Monday 13th April 2026
Blog Page 2

Why Emotional Harmony Often Comes from Complementary Roles

Many modern couples aim for perfect symmetry in behaviour, believing harmony comes from doing the same things in the same way. Yet long-term relationship stability often grows from coordination, not duplication. Emotional systems respond more positively to complementing forces than to mirrored action. When partners operate as a coordinated pair instead of competitors, tension decreases and intimacy stabilises. This is the psychological foundation behind complementary relationship roles. Harmony is rarely accidental. It emerges when differences are organised into cooperation rather than comparison.

Why emotional systems prefer complementarity

Human attachment relies on polarity. Emotional energy moves more smoothly when partners occupy roles that reinforce each other instead of overlapping constantly. Emotional harmony in couples is strengthened when responsibilities distribute naturally. One partner may initiate movement while the other regulates emotional tone. These patterns are not rigid rules; they are adaptive balances that prevent internal competition.

When both partners attempt identical control over the same domains, friction increases. Decision-making slows. Emotional leadership becomes contested. Complementarity removes that tension. Each partner contributes distinct strengths, and the relationship functions as a coordinated unit. The brain interprets coordinated difference as stability. Stability reduces anxiety, and reduced anxiety protects intimacy.

Psychologically, complementarity also sustains attraction. Predictable polarity maintains curiosity and engagement. Partners remain interested because interaction contains variation instead of redundancy. This variation is not conflict; it is dynamic balance.

The difference between balance and competition

Balance is often confused with equality of output. In reality, balanced relationship dynamics depend on alignment, not sameness. When couples compete for identical roles, they unintentionally weaken cooperation. Competition introduces comparison. Comparison erodes trust. Trust is replaced by evaluation, and evaluation destabilises emotional safety.

Complementary structure transforms difference into efficiency. Each partner knows where their influence is strongest. Instead of defending territory, partners reinforce each other’s position. This reinforcement produces calm. Calm relationships are not dull; they are resilient. Emotional storms pass without destroying attachment because roles absorb stress instead of amplifying it.

The misunderstanding of balance frequently leads to confusion about partner role balance. Biological and psychological tendencies often influence how partners prefer to express leadership or support. Acknowledging these tendencies does not eliminate equality; it organises interaction. When roles are chosen intentionally instead of denied, cooperation strengthens.

Serious relationship-oriented environments often highlight compatibility through visible intention; for example, communities associated with Ukrainian dating brides tend to emphasise structured expectations because orientation reduces early conflict and supports complementary alignment. Couples who begin with clarity spend less time negotiating identity and more time building connection.

Compatibility as coordinated difference

Relationship success rarely comes from identical personalities. It comes from synchronised difference. Relationship compatibility psychology shows that couples thrive when strengths interlock. One partner’s decisiveness complements the other’s emotional regulation. One partner’s planning reinforces the other’s adaptability. Compatibility is the art of linking contrasts into a stable pattern.

Complementarity also protects individuality. When partners are not forced into duplication, they maintain identity inside the relationship. Identity preservation reduces resentment. People feel valued for their contribution instead of measured against their partner’s behaviour. This environment encourages authenticity, and authenticity strengthens emotional harmony.

Practical ways to cultivate complementary balance

Complementarity is not automatic. Couples who maintain harmony treat coordination as an active practice. They observe patterns and adjust intentionally instead of drifting into conflict.

Common stabilising practises include:

  • Identifying each partner’s natural strengths
  • Dividing responsibilities by competence
  • Rotating leadership during stress when needed
  • Protecting each partner’s domain of influence
  • Reviewing balance during life transitions

These behaviours convert difference into structure. Partners learn how to cooperate without suppressing individuality. Predictable complementarity replaces competition. Emotional energy flows toward connection instead of defence. Harmony does not require identical behaviour. It requires coordinated difference. Complementary roles transform variation into balance, and balance protects attachment. Relationships weaken when partners compete for sameness; they strengthen when differences interlock. Emotional harmony is not created by removing contrast – it is created by organising contrast into cooperation.

Timothée Chalamet appointed Visiting Professor of the Arts

0

The French-American actor Timothée Chalamet has been appointed Visiting Professor of the Arts for 2026-2027 at the University of Oxford. The Oscar-snubbed star of Marty Supreme (2025) and Call Me By Your Name (2017) was selected for the honour on the basis of his extensive patronage of the arts, most notably in the opera and ballet sectors. 

Previous appointments to the honour of Visiting Professor at the University include Oscar-winning playwright and screenwriter Sir Tom Stoppard, acclaimed international human rights lawyer Amal Clooney, and children’s author Stephen Fry

Chalamet is set to take up the position at the beginning of the next academic year. The actor, best known for his role in Christopher Nolan’s Interstellar (2014) and for his current status as Kylie Jenner’s boyfriend, is expected to deliver a lecture series during Michaelmas term 2026 titled ‘What is this earth without art? Just a rock’. 

The appointment forms part of a larger move by the University to diversify the recipients of honorary positions. According to a representative of the appointing committee, Chalamet is not only the youngest person to be appointed Visiting Professor in the history of the University, but also the most unqualified yet. Similarly, the Faculty of English is currently in talks to award Jacob Elordi an honorary degree for his contribution to the understanding of feminist literature. 

