Friday 4th July 2025
Blog Page 2000

Top Five: Ways to de-stress

5th: Stop

Actively take out 10-15 minutes of each day to just stop. Try to clear your mind of thoughts. Meditate. It doesn’t have to be esoteric. Without thinking about them, become aware of your senses. Then turn your awareness to the rising and falling sensation of your breath.

4th: Laugh
For an instant pick-me-up, LOL, ROFL or whatever the new laughing acronym is. Laughter activates your body’s stress response and then rapidly cools it down. This leaves you relaxed and buzzing with endorphins.

3rd: Eat
From oatstraw to St John’s wort, astragalus to guarana, these foreign sounding words may become your new best friends during exam period. Cut down on caffeine, sugar, nicotine and alcohol and try eating magnesium-rich foods such as porridge, green vegetables, nuts and pulses.

2nd: Breathe
Panicking can increase your average number of breaths per minute from 10-15 to up to 30 or more. Apart from trying to slow your breathing, make sure you inhale through your nose, exhale through your mouth and take longer to exhale than inhale. Don’t hold your breath.

1st: Exercise
A boost to your heart rate and your mood, exercise can reduce worrying, apprehension and nervousness. Aerobic exercise is best at stress-busting. It is now known that the ‘runner’s high’, the heady euphoric state experienced by many of those engaged in aerobic activity (not restricted to running) does exist. Loosen tense muscles and improve your circulation, though, don’t go overboard; pumping yourself too hard can raise the levels of the stress hormone, cortisol.

 

Dine Hard: The Royal Oak

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The Royal Oak, 42-44 Woodstock Road

I am reading a book at the moment. This is not something that happens everyday, so I thought it worth noting in these pages. It is called ‘Obliquity’ and it is written by an economist called John Kay. Kay argues that the best way to achieve a particular end is not to aim at it directly, but instead to mostly ignore it, or else do the opposite. If you want to be happy, seek out pain. If you want to increase profits, try ignoring them. If you want to be rich, stop thinking about money.

This got me thinking (also not necessarily a regular event). One of the problems afflicting many restaurants at the moment is that they focus far too much on the food. They turn themselves into temples of gastronomy. The only problem is, on a quiet night, temples of gastronomy often end up feeling closer to morgues.
The Royal Oak on the Woodstock Road, beloved of students at LMH, St Anne’s and Somerville and almost unknown to everyone else, is not a temple of gastronomy. They claim to have launched a completely new menu, but to me it looks pretty much the same as the old menu. No matter. The food is well-cooked, the beer is good, the building in which it is housed – an old 17th century coaching inn – is wonderful: rambling, atmospheric and full of nooks and crannies. There are board games for the winter and two little gardens for the summer. And because by the time the food arrives you’re invariably half drunk, when you actually lift fork to mouth everything invariably tastes brilliant. Someone at the Royal Oak has clearly read Kay’s book: if you want to design a nice place to eat, stop thinking about the food.

 

 

A manifesto for: the mainstream

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Plaid shirts and eye-wateringly skinny jeans; all indie haircuts and glasses. At Babylove on a Thursday, it’s hard not to know exactly who I mean. They’re alternative and they revel in it. They seem to be among their own, but to pick out your friends from among this sea of identical people becomes a herculean task.

In a quest to be individual they appear to have created a whole new genre of identikit teens, and I frankly don’t get it. Maybe that’s because I am one of the ‘others’ – I am painfully mainstream, and proud of it. I think Britney Spears is the greatest recording artist of all time; my favourite singer is Lemar; I have only been to one concert and that was Hear’Say – when I was 10. And guess what? I bloody loved Hear’Say. I thought the greatest news of the noughties was the Spice Girl reunion and I adore unadulterated cheesy pop: give me Katy Perry, Lady Gaga, JLS or Beyonce any day. My iPod contains classics like B*witched’s ‘C’est la vie’, The Vengaboys’ ‘We’re going to Ibiza’, Hanson’s ‘Mmmbop’, and Miley Cyrus’ ‘The Climb’. It reads like a who’s-who of the most over-played crap blasting out of Capital radio, Heart or, (dare I say it) Magic, but there is a reason these artists top the charts. The thing is, people love pop.

