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Tories’ uni lives captured by Channel 4

A drama about David Cameron and Boris Johnson’s time at Oxford University has been commissioned by Channel 4.

The programme will focus on the pair’s controversial membership of the notorious Bullingdon Club in the late 1980s. The Club is famous for its excessive drinking sessions where members often trash venues and then offer large sums of money to pay for the damage.

“Everyone has seen the famous Bullingdon Club picture, but this film goes behind the scenes to find out what Oxford was really like for David Cameron and Boris Johnson,” said director John Dower.

“We have talked to those who knew them at the time to document the roots of the two men at the forefront of the current recovery of the Tory party.”

The film is to be broadcast on More4 in autumn. The timing of the broadcast, in the run-up to an election, has attracted criticism from Tory MPs who are concerned it may influence voters. Philip Davies, a member of the House of Commons Committee on Culture, Media and Sport, said the timing of the programme left Channel 4 open to “accusations they are pursuing an agenda”. 

Cameron will be played by Cambridge graduate Jonny Sweet, a relatively unknown comedy actor who has appeared in cult comedy “The Inbetweeners” and who took his one man show “Mostly About Arthur” to the Edinburgh Fringe this summer. 

The part of Boris Johnson is to be played by Christian Brassington, who previously played an undergraduate Tony Blair in the 2006 television drama “Tony Blair: Rock Star”.

 

‘Bloggers bid to break back of BCA

You may have read about the British Chiropractic Association’s ‘misconceived’ attempt to sue science journalist Simon Singh for his comments about the dubious basis in evidence for this alternative therapy. There is plenty of quality ire about this topic online already, so I won’t be adding to the hubbub; but if you’re feeling keen, Ben Goldacre has a pretty comprehensive round-up.

After legal action was sought, the Guardian piece in question was taken down. Today, encouraged by the charity Sense About Science, a veritable shedload of websites have republished the article minus the allegedly libellous comments. It is worth noting that the BCA only objected to two sentences.

If you have a ’blog, feel free to either republish or link to this, or any of the other copies of the article online.

Beware the spinal trap

Some practitioners claim it is a cure-all, but the research suggests chiropractic therapy has mixed results—and can even be lethal, says Simon Singh.

You might be surprised to know that the founder of chiropractic therapy, Daniel David Palmer, wrote that ‘99% of all diseases are caused by displaced vertebrae’. In the 1860s, Palmer began to develop his theory that the spine was involved in almost every illness because the spinal cord connects the brain to the rest of the body. Therefore any misalignment could cause a problem in distant parts of the body.

In fact, Palmer’s first chiropractic intervention supposedly cured a man who had been profoundly deaf for 17 years. His second treatment was equally strange, because he claimed that he treated a patient with heart trouble by correcting a displaced vertebra.

You might think that modern chiropractors restrict themselves to treating back problems, but in fact some still possess quite wacky ideas. The fundamentalists argue that they can cure anything, including helping treat children with colic, sleeping and feeding problems, frequent ear infections, asthma and prolonged crying—even though there is not a jot of evidence.

I can confidently label these assertions as utter nonsense because I have co-authored a book about alternative medicine with the world’s first professor of complementary medicine, Edzard Ernst. He learned chiropractic techniques himself and used them as a doctor. This is when he began to see the need for some critical evaluation. Among other projects, he examined the evidence from 70 trials exploring the benefits of chiropractic therapy in conditions unrelated to the back. He found no evidence to suggest that chiropractors could treat any such conditions.

But what about chiropractic in the context of treating back problems? Manipulating the spine can cure some problems, but results are mixed. To be fair, conventional approaches, such as physiotherapy, also struggle to treat back problems with any consistency. Nevertheless, conventional therapy is still preferable because of the serious dangers associated with chiropractic.

In 2001, a systematic review of five studies revealed that roughly half of all chiropractic patients experience temporary adverse effects, such as pain, numbness, stiffness, dizziness and headaches. These are relatively minor effects, but the frequency is very high, and this has to be weighed against the limited benefit offered by chiropractors.

More worryingly, the hallmark technique of the chiropractor, known as high-velocity, low-amplitude thrust, carries much more significant risks. This involves pushing joints beyond their natural range of motion by applying a short, sharp force. Although this is a safe procedure for most patients, others can suffer dislocations and fractures.