In preparation for his professorship, Chalamet had intended to spray paint the Radcliffe Camera “corroded orange” in the style of his iconic Marty Supreme marketing campaign. He has since abandoned these plans after discovering that the same feat has been attempted before

Chalamet will return to Oxford this summer, having previously visited the city during the filming of the BAFTA-nominated musical fantasy film Wonka (2023). Cherwell understands that he plans to begin working on the film’s sequel during his tenure at Oxford. 

The appointment has provoked mixed reactions across the University. One student told Cherwell: “I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve watched him declare his love to Jo [in Little Women] or that one edit we’ve all seen of the dancing scene in Call Me by Your Name. It will be interesting to see whether he has anything worthwhile to say.”

The University has expressed hope that Chalamet will bring his breadth of artistic expertise to the position, including but not limited to his fluency in the French language, his lauded rapping career as ‘Lil Timmy Tim’, and his seven years of ping-pong playing experience. 

Chalamet, Kylie Jenner, and EsDeeKid were all approached for comment. 

Reporting by Beatrix Arnold.

April Fools!

Police investigate group hanging England flags amid safety concerns

0

A group hanging St George’s Cross and Union Jack flags along Abingdon Road has prompted a police investigation, following reports of disruption and alleged intimidation.

The incident, which took place during rush hour, saw a group in high-vis jackets using a cherry picker to attach flags to light posts along the road. Residents reported concerns about obstruction, as well as what some described as confrontational or abusive behaviour.

Thames Valley Police has confirmed that it is investigating. In a statement issued on Saturday, the force said it was “aware of an incident that took place on the Abingdon Road… in relation to people raising flags on street furniture” and that enquiries are ongoing. Police added that “where criminal offences are identified, we will take appropriate and proportionate action”. 

The group involved is understood to be part of the national movement, Raise the Colours, which has been responsible for similar activity elsewhere in Oxfordshire.

Oxfordshire County Council told Cherwell that it “recognise[s] the strength of feeling locally around this issue and the impact it’s having on our communities”. The council added that it supports the “residents’ right to display flags on their own property,” but warned that placing flags on or near highways can create “serious safety hazards”, including reduced visibility and increased risk of distraction for road users.

The council confirmed that its teams remove unauthorised flags “during routine maintenance or where they pose an immediate risk”. However, the council said staff carrying out this work had experienced “intimidating and threatening behaviour”, which it described as “completely unacceptable”. It added that it is working with the police to share evidence so that appropriate action can be taken. 

The County Council has since issued a formal legal notice requiring the group to stop placing flags on or near highways without permission. The council warned that failure to comply could result in civil or criminal proceedings.

In a statement, Councillor Liz Leffman, Leader of the Council, said the “scale and persistence of this activity is affecting communities across Oxfordshire”. Whilst emphasising that the England and UK flags are “visible symbols of democracy and unity”, she described the group’s actions as “an act of intimidation and division that is having a real and damaging impact on our communities”.

Anneliese Dodds, MP for Oxford East, also criticised the incident. In a statement, she said that while individuals have the right to display flags at their own homes, “that is not what has happened here”, adding that those involved appeared to have “imposed themselves on the residents… and disrupted traffic in the rush hour”.

Dodds said reports of abusive behaviour “must obviously be investigated” and described the incident as “the opposite of activity to bring our community together”.

Raise the Colours was approached for comment.

Former Oxford professor convicted of rape by French court

CW: Sexual violence, assault, rape.

The former Oxford academic and Islamic scholar Tariq Ramadan has been sentenced by a Paris criminal court to an 18-year jail term for rape offences committed between 2009 and 2016. Ramadan was convicted of the rape of three women, two years after he was imprisoned for a separate rape offence in Switzerland. 

Ramadan was employed by the University of Oxford as Professor of Contemporary Islamic Studies at St Antony’s College. In October 2017, he was accused by two women of incidents of rape, sexual assault, violence, and harassment. Ramadan continued to teach until November, when he took an agreed leave of absence from Oxford. At the time, the University said that the leave “allows Professor Ramadan to address the extremely serious allegations made against him”, but “implies no presumption or acceptance of guilt”. 

In January 2018, he was detained by French police and taken into custody, where he was formally charged with two counts of rape. Following this, further accusations against him emerged, with more women coming forward with claims that he had made unwanted sexual advances towards them, including allegations of violence and psychological abuse. 

As a result, he was formally charged in 2020 with the rape of two more women in France and faced a further charge of rape in Switzerland. Ramadan has consistently denied the charges against him, claiming that they are politically motivated as part of a smear campaign. 

Ramadan officially left his position at the University of Oxford in 2021. A spokesperson for the University told Cherwell: “Professor Ramadan left the employment of the University of Oxford in June 2021 by mutual agreement on the basis of early retirement on grounds of ill-health.”

In 2023, Yann Le Mercier was convicted of cyberharassing Ramadan and another individual because of the ongoing court proceedings. At the time, he received the heaviest prison sentence for a cyberbullying case. Ramadan currently has 2.4 million followers on Facebook. 

Ramadan was tried by a Swiss appeals court in 2024 over an incident in Geneva in 2008. He was convicted of rape and sexual coercion and sentenced to three years’ imprisonment, overturning a previous acquittal. His subsequent appeal against the sentence was rejected. 

