The short film is easily dismissed as a small and inconsequential form of cinema. Often seen as nothing more than a staple of struggling film students or as a dry run for bigger and naturally better projects, they are rarely embraced or even seen by mainstream audiences. But the sheer quality of some short films is changing these preconceptions.  

One of those films is the latest winner of the Animated Short category at the Oscars. Written and directed by a French team composed of Francois Alaux, Ludovic Houplain and Hervé de Crécy, Logorama is set in a world composed entirely of – you guessed it – logos. For sixteen perfectly formed minutes, we follow a renowned criminal in the shape of Ronald McDonald, evading ‘the law’ before a freak Earthquake rips apart the trademark-covered landscape and floods the city with crude oil.  

Hervé de Crécy says that the concept behind Logorama grew out of working on pieces for the likes of Massive Attack and Röyksopp using what he calls ‘the technique of the diversion.’ This is a method in which an existing visual language, in this case that of logotypes, is used to create something entirely different. And the directors have certainly succeeded in doing that.

In the Los Angeles-style city which is the setting for Logorama, Michelin men are cops, Snow Mountains brandish the Evian name and the Aston Martin and Bentley emblems fly side by side. By using over two thousand logos to create the scenery, the directors have created a film in which each frame is visually complex and startlingly familiar. De Crécy believes that the film will be different for each viewer based on the images they are able to recognize and relate to. He calls logotypes ‘a universal cultural inheritance’ and says that making the film was ‘a way…to regain a common patrimony.’ 

But a film in which skyscrapers in the shape of corporate logos are engulfed by oil is obviously mocking this ‘cultural inheritance.’ And questions about the message behind the piece are bound to be raised. De Crécy is keen to explain that the directors ‘didn’t want to denounce, or point out a message about our society’ and that the film was simultaneously a satire of the modern world and a tribute to the iconic logotypes it has produced.

Despite the somewhat satirical (and unauthorized) use of the symbols of huge companies, de Crécy asserts that the filmmakers have not been on the receiving end of any backlash. In fact, they even received a message of thanks from Cash Converters.

The makers of Logorama may have managed to avoid any negative responses from companies but the brave use of corporate logotypes is one which could only have worked in a short film. It’s easy to predict the reactions which would be elicited from a feature film that used the same techniques. When asked about his opinions on the short film format, De Crécy calls the medium ‘a wonderful place for…powerful ideas.’ With the creation of such impressive examples, one thing is clear; the short is on is the rise.

What is it about children going to university that sees parents running to the divorce lawyers? While statistical proof is difficult to come by, I’m sure many, if not most, of you have come into contact with a situation of a couple separating while their children are at university.

It’s no scoop that divorce rates have been on the rise for the last forty years; and the Tories’ marriage tax break, even if it comes in, seems unlikely to stem this. From what little information that the Office of National Statistics provide on the issue, one can see that divorce rates for those aged over forty-five have, since the 1950s, increased at twice the average rate. Far more tellingly, I suppose, is that not only myself, but three friends in college have also seen their parents separate in the last two years (and given the dearth of friends in college, that is an impressive fifty percent hit rate).

At school the careers and counselling services shared a corridor, and while waiting for some career profiling results I read an article on the wall entitled ‘Oxbridge Blues’, about the phenomenon of parental separation whilst children are at university. Far from being a particularly memorable piece, I never thought of it again until the day that my parents, seemingly out of the blue, told me that they were splitting up. Back when I read it, I was already at the age where I believed that the time for my parents to divorce had been and passed. Potentially my view on relationships was a tad simplistic, but I reasoned that one didn’t wake up, twenty five years into a marriage, and suddenly decide that you are no longer in love with your spouse.

Of course, looking at it rationally, it makes perfect sense; with the children out of the way, the forty or so more years until death seem too bleak to stick it out. Still, it seems a wonder that having stuck it out for so long, one can give up that easily. But then, starting one’s life again the other side of middle age is no mean feat and perhaps my own issue is that nothing seems to have been gained. I asked my mother the other day whether her net happiness had increased, and she said that quite the reverse is the case. Surely quietly being stuck in a rut of non communication and mutual apathy, as desolate as I’m sure that is, is a far better situation to be in than finding yourself, the other side of fifty, alone and miserable?