You see, pop makes the music world go round. It may not be universally loved, but record labels know that it will be heard and, more importantly, bought by the masses. Pop makes you feel good; it makes you want to dance; it makes you want to belt along.

Not that the music on a Thursday at Babylove isn’t enjoyable. Don’t get me wrong, with a few vodka and cranberries down me I can dance to pretty much anyhing, and I will.

But I prefer pop. There’s something liberating about indulging in pure, unpretentious, unaffected music for a while. You can listen to a song just for its synthesized beats and auto-tuned artists and you can dance like you’re thirteen again, tipsy after your first Smirnoff Ice.

If you want my advice, abandon Babylove, eschew The xx, and escape the plaid for just one week. Try something that’s not quite so very different – try, I don’t know, Kukui? Because that’s where I’ll be, dancing like my life depends on it with all the other mainstream kids. Who knows? You might even want to come back next week.

 

The Black President

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Last October, Knitting Factory Records issued a choice cut of Fela Kuti’s music entitled The Best of the Black President, thus kick-starting a 45-title Fela reissue programme. Fortunately for the impatient and impecunious, his stylistically consistent career lends itself to the Greatest Hits format.

Fela was a Nigerian musician, radical social activist, one-time presidential candidate and large-scale polygamist (he married twenty-seven women in 1978 alone). In his musical career he created and popularized ‘afrobeat’: a fusion of jazz, funk, and West African ‘highlife’ pop, which is characterized by agitated percussion and call-and-answer vocals (as per much of West African music). The jams are typically long – the average running time across Black President’s thirteen tracks is twelve minutes – and the lyrics politically charged. Afrobeat’s effect on Western music has been profound. Just listen to Talking Heads, Roy Ayers, or TV On The Radio (whose lead singer is Nigerian by birth), and you will hear how he has managed to influence a range of Western musicians.

As a form of funk, afrobeat is only as good as its rhythm section. Add the excellent instrumental solos and the whole thing comes off like Herbie Hancock in his fusion phase. Yet ultimately, as with funk, you will not have much time for this album if you cannot tolerate its strident trumpets and saxophones, which are strewn all over the lengthy tracks like whistling kettles. I find them exhausting; but that may be the point of Fela’s music: not to calm us, nor even to make us dance, but to capture at top volume the restlessness of its social context.

Fela’s criticism of the Nigerian government – both in and outside his music – provoked a succession of increasingly violent incursions by the military on his home. The results are reflected in some of the track names: ‘Zombie’ (a metaphor for the brainwashed Nigerian soldiers); ‘Army Arrangement’; ‘Sorrow, Tears & Blood’ in which he chants, ‘Police dey come/Army dey come/Confusion everywhere’, before mimicking a police siren. The army’s attacks would lead to the death of his mother and the destruction of his home; undeterred, Fela went on to form his own political party and announce his (unsuccessful) candidacy for the presidency of Nigeria.
In his politics he was as untiring as the driving rhythm of his music. Track him down and you can’t fail to be both inspired and a little scared.

Liverpool’s dilemma: to try it or not

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The famous Koppites of Anfield face a mighty quandary on Sunday: at what point does it become acceptable, or even preferable, to disregard passionate blood-bred loyalties and support their beloved Liverpool’s opposition? Are the stakes ever high enough to commit the most unnatural and profane blasphemy in all of football fandom? This weekend, they very probably are.

The horror scenario of gift-wrapping an English league record 19th championship to Manchester United has suddenly and sickeningly emerged as a dangerous possibility for Rafa Benitez’s under-performing team; a win against Chelsea (or even a draw) will send all the momentum, and most likely the title, back to Old Trafford. Can you imagine Gary Neville lifting a Premier League trophy that has been signed, sealed and delivered by his Scouse neighbours? It’s the stuff his dreams are made of. United’s relentless pursuit of a 4th consecutive triumph will either fly or die with the fortunes of Chelsea’s Anfield visit, and you can be certain that Carragher, Gerrard et al will be acutely conscious of that fact. They are professionals, and we should fully expect a level of effort and production to reflect it: let’s just say that any poor performances or uninterested end-of-season lethargy will stir the Mancunian conspiracists.