Ramadan failed to appear in court in Paris this month. His lawyers attributed his absence to his hospitalisation in Switzerland on account of multiple sclerosis, “violating a conditional release order that required him to remain in France”, as Le Monde reports. Prior to the trial, however, a court-ordered medical assessment had confirmed his fitness to plead. 

He was convicted in absentia for the rape of three women and sentenced to 18 years’ imprisonment. Following the verdict, the court issued an arrest warrant and imposed a permanent ban from French territory, coming into effect upon completion of the sentence. The judgment is not final and is expected to be appealed. 

This case comes amid broader concerns about the University of Oxford’s handling of sexual misconduct and assault allegations. These concerns have been further intensified by controversy surrounding another professor who was not suspended despite facing allegations of rape. 

I was wrong. Oxford needs a ‘reading’ week.

0

In passing, friends often bemoan how their partners at other universities get a week off, mid-term, to, in essence, prat around. The deified ‘reading week’. I have always held my tongue: I was previously of the un-woke position that a ‘reading week’ would lower Oxford’s standards, making us lazier, more apathetic, and if I’m quite honest about what I thought, more like them, the non-Oxbridge masses. Get out of the kitchen if you can’t handle the heat, I thought. Well, sometimes life proves you very, very wrong. 

This all started with a breakup, hardly a delight for anybody, but particularly ruinous for those of us who have to pop sertraline daily. Then, I was bereaved. This has, in the Oxford environment, left me having to choose between either fully processing the losses I have felt and sleeping as much as I need to, or doing an essay adequately. In short, I am too tired (sertraline, again, by the way), and I think I deserve a break.

I am not the only one: 38% of students report becoming more mentally unwell since coming to Oxford, and our workload keeps Cherwell articles being churned out in one way or another – apologies for adding to that pile-up, by the way. But there is no escaping the fact: our workload is intense, especially when compared to other universities. Having closely observed another Russell Group university, Oxford students are indeed working themselves to death by comparison. At this particular university, it was unusual for students to have to write 2500-word essays (which I do every two weeks), and the absence of a tutorial system meant that students could go weeks without having to elucidate their thoughts on the topic at hand. Whereas I take 24 hours to write a good-ish, passable essay, students at other Russell Group universities  can get what feels like free firsts for one burst of work in an all-nighter lasting 10 hours. Oxford is just so much more intense. We should pat ourselves on the back for getting on with such hard graft most of the time, and be proud that Oxford looked at us as spotty-faced 17 year olds and thought we’d be up to the task, but there is also a moment when it has to pause. When somebody dies. When the medication just isn’t working. 

It has been noted to me several times by postgraduate students that they can tell who attended Oxford for undergraduate, because those who did not tend not to understand the sort of corner-cutting they can get away with. I, four years into the system, am all too aware of the sort of pisstake I can – and ought to be able to – get away with. Students learn how tutors work as much as the other way around: we figure out that certain tutors will not tolerate much flakiness, whilst others would bend over backwards to ensure that a student does not suffer too much.

This is simply not enough, though. The work is still there, as is the guilt, and putting work off simply makes it accumulate down the line. We need a mid-term amnesty, a hiatus which most usually call a ‘reading week’. 

I stand by my earlier comments, though: many students do not do any actual reading during a reading week, instead taking the time to booze up, shimmy down, and visit their loved ones. This University should be canny enough to recognise that its students would not read much either, barring a few nose-to-the-grindstone grifters too good to develop a mental illness like the rest of us. We would use the time to do the essentials of living we so rarely have time for, such as getting new glasses, reading books we actually like, going to student theatre, and maybe we would return to our disciplines fresh-faced and with a joie de vivre.

As such, I am hesitant to call this a ‘reading week’. It is a plain misnomer and false advertising. What I am actually calling for is a rest week, to allow us to actually enjoy being in Oxford, a city replete with good culture, company and food, installed in the middle of term. As I sit here, I have my dissertation and a Jane Austen essay eating away at my brains. Sure, it’s a good distraction from my personal woes, but Freud would (and, sure, I know what he’d tell me about being queer, fine, he was right now and again) inform us that repressing anything, distracting ourselves, does not end well. He would maybe see it ending in rustication, as it does for approximately 4% of students. These students are in the pits, too: cut adrift from college support, sometimes having to work, and not even free from the workload as some have to pass exams to be readmitted, according to Cherwell. Nobody wins.

We admit the best of the best to Oxford: students who genuinely have passion for their subjects, in a manner that probably raised a few eyebrows at sixth form. This passion can be cultivated well if we just let those with it breathe once in a while, and give themselves a chance to cry, mourn, laugh, eat, or [redacted], without feeling that they need to rush back to a half-done essay. Goddamn it, let us nap!

The Schwarzman Centre is a commercial venture, not a place of learning

0

The House of Medici, an Italian banking family, donated an enormous amount of their wealth to support the arts in the 15th century, from funding the construction of Saint Peter’s Basilica and Florence Cathedral to patronising some of the most famous Renaissance painters, like Botticelli and da Vinci. Their money indelibly shaped not just their contemporaries, but the groundwork of much of Western canonical art.