Worse still, manipulation of the neck can damage the vertebral arteries, which supply blood to the brain. So-called vertebral dissection can ultimately cut off the blood supply, which in turn can lead to a stroke and even death. Because there is usually a delay between the vertebral dissection and the blockage of blood to the brain, the link between chiropractic and strokes went unnoticed for many years. Recently, however, it has been possible to identify cases where spinal manipulation has certainly been the cause of vertebral dissection.

Laurie Mathiason was a 20-year-old Canadian waitress who visited a chiropractor 21 times between 1997 and 1998 to relieve her low-back pain. On her penultimate visit she complained of stiffness in her neck. That evening she began dropping plates at the restaurant, so she returned to the chiropractor. As the chiropractor manipulated her neck, Mathiason began to cry, her eyes started to roll, she foamed at the mouth and her body began to convulse. She was rushed to hospital, slipped into a coma and died three days later. At the inquest, the coroner declared: ‘Laurie died of a ruptured vertebral artery, which occurred in association with a chiropractic manipulation of the neck.’

This case is not unique. In Canada alone there have been several other women who have died after receiving chiropractic therapy, and Edzard Ernst has identified about 700 cases of serious complications among the medical literature. This should be a major concern for health officials, particularly as under-reporting will mean that the actual number of cases is much higher.

If spinal manipulation were a drug with such serious adverse effects and so little demonstrable benefit, then it would almost certainly have been taken off the market.

Oxford tuition fees set to soar above £7000

Students at top universities could face tuition fees of over £7,000 per year by 2013 under plans being developed by both Labour and the Conservatives, the Times reported yesterday.

Students and prospective students across the country are reacting in dismay at the proposal, with online forums such as The Student Room flooded with posts on the subject. 

Both parties are currently considering an overhaul of the system under which top universities would be allowed to lift fees above the current legal limit of £3,225. University vice-chancellors have indicated that a £7,000 maximum fee is a reasonable “consensus” figure; striking the delicate balance between rescuing university finances and being affordable.

The proposal was handed by the former Universities secretary, John Denham, to Lord Mandelson, the new Business, Innovation and Skills secretary. Denham’s plan also calls for a wholesale restructuring of higher education.

Some post-1992 universities and further education colleges could offer free, government-funded “walk to study” degrees, often in vocational subjects, to local students living at home, whilst top institutions like Oxford would be allowed to charge much higher fees than they do at present, with students essentially pre-paying for future earning potential.

The idea was not costed out in the proposal, but it has been estimated that the eventual annual fee at elite institutions could be up to £15,000, nearly five times the current legal maximum. This would leave students a staggering £60,000 in debt at the end of a three year course, compared to the current NUS estimate of £20,000.

Earlier this year, Sally Hunt, general secretary of The University and Colleges Union (UCU) said, “increasing fees or the other financial barriers that so many students and parents come up against when considering university is certainly not the way to deliver a world-class university system.”

In contrast, Lord Mandelson said today in his first speech on higher education since it became part of his remit as Business Secretary that Britain needed to “face up” to paying for excellence in higher education. “Bluntly put, excellence is not cheap,” he commented.

Jonny Medland, OUSU’s Vice-President for Access and Academic Affairs, emphasised the need to look for other solutions to the funding problem. “It’s crucial that the funding review examines all possible options without assuming the desirability of increasing the cap on tuition fees. The students of Oxford have voted to support a graduate tax as it provides a fairer way of ensuring that we enjoy world class universities which are accessible to all students.”

Initiatives such as Target Schools have been working hard to demystify Oxford’s reputation as a financially unattainable institution – yet the negative publicity generated by the government’s plans is bound to put off prospective applicants from less well-off backgrounds.

Medland stressed that any raise in fees will need to be accompanied by increasing bursaries. He commented, “Doubling fees risks deterring students from applying to university unless it is matched by a significant expansion in the number of bursaries. Government and universities would need to redouble their efforts to persuade applicants that they were not being priced out of higher education.”

A Week of Standing Out

Living in Brighton, I walk past streams of people that I recognise but don’t actually know—the woman who dresses straight out of the fifties, the man with all the piercings, the man/woman who wears full leather cat suits at the height of summer, individual people who all stand out of the crowd. Safe to say, I am not one of those people. Secretly, I have always wanted to be. Not in the leather cat suit kind of way, but I have spent years attempting to adopt a trademark- a quirky hairstyle, a recognisable style, I even experimented with a trademark ‘walk’ which was quickly faded out. No one has ever pointed at something in a shop and said ‘That is SO you!’- I want them to.