Having done extraordinarily badly in a recent set of collections, I pulled out the divorce card in an attempt to forestall the inevitable announcement of my academic probation. While my college senior tutor is an exceptionally kind soul who suggested all manner of potential help, unfortunately, it does not seem that the university quite understands the problem. One chaplain’s counsel was, in a typically caring and sharing, head-tilting sort of way, that ‘the result for the child is often a blaming of themselves for leaving [to go to University]… the important thing is to relieve them of their automatic feeling of guilt’. Neither myself, nor a single person I have spoken to who has been through a similar situation, has in any way suggested that they believed it to be their fault. Surely the whole point is that because we have left home it is explicitly no longer about us? Children at home are just a flimsy plaster over the real fact of the matter; love just doesn’t last forever and often it takes a significant change in a couple’s life for them to realise that.

The real issue, which people such as aforementioned chaplain don’t understand, is that the problem is far more practical than emotional. I failed all my collections, not because I spent the holidays in a darkened room, lying in a foetal position, bemoaning the end of my innocent youth, but because I had to spend it having organised fun with two suddenly desperately needy parents. Talking about it, particularly with some bearded woman with a night-course diploma in psychotherapy, will only eat up more time.

I happen to be fortunate enough that, with my parents living far enough away from Oxford, the excuse of distance is reasonable grounds for never having to see them in term time, but a friend of mine’s parental geography is not so ideal. With his father disappearing overseas, his mother installed herself, post-separation, in a flat in central London. His siblings having left university and moved out, he is the only one who moved with her. ‘The hardest thing is that I feel guilty unless I go home and see her at the weekends, but that makes her feel guilty because she knows what I’m missing out on back at Oxford’. As selfish as it sounds, attempting to have fun while maintaining a passable academic scorecard is hard enough without the incessant reminder of what’s in store at home once term ends. Indeed, the last thing one wants to have before heading out at night is a parent, with a desperate air of forced jollity, calling to discuss Waitrose’s delicious new range of meals for one, or John Sergeant’s performance on Strictly Come Dancing.

Along with the time consuming reversal in emotional reliance, there are the practical issues that also cause considerable hassle. In Oxford, where a large number of students remain living in college provided accommodation, rather than their own houses, the termly clearout of one’s room reinforces the fact that Oxford is not home. Yet university is part of a process in which we are weaned off the reliance on parents for a home; we graduate into the ‘real world’, where we are expected (and most of us do) find a job and, more relevantly, somewhere to live which should be the beginning of a series of new homes.

With those that I spoke to, all agreed that one of the most wearisome aspects of the whole was the balancing of time spent between the two parents (one almost wishes for a judge to decree ‘weekdays with one, weekends with the other, and alternating Christmas and birthdays’). At a time where, with little over a year left at university, it seems pointless to establish an extra home, now, one sees the holidays being eaten up, oscillating between the parent who remained in situ (and wandering around the bleak morgue of a childhood, filled with newly empty spaces of carpet and wall) and the parent who moved out (desperately trying not to refer to the other house as ‘home’). Where home should be a place to have a happy catch up with the’ rents, eat some proper food, and get some washing done (incidentally, like in some badly written novel, our washing machine, a wedding present, irrevocably died at the same time as my parents’ marriage) instead it becomes an unimaginable chore.

Perhaps the worst part is that it brings out a selfishness that one usually tries to suppress (I’m very conscious of this character trait running throughout this article), but one does fairly quickly realise that it isn’t all that bad. Though parents separating while you’re at university does not allow you that safe territory to escape to; but by being away from home we, conversely, can have university as a place to which we can escape. By being older one is able to think a bit more rationally about it all and if for many of us such announcements came out of the blue, does that not show just how lucky we are? Having an easy and stable childhood is one of the greatest things that a parent can give a child, and, if we’ve only just found out our parents’ relationship is coming to an end, then we’ve already had one. More to the point, here and now each of us whom this has affected still has two parents, a luxury not afforded to everyone. Perhaps, if it is going to happen, there may not be a better time.