This might seem a rather lofty bar with which to judge the contribution of Stephen A Schwarzman.  But, with Oxford University describing his donation as their single biggest “since the Renaissance”, it’s hard not to harken back to the civilisation-defining benevolence of the Medicis. Indeed, the CEO of the private equity firm Blackstone is estimated to have a net wealth of over $42bn, making him one of the 50 richest people on the planet – not a bad place from which to start a new era of Gilded Age-inspired philanthropy.

His donations to Oxford come to £185mn and have produced a new Centre for the Humanities – a single building in which seven faculties and two institutes come together, decked out with state-of-the-art music and theatre venues, a cinema, and exhibition spaces. The two-pronged vision is bold and enticing: an upgraded student experience and a way for the cloistered University to reach out to the public. The ‘Cultural Program’, launching in April 2026, offers an enormous range of exciting shows, giving Oxford a new artistic centre and locals a pleasant benefit from the University with which they (sometimes uneasily) co-inhabit the city. 

The neat concept, however, has in practice led to conflict. Rather than the student and public elements exhibiting a complementary relationship, the commercial side of the venture has dominated, sidelining students and moving the Centre uncomfortably away from the core operations of the University. 

Firstly, whilst the Centre is a substantial building (much of which operates at a subterranean level), its size fails to do justice to the huge number of faculties, students, and academics that it represents. This is evident in a number of ways: the faculties themselves, which circle the RadCam-inspired and proportioned Great Hall, are fairly small in size, and homogenous in design. Whilst a coloured kitchenette is a nice touch, the move for my own department (Philosophy) from the spacious and historic Georgian building on Woodstock Road to a few rooms on the second floor is quite hard to sell as an upgrade. 

Similarly, the Humanities Library, though bigger than it perhaps first appears, fails to adequately compensate for the libraries it supersedes. Books have had to be moved offsite to fit, and the number of dedicated seats in the library itself is less than the previous capacity. There are more if you count the other available seats in the building – but with no sound regulations, they are hardly a substitute when you need to hammer out an essay. Losing books and study space, whilst not quite the fire of Alexandria, is still disappointing for what promises to be an exultation of the Humanities in an age of their belittlement

It’s not just the library that is rammed: fewer large lecture rooms means that bookings are more competitive, introducing frictions into already-bureaucratised academic schedules. Indeed, many lectures remain in their old locations, and feel all-the-less pleasant for it. Making the bottom floor open to the public, whilst a charming way to potentially break down the town-gown divide, also necessarily means fewer seats for the students paying (at least) £9.5k a year for access. 

The worst issue, though, is financial. Schwarzman’s historical donation was enough to construct the largest Passivhaus university building in Europe – but as a one-time gift, not enough to keep it maintained. This has made the finances shaky, to say the least. Faculties have been squeezed as they are forced to pay higher rents; money is taken away from students and used to fund a truncated space. Far from being a boon for neglected studies, the Centre looks to be urging the cold free-market logic along. 

Even students lucky enough to be in the University are losing out. Prior to the Centre’s construction, a society of which I am a committee member could use our faculty’s multiple lecture rooms for free, with very little competition. Now, the task to get a room is Kafkaesque. After over 20 emails and multiple booking form requests, I was told that the society would be charged £200 an hour for use of the cinema to do a private film screening for our members. The attempt to charge an academic student society eye-watering amounts to use a room in their own faculty building exemplifies how the commercial imperative has vitiated student experience. 

In an almost paradoxical way, what should have been a desperately-needed and generous contribution to the Humanities, and the wider University, has actually reinforced the sense that Humanities students are unwanted money-suckers. Not long after the opening of the Centre, the Life and Mind Building, which hosts the Departments of Experimental Psychology and Biology, also opened its doors. If you looked at both buildings without any context, you’d be hard-pressed to tell, based on size alone, which was the home of two departments, which the home of more than three times as many. Rather than facilitating interdisciplinary study, locking all the Humanities students into a cramped part of OX2 and charging them more for it looks like another act in the long history of shunning artists and thinkers. It might be time for the music students to start busking outside.

CalSoc misses the ‘Reel’ point

During my first week in Oxford, I stumbled upon a Scottish third year in the college bar. This was startling; I’d only come across one or two students from north of Newcastle so far, and none of them any older or wiser than I was. I quickly took advantage of the opportunity to ask what societies I should join at the Freshers’ fair the following day. 

“Anything but CalSoc”, he said, referring to Oxford’s Caledonian Society. “They’re not actually Scottish. Closest they get is owning an estate up there.” 

This was a sweeping and, I thought, probably inaccurate claim, but in those first few days—homesick, lonely, having my own accent parroted back at me during pre-drinks – I didn’t struggle to believe it. While I’d hoped vaguely that I might eventually be proven wrong, I found very little evidence to the contrary. Those I met who were eager for a ticket might not have been royalty, but they were invariably English, and drawn to the ball’s structure and glamour. Tickets were pricey, and seemed to come on the condition of technical ‘training sessions’. The society’s website provided a list of dances to be learned; I only recognised two. One night in Hilary, I saw a throng of kilts and tartan sashes clustered outside the Town Hall, but as I passed, I heard only the same clipped Southern accents I’d become used to in tutorials. I started to hate-watch the dance videos on their Instagram. All of this cemented in me a vehement – and, I always felt, slightly unfair – distaste for CalSoc. What was ostensibly a familiar cultural practice seemed to me somehow violated, alien. I felt worlds away from the dances of my teenage years, where I would often wake up with mysterious injuries from an over-violent Strip the Willow. Why was something ostensibly so familiar, so ‘Scottish’, so unrecognisable?

