loveliest part of all of the photographs is when nature is glimpsed; the most moving are those which juxtapose modern technology with the natural world. The standout image from the show is of dew glistening on a thorn in hazy morning sunlight, while behind is the fuzzy outline of pylon.

The photographs which are featured in the exhibition often fail to capture the human element of the work place, an important aspect of De Botton’s printed book. The photographs are of specialized industries such as aeronautics or biscuit-factories – how much more interesting it would be to see portraits of civil servants at work, or to show a series of images of desks complete with the personal memorabilia of their owners. Pictures, a child’s drawing, a half-drunk cup of tea: these, at least, would give us some insight into a life. But the space in the Museum of the History of Science is difficult to work with, and only a small fraction of the photographs taken for the project are shown. This may explain why the exhibition struggles to provoke a personal response. Compared to, say, Stuart Whipps – another young photographer working in this field – the images in this show are strangely lifeless and unmoving: when devoid of the human or natural element, I found that they failed to inspire.

And despite their depiction of solid, concrete structures, they seem oddly transient. De Botton reminds us that modern jobs can be unsatisfying because we do not feel they have any inherent worth: with the speed at which technology evolves, a machine can become out of date even before it has left the prototyping room. The Larkin truism that ‘what will survive of us is love’ comes to mind: love for God, as borne out in the photograph of the church; love for one another, demonstrated in memories. No one could love a burnt-out aeroplane or a crane. And without this driving force, these images – powerful though some of them may be – show none of the alleged pleasures of work, and instead remind us only of the sorrows.

 

Serving up some tension

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This week the cuppers tennis semi-finals take place following an entertaining and eventful competition. New College take on LMH in one semi final, with Brasenose and Keble contesting the other. Tennis cuppers is aimed more at the social side of the sport, but by this stage of the competition all the teams will be desperately wanting to win.

Teams consist of three doubles pairs, with any combination of men and women allowed to play. Each pair plays one set against the three opposing pairs – meaning there are nine sets played in total so a team must win at least five to progress.

The competition so far has provided a few surprises. Top seeds Worcester saw off St Catz in their first game but were then surprisingly beaten 6-3 by New in the next round. Pembroke might have thought they would have a good run, especially with Blues captain Marc Baghdadi in the team, and comfortably beat Christ Church in the first round. Their run was halted however after a closely fought contest with Brasenose, losing 5-4.

The semi final between Brasenose and Keble follow pre-tournament expectations, with both teams highly fancied. After Brasenose’s victory over Pembroke they saw off St Peters in the quarter finals and have their eyes firmly set on the final. In their way however will be a very impressive Keble side who have blue Gregory Weir in their ranks. The two time Scottish junior champion helped the second seeds dispose of St Hughs in the first round, followed by a crushing 9-0 defeat of University and a routine victory over Magdalen to book their place in the semi final.

The other semi final features two less easily predicted teams, but both have impressed in getting to this stage. New had a walkover against Corpus Christi in the first round, and followed that with their excellent win over Worcester. A 5-2 win against St Johns in the quarter finals booked their place in the semi. They will face LMH who have seen off St Hilda’s, Balliol and Teddy Hall in their run in the competition.

The eventual winners of the competition would be expected to come from the semi final between Keble and Brasenose, given they were two of the pre-tournament favourites. However if LMH and New can keep up their giant killing form no one would bet against either taking home the title.

 

Why not try – Tug of War

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Tug of War is surely one of the simplest sports you can try your hand at – all you need is one big piece of rope and two groups of burly people pulling as hard as they can. On Thursday there is an opportunity to give this ancient sport a go on Christ Church meadow in the cuppers competition. But where does it come from? And is it as basic as it first appears?

The contest of pulling a rope can be traced back to ancient ceremonies from all over the world, but was first used as a test of strength in Greece around 500 BC. Tug of War was even an Olympic Sport at the beginning of the 20th century. Great Britain won the gold medal on two occasions and are technically the reigning Olympic champions, however it has been 90 years since the competition was last held. Since being downgraded from Olympic level, the sport has not enjoyed widespread participation, but there are still international competitions and the England men’s team won the world indoor championships in 2010.