5th: The Bullingdon Club

The cabinet may now be full of ex-members, but its glory days are over, and is now synonymous with washed up Etonians who were never cool at school, attempting to redefine themselves as wildly exciting men about town with a vastly overblown sense of self-worth. Rumours about more invitations rejected than accepted abound…

4th: Essay statuses

The prevalence of work-related facebook statuses is worrying. Every essay is apparently a crisis, but guess what – everyone has work to do. NO ONE cares whether you’ve got 2000 words to go or 20, or how precisely you’re procrastinating. Smug gloating about having finished is also unacceptable, FYI.

3rd: Kukui/Park End/Bridge/Wahoo/Clems

If this sounds like the order of your typical week then you need to take a step back and reconsider. We’re not saying that these nights are objectionable individually. Hell, you can get away with going to three in a week at a push, but the capacity for this much cheese within seven days, though perhaps rare, is a truly terrible thing.

2nd: Stash

Just about permissible when actually participating in sporting events, but the sporting of stash as mufti (college hoodies count by the way) is a big style no-no: actually quite offensive, and just plain ugly. Watch out for law soc committee members – the worst offenders. Don’t you have any other clothes?

1st: Pretension

Ok, we have all probably been guilty of this, and the most pretentious among us probably aren’t even aware of it. Talking about the significance of spatial elements in Jane Austen self- consciously over coffee or outside the Rad Cam (doing this in public spaces is key of course), air-conducting a mental Beethoven symphony as you tuck into hall, or discussing anything as ‘meta’, are examples of this social crime. It’s a bit like sex: do it in private, and not too loudly.

I pray you all, give your audience, and attend to this matter with reverence.’ Back in the day, if you wanted theatre your options were pretty limited. You could go and watch the mummers fumble their mixture of satire and pantomime, or you could go to a mystery play to be terrorised with hell and damnation and Bible stories. The Church certainly used to lay it on thick: the morality plays bring the Good News home with Avatar-like stage directions – the Virgin Mary ascending on a blazing aureole of light, and so forth – and ringing rhyming couplets full of sin and retribution.

But even Catholicism tends to use more carrot than stick these days, and the mystery plays begin to look decidedly dated. Most of us are nonplussed at the prospect of fiery torment, so what value do these pieces have now except as antiquarian curiosities? Well, that depends on how they are played.

New College have made a very credible job of The Somonyng of Everyman. Written around 1500, its couplets are full of Tudor vigour, and resound in the beautiful ante-chapel with clarity. The characters in this allegory are boldly drawn: George Hilton’s blind Death is straight out of Paradise Lost, and there is life enough in the supporting cast of faithless friends and fleeting virtues. On the whole the acting is off-the-peg rather than bespoke – Rory Smith’s Everyman could do with a bit more imagination – but it is tailored to a good pattern.
The aim is more to instruct than to entertain, but there are moments of real humour and poetic power. The satire on the Catholic priesthood may not be as sharp as some would like, but Everyman’s discovery of the weight of sin that cripples his Good Deeds is genuinely moving. Perhaps you even catch yourself looking into your own soul for an instant. Everyman’s message for a secular age is that integrity and goodness are the only things we can truly call our own, and this production delivers the moral well. This noblest of Punch-and-Judy shows is ably delivered in one of the stateliest settings in Oxford, and deserves your attention.

The evening before my 12.30-3.30am shift chez Ahmed, the responses elicited by my planned kebab van stint were varied. Some friends were thrilled because ‘obviously’ they would get more chips than normal and would get to push in front of the queue. Others emphasized my probable body odour issues; in fact Ahmed himself said to me quite early on – ‘You know you will smell quite badly of barbecue right?’ All of these comments, both the well meaning and the precautionary, served to build up the occasion. My initial curiosity at the finding out about the workings of a kebab van was beginning to be pushed aside by feelings of nerves.