I was interested to read Nancy Robson’s recent article on reeling practice for the CalSoc ball – a fresh perspective on what has always been, for me, a very one-sided debate. Yet I was also somewhat disconcerted. The picture that emerged was of a strange fusion between English courtly balls à la Bridgerton and some kind of vaguely Scottish aesthetic (Robson makes a passing reference to ‘Braveheart’; the CalSoc website, more egregiously, to ‘ancient druidic roots’). This is a difficult one to square. The histories of ‘ceilidh’ and ‘reeling’ are intertwined, and equally culturally suspect. In his thoughtful essay on the subject, Greg Ritchie notes that both are the result of a 19th century ‘rediscovery’—and appropriation—of Highland culture, differing only in the use they make of a ‘Scottish identity’. 

But this difference is still important. Caledonian Societies remain the preserve of the South, and of the Scottish elite, while ceilidh dancing is, for better or worse, part of Scotland’s shared social history. It’s taught in every school, and is the central feature of most weddings. I used to organise ceilidhs as community fundraisers. Reeling may not entirely pretend to be a ceilidh, but it does not exist in some kind of cultural vacuum. When we dress up in tartan, and (in the words of the CalSoc website), ‘party as only the Scottish can’, what kind of mythology are we appealing to? Why is CalSoc so English? 

The answer comes in part from its connection to the glamorous ‘reeling circuit’: mainly based in London, this is a season of black and white-tie balls held in royal venues and private member’s clubs. But it’s also to do with the way Scottishness features in the English cultural imagination. As Robson’s article demonstrates, the practices are easily tangled up – and in England, ceilidh rarely comes out on top. She contrasts the formality of CalSoc rehearsals with her previous experience of ceilidh: in a stuffy basement, she found that ceilidh meant ‘descending into a hellish, slightly pagan underworld’. Here, as in reeling societies across the country, ceilidh and reeling are set up as sibling practices – equal in their Scottishness, diverging only in the etiquette they demand. But reeling tends to feel rather out of step with modern-day Scotland. It’s telling, perhaps, that it remains the preserve of lairds and Londoners; yet more telling is its insistence on propriety. The CalSoc website is strict on both dress (‘shorter dresses, jumpsuits, and skirts are not acceptable’) and training (mathematical dance diagrams are provided).While claiming to bring ‘Scotland to the South’, this codification of reeling misses what makes ceilidh so appealing – its inclusivity. CalSoc co-opts, only to gatekeep.

You absolutely should feel like you’re descending into the pits of hell. It will be very sweaty and you will probably be knocked over. It doesn’t matter if you don’t know the steps: someone else will lead the way. Ideally you should wake up with bruises. You don’t have to be dressed up, you don’t have to be drunk, and you absolutely do not have to be Scottish. What’s important is that it’s an inclusive and open practice. Ceilidhs have featured in my life since childhood, and still the moment I’ve felt closest to the tradition was in fact in Oxford. My friends and I held an impromptu ceilidh in our living room: there was absolutely no space and no one knew what they were doing. Yet the genuine attempt to engage, the joy and lack of pomp (and black tie) was what made it so special. I don’t disagree with the enthusiasm the CalSoc committee seem to demonstrate; ceilidh dancing is a wonderful practice which can absolutely improve your life. But you don’t need a dance card, training sessions, or an £80 ticket to do so.

St Anne’s announces the Jane Schulz-Hood Travel and Research Scholarship

0

St Anne’s College has recently launched the Jane Schulz-Hood Travel and Research Scholarship Fund in memory of alumna Jane E. Hood. The initiative will provide travel and research grants to support students undertaking field work for projects that advance understanding of ecology, the environment, society, global health, and equity issues. 

By providing financial assistance for research and travel, it intends to support students to meaningfully contribute to fields that were important to Jane, where they might otherwise be limited by financial barriers. According to St Anne’s, the fund aligns with its mission to help students “understand the world and change it for the better”. 

Established by Jane’s family, the scholarship honours both her achievements and her commitment to education. After graduating from Oxford with a BA in Geography, she built a distinguished career as a lawyer in London. Jane passed away in September 2019 at the age of 49, after a battle with cancer. 

Her husband Christian said: “For her, education was always a top priority. This included learning as much as possible about other cultures.

“Not surprisingly, Jane loved travelling. She was always very respectful towards others and cherished being in nature. She therefore was interested in the environment and supported initiatives that look after wildlife, water and education.” 

Christian added: “Through this fund, we hope that, by providing financial support for research and travel, students at St Anne’s will be able to explore areas that were important to Jane. This will be a wonderful opportunity to give back and to have a legacy for Jane.

St Anne’s told Cherwell that the College “expects to award the grants annually, with the intention that they’ll begin being offered as soon as the fund is fully established”, within the 2026-27 academic year.