I like to think (delusional?) that I’m not a fashion disaster so I think that a large part of the problem is that I am just plain lazy- it is far easier to sling my hair up in to a ponytail or just leave it plain unbrushed than spend hours casually coiffing it. Likewise, with make-up: I have it down to a fine art of mascara and quick crayoning on of eyeliner which, at a push, I can do without a mirror.

Now, it is summer and I have bags of time, I have no excuses. More importantly I have spent forever wanting a ‘look’ without really knowing if I can a) Pull it off or b) Be bothered so it is time to commit, and for a week, I will try out a different look everyday in the hope that I will find something truly unique, and truly ‘me’.

I decided to start with what I think should be an easy introduction: hair. What is the first thing people notice about Amy Winehouse? The Hair. Which, from now on, will be my hair too- at least for a day. It should be easy. It defiantly isn’t. First I have to backcomb my hair to ‘create a bolus of hair that will act as the foundation’ for my hair to be pinned back onto. I begin, but it’s all rather painful, and I’m looking more scarecrow-esque than Amy. When I think I have succeeded I’m instructed to fold sections over it and pin it or spray it into place. I’m meant to do this until I have ‘created a freestanding mound that can maintain its shape.’ It takes a long, long time and when I am finished, not only is it lopsided in a slightly manic ‘Leaning Tower of Pisa’ way, but it is also so full of pins that no one could run their hands lovingly through my hair for fear of serious injury- not that they could anyway as it is a rock hard, hair spray statue. It is not a good look. Next.

I guess I better start somewhere easier. Make up then? Seeing as I do it everyday, albeit very quickly, this will be a piece of cake. Taking my inspiration from Dita Von Teese, I decide to go for the fifties look. Judging from my hair attempts, I am going to need some time, so I get up super early so that I can make it on time to meet some friends at the beach later. I cover my face in foundation and powder, I fully line my eyes, pencil my eyebrows very dark, struggle to apply false eyelashes (they stick to my fingers, my sinks, my nose, and finally my eyelids). Then the red lipstick. Lipstick scares me. It makes me feel about five years old, as though I have been allowed to play with my mother’s make up. I persevere and look like a child let loose on a pot of strawberry jam. I force myself to go out and for a while it is quite fun, like I’m in fancy dress- but soon I start having fun in the sun and forget to ‘maintain’ it. I return home, look in the mirror, and the Joker from Batman is staring back. It may be a look of sorts, but it is certainly not a winning one.

Maybe I should have started with the clothes instead. I look through my wardrobe and realise how eclectic it is- it shouldn’t be hard to pull together some ‘looks’ from this, should it? The next day, drawing my inspiration from Oxford no less, I begin with ‘geek chic’, although I am hoping that I will verge less towards the Ugly Betty end of the scale. Hello to high waist check shorts, tucked in polo shirt, braces, knee length socks and plimsoles. Topped off with some librarian glasses (clear lense) I head out. A hen party thinks I am one of them, and then swiftly realises our school uniforms aren’t quite in the same vein. I head to the library to find some fellows. Everyone is in jeans. I feel slightly alone. I take my glasses off, ping my braces and go back to start again.

I decide to be a little more grown up. The next day I try a pencil skirt, a high neck shirt, black tights, some very, very high shoes and a tonne of necklaces. I totter about for about ten minutes and then I get a heel caught in the pavement. I huff and puff, jank hard, and necklaces a jangling, I am off again. Until it happens again. I’m not very good at this.

I head onto the Internet for some inspiration. INstyle points me towards the bohemian look and I dig out a maxi dress that has not seen the light of day, some sandals, a whole load of bangles and a headband. As a look, I like it. Then I look out the window, and it is a scene reminiscent of Hurricane Hector. Fearing a duffel coat won’t quite complete the look I bravely head out anyway- within minutes my dress has soaked up so much water from the pavement that it looks distinctly tie-dyed and my sandals are causing me to do my best impression of a drunken rollerblader as I slip and slide all over the pavement. People are definitely noticing me- but only because my dress occasionally wraps itself round my ankles and I fall into them.