But I needn’t have been nervous. I had so much fun in a van that serves essentially the entirety of a restaurant menu – kebabs, chips, jacket potatoes, curried meats – and the contents of a corner shop – chocolate bars, gum and soft drinks – through a small window in its side. The evening of my shift, I worked alongside Ahmed and his colleague Hemin. It quickly became evident that these guys genuinely enjoy their jobs a lot and my nerves quickly dissipated as their tireless energy for their work infected me.

Ahmed, originally from Morocco, has been based in Oxford almost all his life. His kebab van has been parked in its location on High Street, outside University College, for 23 years. Indeed, Ahmed was serving good, hearty grub to the Oxford masses – the kebab van’s clientele extends far beyond the student population, with a number of regular taxi drivers calling up in advance to place their orders – long before many undergraduates were even born. Something must have kept him working the same job for all these years.
I asked him if he had any interest in working in a different occupation within the catering business, but Ahmed replied that he has worked in restaurants in the past but they simply don’t offer the same kind of job satisfaction that he clearly gets from working in his kebab van. Even from the rather disparate comings and goings of customers that evening, it became clear to me very early on that Ahmed loves the fast pace and the high pressure of working in a confined space to deliver quick, hot, and quality food. I use the word ‘quality’, because though the food that the kebab van serves may not exactly be low in calories, Ahmed and his men strive for fresh food. Salads are prepared just before the van opens up shop. Leftovers at the end of the evening are thrown out. As far as possible, things are prepared from scratch on a daily basis. And though burgers and kebab meat may be precooked before the van opens for service, they are all reheated to order. Chips, too, are served piping hot. These guys care about their food and the service they offer us and this speaks volumes about their dedication to the trade.

Working with 190 degree oil, and a hot plate that is over 200 degrees, in addition to dealing with drunk customers desperate for their late-night fix, is a fine art, which these guys have mastered down to a tee. There isn’t really room for two people to walk side by side along the central galley of the van, but that’s no big deal to Ahmed and Hemin. They have a great partnership, Ahmed explained to me. They can handle a number of orders each at any one time and if one needs to get through, to get a can of coke or a dollop of hummus for the portion of chips they have just deep-fried, the other can ‘sense’ that and can squeeze in towards their side of the counter to make room. It’s quite a marvel to watch. Two pairs of hands juggle with tongs, knives, hot and cold foods to provide for their vast menu.

Last Thursday, there were three pairs of hands, though. Having been politely given a cup of tea (did you know that Ahmed can serve you a veritable selection of hot drinks too?), Ahmed and Hemin set to teach me as much as they could, so I could strive to be more of a help than a hindrance to their kebab van operation that night. The beauty of working is such a small space is that nothing is more than a few steps and an arm’s reach away. But the easiness stops there.

Over the course of my shift, I learnt the technical ins and outs of serving perfect polystyrene boxes of food. Most important is box-holding. The aforementioned temperatures of the various appliances in the kebab van mean that food is really hot, and you don’t want to be spilling hot beans on over your fellow colleagues as a result of a collision in the galley. You need a firm grip of the peach-coloured containers, with your thumb clasped along the centre fold of the box, and the rest of your hand holding the bottom.

The second technical skill I had to master was paper towel ripping. The towel rolls that hang from the fluorescently lit canopy of the van’s window are placed at the perfect height to grasp a sheet or two before handing over food to customers. I was determined not to get flustered with streams of paper towels cascading down into the salad containers directly below them. Ahmed made it look very easy. I had a go. And succeeded a fair few times. Indeed, the only times I messed up were in the presence of drunken friends returning home. And in those cases, I should like to blame my paper-towel ripping shortcomings on a nervous desire to impress them.