Liverpool’s hopes for a Champions League spot have evaporated, and their best player, Fernando Torres, is recuperating in Spain as he desperately strives for World Cup fitness: in short, why and how might they want to win this game? Chelsea are formidable adversaries anyway, and the prospect of Liverpool rolling over into careless submission is distinctly feasible. Benitez is already preparing his adios, but granting United such a monumental favour might mean that he is chased out of town even quicker than he can shift his questionable tactical mind to Juventus- a Liverpool win pretty much makes no sense for anyone involved with the club.

Of course, the United-Liverpool rivalry is one of the most intense enmities in sport, and needs no introduction here. Every Liverpool fan would rather see Chelsea hoist the Prem crown before United, especially when the two most decorated teams in English football are tied, neck-and-neck, on 18 championships each. It was back in 1994 that Liverpool fans flaunted an incendiary (and subsequently regrettable) banner on Anfield’s terraces: ‘Au Revoir Cantona And United… Come Back When You’ve Won 18!’ United did wrap up that equalizing title in 2009, and are now on the hunt to supersede their chief foe at the statistical pinnacle of domestic football. Could Liverpool’s players really be willing to sacrifice their own pride in order to salvage some glimpse of consolation from a glib and dire season? Chelsea are good enough to beat this side regardless, and must be favourites even playing away from home: Drogba is an irresistible goal-scoring presence, a colossus who hardly needs assistance from indolent defenders to wreak havoc in the field’s final third.

So, that the Kop will be cheering for the Blues on Sunday seems a near-inevitability. Admittedly, on-pitch martyrdom for the anti-United cause might be less likely, but don’t think it couldn’t happen, either: at the very least, Benitez’s deployment of a severely weakened team should not be a shock. And, perhaps for only one day (ever), the red half of Manchester will spend its Sunday praying for the red half of Merseyside- bizarre twists of fate are nothing new in the Premier League, but this is somethin’ else.

 

‘Experience’ is no substitute for experiment

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With the General Election fast approaching, science might not seem the most obvious issue to decide your vote. I’d disagree—and not just because I’m a self-interested nerd clamouring for funding (though, given the economic and social benefits of research, and how far we are behind other major economies, that is a legitimate worry). The three main parties’ manifestos should leave not only scientists, but all voters with a graver concern: that the scientific method has barely permeated politics.

The scandalous omission is that no-one has made a commitment to more randomised, controlled trials of social interventions. That may sound less like a scandal and more like an arcane statistical complaint, but its consequence is that we have literally no idea whether or not most policies are effective or ineffective, or even good or bad—indeed, we have absolutely no idea if they work at all.

The randomised, controlled trial, or RCT, has long been considered the gold standard in medical research. The first stage is to concoct an intervention: it could be a drug, an exercise regime, a method of teaching children to read, or a way to reduce injuries in pub brawls. Then, you get a statistically significant number of trial subjects: patients for medical trials, perhaps schools or areas of the country when considering social issues. You split your subjects into two groups, one of whom gets the intervention, and one of whom—the ‘control’ group—you give a sugar pill instead of the active drug, or leave them with whatever was the standard before. Critically, you have to split your subjects up randomly, so that no bias afflicts to which group they are assigned.

That’s all there is to it—get a big enough sample, randomise your controls, and you’ve got yourself a gold-standard trial which can tell you to a given degree of statistical confidence whether or not a drug, policing strategy or education reform delivers any real benefits.

What’s the big deal about randomisation? A common feature of a government ‘trial scheme’ is to implement it in the neediest areas first. It may seem rational, even ethical, to dole out help where it’s most needed…but to do so totally invalidates your results. To take a simple example, when things are at their worst they often ‘regress to the mean’: if you’re in the area of the country with the most drug abuse, ‘things can only get better’ as New Labour might have put it. And even if your glowing results are valid (and with a badly-designed trial you have literally no way of knowing), there is no evidence that they will be replicated when you roll out the scheme to less disadvantaged neighbourhoods nationwide.

A common criticism of randomisation is that it is itself unethical—only half of your sample is getting the brilliant new intervention, whilst the remainder struggle on with whatever came before. However, the opposite is surely true: until you’ve done a proper RCT you don’t know which is better, and so it could be that you’re replacing a better system with a worse one without knowing. With a trial, the worst case is that 50% of test subjects receive disbenefit, and everyone in future gets whichever intervention is best: if instead you rely on politicians’ guesswork, the risk is that every future child, patient or criminal may get the worse option, at least until the next administration alters the policy on a revised whim. If one of the methods, old or new, does turn out to be leagues behind the other, statisticians can spot this and abandon the trial for ethical reasons, as happens occasionally in medicine.