When I start trying to base a whole look around a hat (Oliver Twist chic?), I decide to stop. The problem is, that forcing yourself into a ‘style’ leaves you wallowing in a perpetual state of fancy dress. Style, I realise, is not about copying- and whilst I might want to stand out, replicating something I’ve seen on someone else just doesn’t work, at best it looks a little try hard and at worst, people will laugh… and point. From now on I will try a little harder, and at least, even though I haven’t found a look that is ‘me’, I know precisely what isn’t.

 

 

 

 

 

Our Man Abroad: Damascus

Whilst Jordan may have had natural wonders, an endlessly helpful population and some pretty fantastic ruins, there was something that I found slightly bland about the place. This could probably be pinpointed to the abysmal highways and urban planning that saw motorways tearing past beautiful wadis and towns (Ammanin particular) being little more than concrete and tarmac.

Arriving in Damascus the huge underpasses of Amman are replaced by wide, palm-lined boulevards, and there is a sense of prosperity and character so lacking from the Jordanian capital. Perhaps this is an unfair comparison; whilst Damascus can claim to be the world’s oldest continually inhabited city, Amman was barely a crossroads until the British named it as the new state of Jordan’s capital in 1946.

The focal point of Damascus is the old walled city, and near its centre stands the Ummayad Mosque, one of the world’s oldest and largest, reputedly home to the head of John the Baptist. It truly is an outstanding piece of architecture. The great courtyard is paved in acres of marble and around the walls lie green and goldleafed depictions of heavenly valleys. Above the mosque stand three minarets, at one of which it is said that Jesus will appear on judgement day. Surrounding the mosque lies the labarinthine covered Souq selling all imaginable kinds of tat, whilst the rest of the walled city is made up of the Christian and Jewish quarters, a reminder that these religious groups can, and do, live in peace. Whilst the souq is pure arabia, all smells and shouts, the Christian and Jewish quarters are far more similar to a southern european town, the only sign of being in Syria being the arabic street signs.

One is always told that an experience you must have in these places is a hammam. Travelling with two girls meant that I had to head of to bathe solo (mixed bathing is strictly forbidden). Having once had a rather scarring experience in a Saigon massage parlour, I wasn’t exactly leaping at the opportunity for another round of mass nudity, but thankfully the Syrians are slightly more modest. That said, the experience wasn’t one I would recommend. After being shoved into a sauna for a good ten minutes I was guided to the wet room. I managed to hide myself in a corner and ineffectually dab at myself for what seemed like an appropriate length of time (all the time with one eye on the figures visible through the steam). Upon exit of the room I was immediately wrestled to the ground by chap with a glove seemingly made of sandpaper, who attempted to make me bleed from every pore (with some sucess) in the name of exfoliation. Escaping whilst simultaneously turning down a massage, I made a beeline for the showers, only to be told that I hadn’t spent long enough in the wet room. Terrified that I might have to go through the whole thing again, I acquiesced. This time there was no hidden corner-the centre of the bath was taken up by a big baba, lying on the marble like a beached whale, whilst his host of katamites (probably, in fact, his sons, but I was in no mood to be generous) scrubbed him from head to toe. Not wanting to interrupt the scene, I hovered by the door for what seemed like an hour before running out, dodging ‘the exfoliator’, and making my way to the shower and changing room. Never again.

Given Syria’s fairly dubious international relations (only the other day a suspected North Korean aided nuclear facility was bombed by the US air force, to a muted Syrian response, rather suggesting that US suspicions weren’t too far wrong) it is odd that Syria is such a haven for the Amercrombie and Kent tour brigade. Old Damascene houses are constantly being turned into boutique hotels and in 2006 a Four Seasons hotel opened just outside the old city.

Yet within three minutes walk of the Four Seasons lies Martyrs’ Square, still host to public hangings, and from all of Damascus the Japanese designed Presidential palace, a texbook James Bond villain’s pile, is visible, squatting in the hills above the city, seemingly reminding the populous that they are always being watched.

However, the Syrians have a bigger ‘enemy’ (for want of a better word) to worry about. We took a car for the day and headed to Quneitra, in the Syrian controlled Golan Heights. It is here that one can see why Syrians loathe the Israelis so, and why they resent Arab nations, such as Jordan, which are willing to converse with Israel.