The hardest thing of all was shaving doner kebab meat. A lot of multi-tasking is involved in this activity. The (surprisingly heavy) electric shaver needs to be held at the right angle to produce the perfect strip of shaved meat. All the while, you need to use one of your feet to control the power pedal for the shaver with one foot, and grip the bottom of the rotating doner stick with tongs to stop it from rotating. Using three different limbs and getting them to do different things was difficult, and I’ll admit that doner kebab shaving was not my forte. I much preferred serving up orders of burgers and masala chicken, and adding the cheese, salad and sauces to chips. Lots of comparatively straightforward tong action.

Given the number of kebab vans dotted around Oxford, it’s easy to take them for granted. We shouldn’t though. These guys work flat out. Their job is a daytime one as well as an night time one – shopping and lots of preparation has to be done every day, whilst bed time for Ahmed and Hemin is normally around 6-7am.

It would be easy to see how these guys could be irritable people but they are so far from that. They’re happy and friendly. We shared jokes together. At one point Ahmed was convinced that a drunk Polish tourist ‘liked me’ and so I, not Hemin, should definitely serve him.

Apparently, Babylove was quite fun that night, but last Thursday was certainly a night that I was happy to miss.

Shoes aren’t the first thing that spring to mind when you think about a summer wardrobe – if you’re anything like us, it’s dresses, dresses, dresses all the way. What happens when you realise you’ve only got winter cowboy boots and a battered pair of Converse to go with your flouncy new frock? Read on for all you need to know about footwear this season – thanks to Cherwell’s guide to summer shoes, you’ll have the best-dressed tootsies for any occasion. Oh, and don’t forget the pedicure!

Chunky:Office Bad Boy wedges, £90
(14cm heel, leather upper)

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Word on the street is that clogs are ‘in’ this season, and it certainly seems that way – Alexa Chung sported a pair on the cover of March’s Vogue. If you’re a little wary of the trend even with such a fashionista endorsement, this pair of wedges from Office are a great way to add some much-needed chunkiness to all the froth and frills of the summer dresses you’ll be wearing. Try pairing with slouchy knee socks, bunched around the lower calf, for extra fashion points – great for those chillier ‘summer’ days!

 Gladiators:New Look Cage Strap sandals,£16

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Lovely sandals at an even lovelier price, these are a classic shape that will see you through until the seemingly-endless love affair with gladiators dies.

 Flats:Topshop Vibrant Ballet Pumps, £16

If you’re looking for a classic shape this summer, these are exactly what you’re looking for. No fancy adornments, no unusual shape, just a…well, a ballet pump. They’re even made in the same way as the ones you used to wear to dance class as a kid, making them about as authentic as can be. The nude shade means they’re leg-lengthening, too – certainly not a trait you’d usually associate with flats.

 Glamour:Kurt Geiger Gen Large Flower, £260

Are words even needed? These beauties speak for themselves…

 Designer:Valentino rosette detailed leather sandals, £415

The delicately rough-edged rosette adds a lovely touch to these simple sandals. Definitely a credit-card worthy price-tag, though – although anything which ticks the romance trend so resolutely can be called value for money, right?

 High street:H &M studded sandals,£14.99

The gold hardware on these white gladiators nods to the military trend everywhere this season without being too in-your-face – a perfect balance between current and classic. Just what we like to see!

The Magdalen Arms, 243 Iffley Road.

If you think getting to the Magdalen Arms is an ordeal, you should really try eating there: the service was as arduous as the trek itself. Three hours for three courses – for whatever standard of food – is simply unacceptable, and more than that, it’s a disgrace to professionalism.

That’s not to say that the staff weren’t friendly. The waiters were affable and, crucially, apologetic, yet they failed to rectify their mistakes – it was shit service with a smile. We were given complimentary coffees, but I would much rather have paid for the coffee and not had the wait and the embarrassment of complaining. We had to go up to the counter four or five times, perpetually asking for forgotten drinks orders, for the table to be wiped, for the bill – again. When the waiters were questioned the food was always ‘ten minutes away’.