So what’s wrong with good old political nouse? Well, the human brain is ill-equipped to assess complex systems like societies, economies or human bodies. The history of medicine is littered with ‘obviously true’ results discredited utterly by proper trial. For example, it turns out that vitamin supplements have no measureable effect on life expectancy. Vitamins aren’t good for you? Who knew? Well, no-one, until they tried it. Imagine what universal political truths we could tear up by subjecting them to scientific scrutiny…and imagine what huge benefits to public health, wealth and wellbeing might be waiting to be unlocked by doing so.

RCTs are no panacea: they will never be able to inform macroeconomics, for example, and cannot assess anything where the goal is unquantifiable. Where they do work, though, they will save time, money and lives, and the only cost will be politicians’ hubris.

The problem, it seems, is that though implementing policy RCTs should be a no-brainer, no-one is offering to do it. Unsurprising, perhaps, in a parliament where 584 of 646 MPs claim to have no interest in science and technology. So can I offer any concrete voting advice beyond the tedious man-in-the-pub call to inaction that ‘they’re all as bad as each-other’? Well, if you look beyond the manifestos, there is a tiny glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel.

The Campaign for Science and Engineering sent a pre-election open letter to the leaders of the three main parties; Gordon Brown’s slightly tardy response is solid but contains no surprises, and David Cameron responded with a reassuring rehash of manifesto material, but Nick Clegg’s reply, in its final point, expressed his ‘hope that this…would usher in an era…[of] regular use of Randomised Controlled Trials in testing new social policy initiatives in those circumstances when the balance of evidence is not conclusive.’

This isn’t perfect: there’s no policy commitment, it wasn’t in the manifesto and, with ‘when the balance of evidence is not conclusive’, there is the distinct whiff of weasel words. It sounds like a get-out clause which leaves the veto with politicians, and it’s also not obvious how the evidence can be ‘conclusive’ before a proper trial has been conducted. However, even this promise-free hope is a cut above the other parties.

Clegg’s aspiration may not be a dealbreaker, but it’s certainly a consideration. We currently have no idea whether what we’re doing works in areas as diverse as primary education and criminal justice. Whoever you vote for, letting the scientific method into politics where it’s appropriate is a policy we should all support vocally.

Review: Boogie Woogie

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Imagine a world where women are as changeable and exchangeable as paintings; where friends manipulate, use and drive each other to suicide in the name of their work; where beauty is only worth its weight in oils, canvas and a famous name.

This is the London Art Scene (LAS), and the world depicted by the new satirical film Boogie Woogie. Based on the 2000 novel of the same name by Danny Moynihan, and directed by Duncan Ward, this is one film which ought to know a thing or two about its subject matter; Moynihan, the son of painters Roderigo Moynihan and Anne Dunne and brother of artist Michael Wishart, has long been a fixture on the arty-party circuit. And Ward is married to Mollie Dent Brocklehurst, an international curator who has worked for the infamous Gagosian Gallery.
And Boogie Woogie does not disappoint. Real names are dropped into the plethora of characters (for example Damien Hirst – also art curator for the film – lent one of his original ‘Spin’ canvases to the project), and familiar incidents make the film fairly believable.

But it is also farcical – no matter how debauched the LAS may be, it is impossible to believe that its main players switch partners with the frequency and callousness of the characters in Boogie Woogie. To take one example, near the beginning of the film Bob Maclestone (Stellen Skarsgard) visits Art Spindle’s gallery to inquire as to whether there may be any new pieces he might be interested in investing in. He looks over assistant Beth’s shoulder at a computer screen and we hear the pair discussing the various merits of certain pictures. The camera pans round and we see the objects of their discussion: photographs of breasts on a plastic surgery website.

Furthermore, the utter disregard for the beauty of art is overwhelming. The characters are ever searching for their hit of the Next Big Thing, valuing art more highly for its ability to draw famous names to a launch party than for any aesthetic sensibility. Without the context of the evolution of art as a creative medium, and seen only through the prism of money, sex and power, it loses – for the audience as well as the characters – any power to move or inspire and becomes yet another commodity; the bread and butter of the super-rich and super-flashy.