“We are thrilled that this Scholarship Fund will become a living legacy for Jane’s generosity of spirit, love of education and deep respect for people and the planet. We look forward to seeing the impact it will have on the next generation of St Anne’s students.”

‘We’re all writing for screenshots these days’: In conversation with Jonathan Liew

0

Jonathan Liew is a sportswriter and Opinion columnist for The Guardian. He has been named Young Sports Writer of the Year, Sports Writer of the Year, and Sports Columnist of the Year at the annual British Sports Journalism Awards.

When the call connects, Jonathan Liew spends the first five minutes asking me instead about whether you can get through an Oxford tutorial having not read the book your essay is about and what the news diet for students my age looks like. People don’t want to read, I say. They want to scroll past snappy, shareable quotes blown up on an Instagram post. Do you think that’s where news consumption’s going?

“Arguably, that’s where it’s been for ages”, Liew, previously a full-time sportswriter and now writing across both Sports and Opinion for The Guardian, counters. “These questions were being asked when television was introduced: a huge portion of every society has not really wanted to read. We’re always fighting these battles – and winning.” 

But social media’s different; you had to sit down in front of the television, I point out. Now you can look at it all day, every day, in the palm of your hand. 

“Well, the means of consumption are obviously changing”, Liew begins, before he pauses and swivels back towards the camera, like a fox that’s just clocked the silent jaws of the trap around its leg. “Has the interview started?”

Yes and no. In many ways, the shrinking attention span of the modern reader has steered the journalism we consume towards the digital and visual modes. “A lot of future long-form journalism isn’t going to be presented directly to audiences”, Liew predicts, in the same way that TikToks are often a summary of articles that already exist. The Guardian, he tells me, is working out how to tell their written stories in more visual forms, and paragraphs of his work often end up being repackaged for vertical video. 

This highlight-reel approach sounds antithetical to how a well-crafted piece should be consumed. To Liew, however, it’s not a threat, merely a different form of consumption: “To some extent, we’re all writing for screenshots these days”, he says. “You’re trying to hit high notes in the same way that a musician who’s making an album is also trying to make catchy hooks. Of course, my main intention is for people to experience reading it front to back, but [these Reels] are a way of propagating what I do to people who weren’t ever going to read it in the first place.”

The duty of engagement, he believes, falls instead to the writer. “An infinite scroll does not work with writing. If you write a paragraph that bores someone, that allows them to switch off and click somewhere else, that’s your fault.” 

Is there a distinction, then, between a great journalist and a great writer? (Imagine, if you will, that you can see the capital G on ‘great’.) “Undoubtedly”, Liew agrees. Football transfer journalist David Ornstein, who has four million followers on X and is 2025’s Sportswriter Of The Year: “A brilliant journalist. Is he a brilliant writer? He’d tell you: obviously not.” 

What we’re seeing is a shift, an increase in demand for the work of journalists as opposed to that of writers. Most people engage with sports through the lens of fandom, and fandom is, by its very nature, “fanatically obsessive” and driven by a desire to consume. “People will read [the same piece of news about a player’s injury] twenty different ways, just because the player’s from your club, and you’ll want to consume everything you can about your club”. That’s the predominant business model for media outlets: The Athletic, for instance, will have Chelsea writers producing Chelsea content for Chelsea fans, leading to a narrower and narrower chamber, a singular obsession with a singular subject. 

But it’s not that writing’s getting worse; it’s just that the proliferation of said made-to-order content is making the good stuff harder to find. The quality of sports journalism can’t suffer if “it wasn’t very good to start with”. Growing up in the 1990s, Liew remembers the standard of football writing being far worse than it is today; he calls the 2010s a golden age for sports writing – any kind of writing, really – because the “democratising, disruptive force of the Internet pushed new names and ideas and styles which would never have gotten through traditional media to the forefront”. 

And now? In this age of the Internet, where writing has seemingly become more democratised than ever, and everyone can produce a podcast, start a Substack, write a blog? “Now it’s easier than ever to publish”, Liew says with a rueful smile. “But it’s harder than ever to have a voice. 

“The big fish in the pond have a much better idea of how to dominate the information environment in a way that was not remotely true ten years ago […] take the football podcast market: it’s dominated by Lineker’s podcast, by Gary Neville’s, Peter Crouch’s, Wayne Rooney’s.” 

It’s true that plenty of people will passively accept a diet of middling-quality news from legacy media. Liew, though, is persistently optimistic about the countercultural impulse to seek out the new and interesting, to push back against mainstream content and elevate smaller, unconventional voices: “Humans are drawn to those sorts of people – I am, certainly. And I do honestly believe that people will find your writing if it’s really good, because we’re able to recognise brilliant things.”  

I push: What exactly makes brilliant writing, then? Uniqueness and urgency, Liew answers after some thought. “It has to be of its time. And that’s why live sports writing is some of the best sports writing – it’s so entirely and thoroughly soaked in the moment it was produced, it’s time-stamped like the rings inside a tree.”

As for uniqueness, he draws his own inspiration from sources across genres: “Bill Bryson – this travel and science writer – [what I took from him was that] a piece of writing could both inform and entertain. Daniel Kitson, a comedian: an awareness of what words sound funny, an awareness of the audience.” And a name that will undoubtedly be more familiar: “I was incredibly influenced by Zadie Smith, and so for a while I was trying to write football match reports in her flat, clean, beautiful style. Very often, I’ll think: what if Zadie Smith were writing about the World Darts Championship? And even though those two things have never aligned, I’ll [use that question to] create something that is both incredibly derivative but also entirely original.” 