When it came, the food was of a high-ish standard, and I’d only heard good things about it: the Guardian described this gastropub as ‘among the very best of its kind in Britain’. The menu was excellent, so much so that it was hard to be decisive: it’s mainly standard English fare with a not-too-tenuous twist, plus a bit of the heartier side of Italian thrown in. The starters and puddings were very good: the home cured duck ham salad was a particular favourite. I found that the first few bites of the mains were exceptional, but that pretty soon the dishes all got a bit samey – huge chunks of meat with little in the way of distraction.
Still, it’s hard to be objective with such awful service. They were obviously having a bad day – they told me they had 160 covers. But if you can’t cope with 160 covers, why take them? I wouldn’t say that the Magdalen Arms was worth the walk or the money .

Over the weekend I acted in one of a series of 24 Hour Plays written in response to the election and staged at the New Players Theatre under Charing Cross. Catching up with friends from the different casts, I was reminded how well a lot of the people I did plays with at Oxford are doing. Everyone who directed me at Oxford, for example, is directing professionally, apart from the ones who are still students and intend to go into the theatre when they finish here. A lot of the people who produced the plays I was in have gone into the theatre as well.

When it comes to actors, three recent graduates were involved in Election Night Theatre, three of the actors in the Finalists’ Showcase I was in are at Oxford School of Drama, and another is at Guildhall. As has been the case for many years, a lot of the theatrically minded people from my year group have carried on making plays in the professional theatre. It could be said that this is all the more impressive because Oxford students aren’t taught anything about drama here – but I think that’s one reason why so many of my year group are doing so well. I think it’s the best thing about Oxford drama, and I think it’s something that should be on people’s minds when they consider the kind of plays they want to do here.

Oxford drama works as a free market. At a lot of universities that offer drama courses, theatre is partly segregated. Students doing drama courses produce plays for which other students can’t even audition, so collaboration is capped and controlled by a course whose teachers will also tell you what’s good and wha’ts not. This means that often the standard is higher than some Oxford shows, but the conditions in which students make plays are never going to be as free as they are in Oxford, and the opportunities to learn from your mistakes aren’t as extensive.

Here, we can do whatever we want, with whomever we want. We are free to make any mistakes we like. I think it’s no surprise that a lot of the people given this opportunity go on to do well. Because while students don’t necessarily get any better technically at Oxford, or benefit from training or assistance after they leave, while they’re here they have three years to let their imaginations run wild in a theatre system that does everything it can to safeguard them from personal loss. They can try anything, free from great money worries or too much creative control.

What students can do here is pursue their passions and tastes to extremes. They can do risky things that commercial theatres wouldn’t produce, and prove that their ideas do, in fact, work. Or that they don’t. That’s good too. Better to find out now than on a London stage on press night. As bid deadlines approach for most of Oxford’s theatres, I’d encourage students to think about what they could do here that they might never be able to do again. It’s the risky, mad plays that make Oxford drama uniquely interesting.

Barney Norris is Oxford University Drama Officer

Can community newsletters constitute social realism? Inspired by Rose Hill Roundabout, one such publication produced in South Oxford during the 1950s and ‘60s, Maria Pask’s Déjà Vu was developed in collaboration with the area’s present-day inhabitants.

The resulting film has similar features to its subject matter, being at once trivial, long-winded, celebratory, and admonitory. Over seventy-odd minutes, its scenes of varying length present a predictable array of situations – tea-dances, allotments, discussion clubs, bingo games – inhabited by the same five actors and interspersed occasionally with more elusive offerings.

All this is simply and competently put together. It’s also surprisingly watchable: the plain yet colourful visual style, coupled with the improvisatory feeling of the piece, stop all but the most directionless scenes from properly dragging.