Boogie Woogie is a hugely enjoyable film – full of witty one-liners, pretty girls, sex and plenty of intrigue. There are many funny moments, several shocking, one or two sad. The actors are all perfectly in character throughout, none more so than Danny Huston, who gives Art Spindle one of the best laughs on celluloid. Yet it ultimately depicts a hollow, soulless world, and the film skims the gilded surface. There is no desire in Boogie Woogie to swim deeper into the characters and their world, or to find the meanings and motives behind their restless, competitive, highly glamorous lives. Or perhaps the film is trying to say that there are none.

 

Now you see her, now you don’t

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For the first ten minutes, the plot of The Disappearance of Alice Creed seems simple enough. Martin Compston and Eddie Marsan play two men making the rigorous preparations for the kidnapping of a young girl from a wealthy background (Gemma Arterton); nothing we haven’t seen before. But that’s just the first ten minutes. After that the film hurtles through so many twists that to say anything beyond “things start to go wrong” is to ruin the film for prospective viewers.

The director, J Blakeson, creates a relentlessly claustrophobic atmosphere for the main part of the film which is set entirely within the confines of a three-room flat. This leads to a pervading sense of intensity and focus. Aside from some occasional references to Alice Creed’s father and the potential threat of the police, for most of the movie there is absolutely no notion of the outside world. And even when the film ventures into open space there is still an unyielding focus on its three main characters. As a result, all of the attention is paid to the tenuous relationships between Danny (Martin Compston), Vic (Eddie Marsan) and Alice (Gemma Arterton); relationships which alone are enthralling enough to make this film far better than the average thriller.

The film is led by three impressive and nuanced performances from its stars. In this hostage situation, the status of the characters is continually shifting and these changes are skilfully handled by the actors. Watching the film, you’re never quite sure what will happen next because Vic, Danny and Alice are all continually surprising in their actions and even more so in their motivations.

The Disappearance of Alice Creed is far more subtle than most kidnapping stories. Usually the fraught atmosphere in these films is derived or at least supported by the reaction of those awaiting or handling the return of the hostage. Here, the intrigue and suspense is only about those directly involved with the kidnapping and as such there is a far more visceral presentation of the violence and truth of the act. The physical struggle and humiliation of Alice, whilst occasionally hard to watch, is necessary for a complete understanding of the danger involved in the situation. And that’s what sets this film apart; it may be lurid in its violence, but it is never gratuitous.

Instead of relying solely on the suspense created by the presence of weapons or finding plot twists from gunshots, these numerous twists tend to arrive in a surprisingly quiet way. There isn’t a clichéd, pounding soundtrack to lead us towards the revelations which completely alter the emotional landscape of the film. Instead, these occur in the most unexpected circumstances; one such revelation is subtlety dropped into the middle of conversation and it manages to surprise whilst simultaneously clarifying all of the previous action. It is this ability to create shocking but plausible moments which makes Blakeson’s debut feature film one of the best thrillers to have been released for a long time. Even the most attentive viewer won’t be able to predict the turns in action and tone which make the film truly exhilarating.

 

Scholarship ‘severely tainted’ by Nazi past

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Fresh doubts have been cast over Alfred Toepfer, the controversial German multi-millionaire whose foundation provides prizes for Oxford students.

An investigation carried out by Dr. Michael Pinto-Duschinsky, Britain’s leading expert on the funding of political parties and elections, has exposed evidence that Toepfer supported the Third Reich.

According to the investigation, Toepfer took known Nazi war criminals into his employment, and assisted a high-ranking SS officer to flee justice.

Toepfer set up the prestigious Shakespeare Prize in 1937, which has been awarded to numerous high profile British personalities, including Tom Stoppard, Simon Rattle and, more recently, Richard Dawkins. The Prize was discontinued in 2006.

The Alfred Toepfer foundation also works in cooperation with Oxford University on the Hanseatic Scholarship programme, an annual prize worth €15,000 for graduates or final-year undergraduates of Oxford or Cambridge. The prize was originally set up through a collaboration between German officials, and senior figures at the Taylorian institute, in an effort to promote Anglo-German relations.

The impact that these findings will have on Oxford University’s link to the Alfred Toepfer Foundation is as yet unclear.