But as a sports journalist, Liew’s favourite kind of writing is the kind that depicts “what sport does to athletes, to fans, to countries” instead of pieces produced purely to keep up with the pressures of the endless content mill. “Sometimes”, he suggests, “[the Sport section of The Guardian] should just say: got nothing for you today. I feel that way about some of the columns I’ve written: you didn’t need to hear from me. That piece wasn’t necessary”.

So which ones are? “Opinions that are a conduit to greater understanding or better policy or simply a more humane and empathetic world. If you’ve written an opinion and you’re not trying to do one of those things, then it was pointless.” Take Liew’s columns about the racist abuse players like Vinicius Jr regularly experience. “There’s a huge proportion of the sports journalism world that doesn’t think about racism or sexism or transphobia. You can tell from their coverage that what their articles are really saying is: it’s a shame we have to talk about creating a more equal society instead of about set pieces and VAR.” 

He maintains that beyond the subject matter of his columns, it’s his craft that both facilitates and embodies the message of his work: “If something is pleasant to read, you’re much more likely to consume it, and thereby the message contained within it.

“In this day and age, to aspire to write well, to aspire to write floridly and not hide your intelligence under a bushel, is itself a quietly subversive act in an age of mindless content and young people like you being told to give up your arts degree. There is something intrinsically political in wanting to create art. And I don’t shy away from the fact that that’s what I’m trying to do, even if I’m writing up press conference quotes from the San Siro. If you’re not aspiring to make something lasting, I don’t know why you’re doing it.” 

The final question I have for Liew is also probably one of the most asked: how does one balance a love for sport with the labour that writing about it constantly demands?

To answer that, we look back instead of forward. It’s 11th December, and England has just lost 2-1 to France in the quarterfinal of the 2022 World Cup. Liew is standing outside the stadium in Qatar; from inside comes the sound of joy and the silence of despair. He’s thinking: I don’t want to be here anymore. He’s thinking: Thousands of people would give a kidney to be in my position. He thinks and thinks, and finally he asks The Guardian: Can I fly home? “I gave up a World Cup final because I wanted to see my family”, Liew finishes. He doesn’t look regretful in the slightest, only thoughtful. 

“Inversely, since writing about sport a lot less, I’ve started watching it a lot more”, he tells me. “I’m no longer asking the question: is this leisure, or is this work? The Champions League and the Premier League are incredible products, which were eventually ruined for me by having to write about them several hundred times in a row. And I suppose now I stand to have politics sullied for me in the same way”, he concludes, before he’s called away and we have to hastily wrap up our chat. 

Sitting here, I ask myself, as Liew did: was this research or enjoyment? Was this fun? Yes. More so, perhaps, if I didn’t have to write about it. Then again, it wouldn’t be a story if I didn’t.

How a Quality Foundation Prevents Shed Floor Rot

A quality foundation prevents shed floor rot by keeping the wood elevated above damp soil, promoting drainage, and blocking the moisture that fungi need to grow. Without a proper base, even the most expensive shed can start rotting from the bottom up within just a few years. That’s not a scare tactic – it’s what happens when wood stays in constant contact with wet ground. The good news is that most rot problems are entirely preventable, and it all starts before the shed itself goes up.

Why Shed Floors Rot in the First Place

Rot is wood decay caused by fungi. Those fungi need two things to survive: organic material (the wood itself) and moisture. Take away the moisture, and you take away the rot. Simple as that.

The problem is that soil holds moisture almost constantly. After rain, after morning dew, even during humid summer nights – the ground stays damp far longer than most people realize. When a shed floor sits directly on that soil, or even just inches above it without proper airflow, moisture migrates upward into the wood. Over time, fungal colonies establish themselves, and the floor starts to soften, discolor, and crumble.

A few specific conditions make things worse:

  • Shade from trees keeps the soil from drying out between rain events;
  • Low-lying ground lets water pool around the shed base;
  • Clay-heavy soil drains poorly and stays wet for days after rainfall;
  • No airflow beneath the floor traps humidity against the wood indefinitely.

Understanding this makes it obvious why foundation choice matters so much. It’s not just structural support – it’s your first and most important line of defence against moisture damage.

What Makes a Foundation “Rot-Resistant”

A rot-resistant foundation does two things well: it elevates the shed off the ground, and it manages water so it drains away instead of pooling. Any foundation that achieves both of those goals will dramatically extend the life of a shed floor.

Elevation matters because it creates an air gap between the floor joists and the soil. That gap allows air to circulate underneath the shed, which keeps the wood dry even when the surrounding ground is wet. Ideally, the bottom of the floor frame should sit at least 6 inches above grade – enough clearance that moisture can’t wick up through direct contact and air can actually move through the space.

Drainage matters because standing water is the enemy. A foundation that sits in a low spot where water collects after rain will eventually fail regardless of what it’s made of. The ground beneath and around the foundation should slope away from the shed on all sides, directing runoff away from the structure rather than toward it.