The rules are fairly obvious – but there are some restrictions meaning it is not simply a free-for-all of pulling. A centre marker is put on the middle of the rope and the contest begins with it directly above a centre line on the ground. Two markers are placed at equal distances from the centre point, and the objective is to pull the centre marker on the rope past the marker closest to your team. There a few rules governing how the rope must be pulled; a competitor’s elbow cannot go below their knee, the rope must stay under the arm at all times and sitting down is against the rules. These really are the only rules however, and even these are only half-heartedly observed at most informal events.
Personal attributes required to be successful in tug of war obviously include explosive strength and power – but also tough hands that are resistant to rope burn and blisters. In most official competitions there are weight restrictions so that small but strong people don’t have to compete against huge and very strong people. It is however very much a team game, with those who can coordinate pulls in unison likely to be victorious.
The cuppers event takes place on Thursday at 4pm on Christ Church meadow with teams of five people, having at least two girls in each. As well as a prize for the winning team, there is also one for the best costume.
Teams therefore have a difficult decsion to make – go for functional shorts and t-shirts and aim for the win, or dust off the old bop costumes and take the other prize. If you fancy pulling before the end of term you should get in contact with your college sports rep.

 

Boatie fever sweeps Oxford

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As the boaties of Oxford will no doubt have told you, last week from Wednesday to Saturday, the annual rowing competition of Summer Eights took place at Oxford’s stretch of the Thames known as the “Isis”.
Despite uncharacteristically bad weather on Saturday of the competition, which lessened the crowd size and perhaps the merriment of the spectators on the bank somewhat, the competition on Saturday and the other three days was fierce. Indeed, even the most hard core of anti rowers that Oxford University has, would no doubt concede Summer Eights remains the greatest rowing spectacle that Oxford has to offer.

With the boats in the rowing on divisions offering up some entertaining rowing and sporting costumes that fashionistas themselves would be proud of and with the top divisions providing some high class rowing, the four days of competition had everything.

Two weeks ago the Cherwell sports team gave you the “Summer Eights lowdown” with all you need to know about the nature of the rowing spectacle that is, Summer Eights. So you will already know that the aim in Summer Eights is to bump the boat in front of you on each of the four days of the competition or if you are at the very top of the top division, to go for the headship. If a crew manages to get a bump everyday of the competition then they win “blades” which are ornamental trophy blades given to every member of the crew.

During the four day competition this year, a staggering, nine women crews and nine men crews achieved blades and will go down in their college’s history books. The headships this year went to Christ Church men’s firsts who rowed over each day of the competition and to Balliol women’s firsts who managed to bump up to first from second in the division.

Perhaps the most successful college of the week, especially in the men’s competition, was Wolfson, with all three of their men’s crews achieving blades. With the firsts managing to bump their way up from 12th to 8th in the men’s top division, and in doing so becoming the only top division men’s crew to get blades, with the seconds getting blades in men’s division 5 and with the third eight getting blades in men’s division 7. Considering that the Wolfson first eight also reached the final of the Bedford Head regatta earlier in the term, the graduate college have had a great term of rowing. What is more, the first eight also managed to achieve blades in Hilary term’s Torpids competition and so it seems that Wolfson are quickly becoming a powerhouse of college rowing. In fact, I would bet that in a few years time the college may soon be challenging for the headship in the men’s competition.

Yet with a strong performance from the Christ Church men’s crews, they have once again managed to have the highest first, second and third eights in the competition and so it may be too soon to start heralding the end of their domination of college rowing.

In the women’s competition, Pembroke firsts managed to bump up from 8th to 4th in the top division and in doing so were the highest crew in the competition to achieve blades. Perhaps equally impressive was the achievement of Worcester women’s firsts who managed to bump up a total of seven places in four days. For after having bumped St Hugh’s to go top of division 3 in their first race, they then raced an hour later and managed to get an over-bump on Mansfield and so went up four places in one day. Then by bumping Queen’s, Exeter and Wolfson, they completed their set of four and achieved blades.

As well as the successful crews in the competition, there were of course crews that were not so successful. In fact, in the four days of competition a total of 13 crews were bumped every day of the competition and enjoyed the dubious honour of winning “spoons” (the opposite of blades).

Despite the bad weather, the week was as successful as ever. Even though there are another 51 weeks to go until the competition kicks off again, the Oxford boaties will no doubt already be pencilling it in their diaries.

 

Big dogs are a big mistake

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One of Oxford’s unique selling points – I’m sure you’ve heard it all before – is “you’ll be taught by the people who write your textbooks”. But often that’s not a good thing.

The big-hitters often don’t care enough. Anyone who tutors you will be brilliant in their particular field; that much is a given here. Yet those who are so brilliant as to have earned fame from doing so often simply won’t have enough time or care for you.