A statement from the University says that Pinto-Duschinsky’s material “will be reviewed by a special sub-committee of Oxford University’s Committee to Review Donations comprising representatives from the Universities of Oxford and Cambridge. The sub-committee will also consider the response of the Toepfer Foundation to these representations.”

The sub-committee will meet on June 14 with Pinto-Duschinsky and with the chief executive of the Alfred Toepfer foundation.

In 1993, 1996 and 1999, protests led to the abandonment of annual prizes awarded by the Universities of Vienna and Strasbourg.

No such decision was made at Oxford. The competition for the Hanseatic Prize was held last term, despite the ongoing review of Oxford’s position.

Among the findings published in the April issue of Standpoint magazine, Dr. Pinto-Duschinsky reveals that Toepfer was closely associated with numerous convicted Nazis, notably SS Brigadier Edmund Veesenmeyer, the German diplomat in Budapest during the Holocaust overseeing the deportation of Jews to Auschwitz.

Toepfer employed Barbara Hacke, the personal secretary to Veesenmayer from 1940-1945, as his own secretary, and Veesenmayer too was employed by Toepfer after his release from Landesberg castle, where he had been imprisoned for war crimes.

Pinto-Duschinsky’s investigations also describe the case of Hartmann Lauterbacher, a former SS Major-General and former head of the Hitler Youth. Lauterbacher was in hiding having escaped from Italian custody. A request was made that Toepfer contact an associate in Buenos Aires asking him to help Lauterbacher set up a new life in Argentina. A copy of Toepfer’s letter of recommendation, dated 2 October 1950, survives in the Alfred Toepfer Foundation.

The Foundation accepts the truth of all of these findings. Ansgar Wimmer, its CEO, told Cherwell, “for more than ten years this foundation has been actively trying to promote transparency and to face its past in a responsible manner. No one at our foundation today trivialises any aspect of Alfred Toepfer’s biography.”

In a letter to the Frankfurter Allgemeine Newspaper, Dr. Pinto-Duschinsky calls for the foundation to recognize the “unvarnished truth” about their founder. Arguing that “truth and apology are among the essentials of reconciliation”.

An apology on the part of the Foundation and Toepfer’s family has been refused, since, says Wimmer, “no public apology can undo Alfred Toepfer’s individual responsibility or lessen his moral guilt. I find the concept of ‘apologizing’ for someone else’s guilt erroneous and not helpful […] it is likely to present a quick and hollow escape from a far more profound responsibility to learn the lessons from the past for the future.”

In a letter to Pinto-Duschinsky published on its website, the foundation states that “as far as we know today, he did not participate directly or indirectly in the Holocaust, nor did he deny its existence.”

Toepfer was never a member of the Nazi Party, and reportedly did not profit from wartime activities, which included the supplying of slaked lime to cover bodies in the Lodz ghetto in occupied Poland.

Writing in the Standpoint, Pinto-Duschinsky warned of the danger of “greywashing” the Holocaust. He argued that “as long as the past is explained away, the moral basis for a new Europe cannot yet exist and British universities should not accept money tainted by denial”.

Some, however, question the significance of the findings. Tom Kuhn, a fellow of St. Hugh’s and member of the Selection committee for the Hanseatic Scholarships, says that “the long and the short is that there is nothing new in the Standpoint article. Most of what has been published before has been the product of research funded by the Foundation itself. In my view the Foundation has, in recent years, been exemplary in confronting the history of its founder and putting the facts in the public domain[…] I don’t think an apology is either here or there.” Most of the details on Toepfer in Pinto-Duschinsky’s article had already been published in 2000 in a biography of Toepfer.

“A boycott, of work aimed at international exchange and mutual understanding, does not seem a sensible way forward” said Kuhn.

When questioned about this, Pinto-Duschinsky replied that “to say that an apology for Toepfer’s odious acts is ‘neither here nor there’ is morally flippant. It is incorrect that there is nothing new in my publication. It reveals vital findings. And the case against the University’s involvement with the Toepfer foundation has nothing to do with an academic boycott.”

Many former students of Oxford are now having to come to terms with the fact that the source of funds from which they benefited are “severely tainted” by the history of their founding donor.