Gravel Foundations: The Most Practical Choice for Most Sheds

For residential sheds, a compacted gravel pad is widely considered the best balance of cost, performance, and ease of installation. Gravel drains freely – water passes straight through it and into the soil below rather than sitting on the surface. It also stays stable under load, doesn’t shift or heave the way bare soil does, and creates a clean, firm base that keeps the shed structure level over time.

A proper gravel foundation typically involves excavating 4 to 6 inches of topsoil, laying landscape fabric to suppress weed growth, and filling with compacted gravel. The pad should extend several inches beyond the shed footprint on all sides to prevent soil erosion around the edges and to keep the shed walls clear of ground contact.

Companies like the premium site preparation company Site Prep specialise in exactly this kind of work – proper site grading, pad compaction, and foundation prep done to the standard that actually protects a shed long-term. Getting the groundwork right from the start is almost always cheaper than dealing with rot repairs five years down the road.

Concrete Pads: Durable but with Caveats

Concrete is extremely durable and creates a perfectly level surface, which makes it appealing for larger sheds or workshop-style buildings where a flat, hard floor matters. But concrete isn’t automatically rot-proof. If a concrete slab is poured without adequate drainage planning, water can pool on the surface or wick up through the slab and contact the wooden frame of the shed.

For concrete to work well as a shed foundation, it needs to be slightly crowned or sloped to drain, and the shed frame needs to be isolated from the concrete surface with a pressure-treated sill plate or a barrier like a foam gasket or flashing. Direct wood-to-concrete contact is a slow-motion rot problem – concrete holds capillary moisture, and wood sitting on it without a barrier will absorb that moisture steadily.

Concrete piers or deck blocks used at corners and midpoints are a lighter-weight version of the same concept. They lift the floor frame off the ground, allow air circulation underneath, and avoid the drainage complications of a full slab. For sheds in the 100 to 300 square foot range, pier foundations work very well.

What Happens When the Foundation Is Skipped or Done Cheaply

Sheds placed directly on the ground – on bare soil, on landscape timbers sitting in soil, or on cinder blocks with no gravel base – almost always develop rot issues eventually. The timeline depends on climate and wood treatment, but the outcome is predictable.

First, the floor joists start to soften where they contact the soil. Then the rot spreads inward, compromising the structural integrity of the whole floor. By the time someone notices a soft spot underfoot, significant damage has usually already occurred. Replacing a rotted shed floor means removing everything stored inside, pulling up the flooring, replacing joists, and rebuilding – a project that costs far more than a proper foundation would have.

There’s also the pest angle. Rotting wood attracts termites, carpenter ants, and other wood-boring insects that accelerate the damage and can spread to other structures nearby. Ongoing research on wood floor moisture problems confirms that moisture intrusion is the root cause behind the majority of premature shed failures – and that the foundation is the most critical variable.

Additional Steps That Work Alongside A Good Foundation

Even with a solid gravel or concrete foundation in place, a few more steps help keep shed floors dry over the long term.

Pressure-treated lumber for the floor frame is non-negotiable. Standard untreated wood will rot regardless of foundation quality if it gets wet enough. Pressure treatment forces chemical preservatives deep into the wood grain, making it resistant to both fungal decay and insect damage. The floor sheathing – typically 3/4-inch plywood – should also be pressure-treated or at minimum sealed on all cut edges before installation.

Gutters and downspouts make a bigger difference than most people expect. Without them, rain sheeting off the shed roof hits the ground directly at the foundation line and splashes mud and moisture up against the shed siding and floor frame. Routing that water away through downspouts to splash blocks or French drains keeps the foundation area significantly drier.

Ventilation underneath the floor matters just as much as ventilation above. If the shed sits on piers or has open sides below the floor frame, air moves through freely. If the shed is fully skirted, make sure there are vents in the skirting to prevent moisture from accumulating in that enclosed space.

Finally, site selection plays a role before any foundation work begins. A shed placed in a low area that collects runoff will always fight moisture. If possible, choose the highest available spot, or plan grading work to redirect water away from the site before installing any foundation.

Signs Your Current Shed Foundation Is Failing

If you already have a shed and want to assess whether the foundation is holding up, here’s what to look for:

  • Soft or springy spots when walking on the floor;
  • Discoloration, dark staining, or visible mold on the underside of the floor;
  • A musty smell inside the shed, especially after rain;
  • The shed sitting visibly unlevel or settled to one side;
  • Floor joists or sill plates that feel spongy when pressed with a screwdriver;
  • Gaps between the floor and wall framing where the structure has shifted.

Catching these signs early gives you options. In some cases, jacking the shed up, replacing the affected joists, and installing a proper gravel foundation underneath can save the structure. If the rot has spread extensively into the wall framing or sill plates, a full replacement may be more cost-effective.

The Bottom Line

Shed floor rot is not inevitable. It’s the result of predictable conditions – moisture, wood contact with soil, poor drainage – that a well-designed foundation directly prevents. A compacted gravel pad, properly graded and sized, keeps the floor frame elevated, drained, and ventilated. That single investment, done correctly before the shed goes up, is what separates a structure that lasts 20 years from one that needs major repairs in five.

Get the foundation right first. Everything else is easier to protect when the ground beneath the shed is working with you instead of against you.