Yet overall Pask seems unsure of how best to use the peculiar nature of her source material. Using the same five actors throughout creates particular problems: the actors clearly play different characters in different scenes, and yet have more in common with each other than with the real-life locals whom they superficially interact with. This seems somewhat problematic.
Perhaps a greater difficulty is that the original newsletters (on display in the gallery) are at least vaguely politically and socially conscious, yet none of this finds its way into the film in any satisfying sense. The only way Pask seems able to move beyond the almost mythically parochial atmosphere she constructs is by being deliberately artificial.

The resulting juxtapositions can be quite humorous – an ‘old woman’ (actually one of the actors in drag) namechecks bitterly ‘what the sociologists call “individualization”‘ while railing against the breakdown of family values – yet it’s clear these aren’t supposed to be taken seriously, except perhaps as manifestations of Pask’s own problems in trying to reconstruct history.
It’s possible that Pask is aiming to play up an inherently idealized, artificial view of community in order to show its limitations. But focusing only on the parts of the subject which substantiate this view seems disingenuous, given both Déjà Vu’s original inspiration and also the collaboration it involved. The result is that it falls between two stools.

Upstairs, Johanna Billing’s I’m Lost Without Your Rhythm presents a series of mostly quiet, elliptical and sensitively shot films, often meditating on situations in which the individual is complicit yet constrained by unknown forces.

Success varies – the diving-board dilemma of Where She Is At is let down by lacklustre execution, while the intriguing visuals of Missing Out and the title piece lack substance.

Yet Magic World, by intercutting a rehearsing group of singing Croatian children with shots of Zagreb suburbia, conveys well an implicit sense of the neutral receptiveness peculiar to childhood.

Even more effective is Magic and Loss: as a group of people pack up an apartment, their repetitive actions leave the mind free to ponder the significance of each object handled while building to an understated, cathartic conclusion.

Interestingly, several films have ends which run directly into their beginnings, often making it impossible to distinguish the two. Given the quietness of several of the films, allowing them to run concurrently within sight, the effect given is of truly dynamic ‘moving pictures’.

Paris Penman-Davies
History, Pembroke

Ardent revolutionary looking for nation on brink of civil war, must have nice legs.

The fact that the Cherwell photographer who had been sent to meet us asked us to ‘talk naturally’ despite us having only just met significantly upped the awkward factor, but having received the most basic instruction on punting from a man in a camouflage jacket using a pen and a phone, and with both of us wearing heels, what possibly could go wrong? Conversation was easy, apart from a few gentle crashes, a moment where Emma’s face decided to manually abort any attempt to look cool when faced with a rather persistent fly, and a moment of my own in which I carefully allowed a tree branch to whack me in the face, just so Emma wouldn’t feel left out. Despite her efforts to drop the pole we did eventually make it back, not before she had questioned my assertion that the only reason people go on Cherwell blind dates is because they think they are going to have sex. All in all a memorable day, especially once we had established that we were both better suited to the 18th century.

Chat: Sublime wit and charm
Looks: Julia Moses
Personality: Aggressively sexual
2nd date? Waiting on clinic results

Emma Roker
Law, Christ Church

Easily impressed pushover with low standards and bad taste.

Turning up on location at the Cherwell Boathouse ten minutes early, I scanned for signs of a blind-date only to be greeted by a somewhat despondent looking male enjoying afternoon tea for one. So when the lovely photographer turned up and it became apparent that Mr. Miserable was my date, I’d surely be forgiven for regarding the prospect of a two-hour punt with some dread. It was a pleasant surprise, and, quite frankly, a relief, therefore, after somehow managing to set off on our punt, to find that not only was Paris rather proficient with a pole but also a reasonably upbeat, engaging character. Mishaps were inevitable of course; I got bitten by a duck, had an insect collide with my eye and failed in my attempt to punt back – thank goodness he managed to fling a branch into his own face and restore the humiliation status quo. On balance, conversation was interesting (if odd at times), he did all the work and nobody fell overboard; so contrary to initial expectations I felt that the afternoon had proved to be a success.

Chat: Entertaining
Looks: Sunshine would do him good
Personality: Perfectly likeable
2nd date? Could be worse things