Daniel Johnson, Editor of Standpoint and former recipient of the Hanseatic Scholarship, said “Those who administered [Toepfer’s] legacy have a duty to offer an apology to all those who were misled” adding that “Oxford…can continue to endorse the Hanseatic Scholarships only if their problematic provenance is fully and openly acknowledged”.Toepfer died in 1993, aged 99.

 

Oxford: the big gay truth

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Ever had homosexual fantasies? How far have you gone with a member of the same sex? Is heterosexuality really the “norm”? The truth “comes out” in an anonymous survey on sexual orientation, even if you won’t.

Over 1 in 5 men at Oxford have had gay sex, according to a Cherwell survey of the sexual orientation of over 400 students.

57.2% of the respondents said that they had had homosexual fantasies. 54.2% of men also said that they had had fantasied about gay sex, with a slightly higher proportion of women claiming to have had such fantasies.
One in ten students said they were fully homosexual and only 35.7% of students claimed to be completely heterosexual.

Even though there was no significant difference between males and females said they had had homosexual fantasies, men appeared to be less likely than women to conclude they were bisexual when asked to describe their sexual orientation on a scale of 1 to 7 (1 = homosexual and 7 = heterosexual).

A greater proportion of men placed themselves at either extreme of sexual orientation. Significantly more men than women (14.8 % as opposed to 3.0%) said they considered themselves at all homosexual.

Again, men proved to be more extreme when it came to experimenting with the same sex. While slightly more women said they had kissed other women, twice as many men (31.2%) said they had performed or received oral sex with another man than women said they had had with other women.
Similarly, only 15.2% of women said they had had sex with a member of the same sex, compared with the 22.8% of men.
65.1% of women said they had watched heterosexual porn. 49.5% of men had watched gay porn, followed closely by the 40.4% of women who ticked the box for watching lesbian porn.

Homosexual tendencies are common in Oxford. Yet students still seem to feel unable to “come out” – only 50.0% of homosexual and bisexual individuals said they had come out to both family members and friends. 13.1% of these students said they hadn’t told anyone.

Hardly anyone who came out claimed they had faced any hostility from their friends, but quite a number revealed that their parents had not taken the news well. One student said that that his parents had initially told him that they “wouldn’t have been more upset if I had been diagnosed with a terminal illness”.

Many admitted that they wouldn’t come out because they feared their family’s reaction. One female student wrote, “My family are orthodox Roman Catholics, they therefore see homosexuality as unquestionably wrong”.
The figures from the survey point to the fact that the majority of people are to some extent attracted to both sexes – 62% of female respondents and 46.9% of male. Bisexual individuals often said they wouldn’t come out, not from a fear of hostility, but rather because they felt that bisexuality was not understood or taken seriously.

One male student said that when he told his parents he was bisexual they “denied bisexuality existed and said I was just ‘confused’ and ‘wrong'”. A couple of students said that they didn’t see the point of coming out as they were “happy with living a heterosexual life”.

28.6% of those who identified themselves homosexuals said that they realised they were homosexual before the age of ten.

Environmental factors such as single-sex schooling seemed to have no significant effect on sexual orientation.
Strangely, 34.5% of those who believe that homosexuality is unnatural admitted to having homosexual fantasies, and a further 43.1% said they were not completely heterosexual.

One female student, who admitted to having homosexual fantasies while also believing such tendencies were unnatural, confessed, “I hate myself, but it’s how I am. Very confusing”.

Of those who ‘strongly believe homosexuality is unnatural’ 39.1% use derogatory names for homosexuals “all the time”.

Another quirk of the survey has shown that a greater proportion of homosexuals admit to using derogatory terms for homosexuals or bisexuals than everyone else. “Faggot” was considered to be the most offensive word. The word “gay” as synonymous for “rubbish” was disliked nearly just as much as “fudge packer” or “dyke”.

One student writes, “Using ‘gay’ as a synonym for ‘lame’ really bothers me, as it shows how engrained homophobic mindsets can be, even if the person is generally tolerant and accepting.”

On the other hand, the vast majority of Oxford students claimed that they wouldn’t be bothered if a member of their family was homosexual or bisexual, or if a homosexual couple kissed in front of a child under the age of eight.

93.6% of students believed you should be taught about homosexuality in schools, with over half advocating that you should learn about it during Infant school or Junior school. 67.0% believed that a homosexual couple should be able to adopt as easily as a heterosexual one.