They are busy, busy. You’ll find tutorials rearranged to fit in their academic conferences – a minor annoyance, perhaps, but somewhat disruptive to your plans when it starts happening every week. You’ll find essays either not marked from over a term ago, or marked but “mislaid” – it all amounts to the same thing. You’ll reach 6th week with your collections still unmarked. And your tutor will take a 10-minute break mid-tute to have an ‘important’ phone conversation. You wait, staring mindlessly at the array of edited volumed by the big dog himself that line the office bookcase.

It’s anything but ideal. Your essays will be the last of their priorities, even if they are the first of yours. Ultimately, through getting a high-flyer with ‘X-factor’ you might impress a few people, but will ultimately lose out. They will never get sacked, or even reprimanded, because they are big names that add to Oxford’s academic reputation.

When I heard I would be taught by a graduate student who looked about 23, I wasn’t best pleased. This was not what I pay my tuition fees for. But, contrary to my expectations, he’s been far more useful than the big names. Those who aren’t writing books have more time to worry about their students – which is ultimately what they’re paid to do. We shouldn’t tolerate lax teaching from tutors just because they are famous.

Clubbing is the bane of my life

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Every night in Oxford, just as on every night in every mindless clone town around the country, a bout of collective insanity is conducted by our otherwise rational fellow human beings. Briefly – oh, how mercifully briefly – the pillars of Western learning are reduced to mere urinals.

The ancient cobbled streets are filled with queuing hordes of gibbering, cackling imbeciles. These are the clubbers, intention: to club. They know they will not enjoy their evening, and their only consolation is that they will simultaneously stop anyone else from enjoying theirs. Clubbing has to go. It is the bane of my existence as much as it is, admit it, the bane of yours.

They don their finery. For the ‘lads’ (ugh) there are the ‘casual’ T-shirts (yours for £70). For their female counterparts, there are the far-less practical, and far-more expensive, high-heeled shoes. Off they go. A quick pre-lash first in the college bar, merrily ruining it for those of us who just want to drown our sorrows in peace.

Thus inebriated they sally forth into the wild unknowns of the High. There they will proceed to bankrupt themselves and their parents by spending lavishly on vile beer and cocktails, flail around a bit, take 15 million photographs, flail around a bit more, laugh hysterically, and finally, climatically, head for home, another small chunk of their souls lost forever.

Theoretically the purpose of clubbing is threefold. To socialise, to listen to music and to dance. Not one of these is something that people actually do. You can’t socialise in clubs: it’s too loud and everybody’s dancing, which renders talking to them impossible. As for the music, I need hardly remark how uniformly crap it is. Not bad, not mediocre, just crap. The worst songs are the ones about clubbing: look out for them and you’ll see what I mean. And the dancing… it not only destroys talent, it creates un-talent.

The great bassist John Paul Jones once got so annoyed with people dancing to his music, he wrote a song which people physically couldn’t dance to. That’s the spirit, I say. Dancing and music should be kept strictly separate. People would have a lot less fun, but it would lead to the end of clubs, which would be infinitely better in the long run.

This is irrelevant anyway, because it misses the point. We all go clubbing for three completely different reasons to the ones we theoretically go for. One is pure kudos; the others are to get drunk and, of course, to pull. Formerly the hot-blooded males of Oxford would look for bad, unsatisfying drunken sex in the numerous and excellent brothels which were scattered across the city. This is no longer necessary, because if they preen and prance enough they might just get off with that fat girl from Christ Church with the funny eye whom you wouldn’t even look at on a ‘bad’ night.

A more serious point, in my opinion, is about drunkenness. I confess I have actually enjoyed clubbing while drunk. I don’t think there is any other way to enjoy it, unless one counts drugs. But clubbing is bad for getting drunk as well, because everything is so expensive. People do not enjoy clubs, but they do enjoy alcohol. They enjoy alcohol almost as much as they enjoy social kudos. 

And that, my friends, brings us to the crux of the matter. The purpose of clubbing, as Orwell would say, is clubbing. It is an end in itself, designed to ensure that we are not seen as being out of the proverbial loop.

I beg of ye, Oxonians, to stop with the clubbing. I have never spoken to anyone who enjoys it, really. By all means get hopelessly pissed- that is enjoyable- but don’t go ruining it by a night on the town.

Go to a nice quiet pub. Sit. Calmly and serenely pickle what remains of your liver. Laugh a bit and roll around. I guarantee you’ll have the night of your life.