The city was captured by Israel in the six day war, and was returned to Syria in 1974 as little more than a pile of rubble. The Israelis had removed everything that could be taken, down to coat pegs and light fittings, before bulldozing the entire town. Perhaps most shocking are the two main religious sights, the church and the mosque. Both were treated with the same level of wanton vandalism. The town’s only human inhabitants now are some Syrian and UN peacekeepers, yet even they are ever watched by the Israeli telescopes that sit on the hill opposite. As an exercise in anti-Israeli propaganda it is awfully successful. The Syrians are not themselves blameless (particularly in their treatment of the Lebanese, which I hope to write about later), but, unlike the Isrealis, they are not afforded the luxury of a democracy with which to choose the actions of their country.

As we sat in one of Damascus’s smartest restaurants (courtesy of the family friend of one of my travelling companions), we found ourselves in the presence of, amongst others, Syria’s richest vegetable oil tycoon and a Franco-Syrian Chess grandmaster. The chatter was political, but it wasn’t necessarily what one might expect. Any talk about Israel related to the desire for a peace treaty and for open trade. Israel is here to stay, and only the most deluded Syrian denies it. The consensus here seems to be that regional stability would allow Syria to persue the development that seems so attainable (particularly the tourism and financial sectors). There are also hopes that progress might ameliorate the refugee issue that Syria, like Jordan, has to cope with.

I left Damascus on a positive note, looking forward to moving onwards into Syria, and seeing what the country had to offer after such a promising start.

 

Our Man Abroad: Damascus

Whilst Jordan may have had natural wonders, an endlessly helpful population and some pretty fantastic ruins, there was something that I found slightly bland about the place. This could probably be pinpointed to the abysmal highways and urban planning that saw motorways tearing past beautiful wadis and towns (Ammanin particular) being little more than concrete and tarmac.

Arriving in Damascus the huge underpasses of Amman are replaced by wide, palm-lined boulevards, and there is a sense of prosperity and character so lacking from the Jordanian capital. Perhaps this is an unfair comparison; whilst Damascus can claim to be the world’s oldest continually inhabited city, Amman was barely a crossroads until the British named it as the new state of Jordan’s capital in 1946.

The focal point of Damascus is the old walled city, and near its centre stands the Ummayad Mosque, one of the world’s oldest and largest, reputedly home to the head of John the Baptist. It truly is an outstanding piece of architecture. The great courtyard is paved in acres of marble and around the walls lie green and goldleafed depictions of heavenly valleys. Above the mosque stand three minarets, at one of which it is said that Jesus will appear on judgement day. Surrounding the mosque lies the labarinthine covered Souq selling all imaginable kinds of tat, whilst the rest of the walled city is made up of the Christian and Jewish quarters, a reminder that these religious groups can, and do, live in peace. Whilst the souq is pure arabia, all smells and shouts, the Christian and Jewish quarters are far more similar to a southern european town, the only sign of being in Syria being the arabic street signs.

One is always told that an experience you must have in these places is a hammam. Travelling with two girls meant that I had to head of to bathe solo (mixed bathing is strictly forbidden). Having once had a rather scarring experience in a Saigon massage parlour, I wasn’t exactly leaping at the opportunity for another round of mass nudity, but thankfully the Syrians are slightly more modest. That said, the experience wasn’t one I would recommend. After being shoved into a sauna for a good ten minutes I was guided to the wet room. I managed to hide myself in a corner and ineffectually dab at myself for what seemed like an appropriate length of time (all the time with one eye on the figures visible through the steam). Upon exit of the room I was immediately wrestled to the ground by chap with a glove seemingly made of sandpaper, who attempted to make me bleed from every pore (with some sucess) in the name of exfoliation. Escaping whilst simultaneously turning down a massage, I made a beeline for the showers, only to be told that I hadn’t spent long enough in the wet room. Terrified that I might have to go through the whole thing again, I acquiesced. This time there was no hidden corner—the centre of the bath was taken up by a big baba, lying on the marble like a beached whale, whilst his host of katamites (probably, in fact, his sons, but I was in no mood to be generous) scrubbed him from head to toe. Not wanting to interrupt the scene, I hovered by the door for what seemed like an hour before running out, dodging ‘the exfoliator’, and making my way to the shower and changing room. Never again.

Given Syria’s fairly dubious international relations (only the other day a suspected North Korean aided nuclear facility was bombed by the US air force, to a muted Syrian response, rather suggesting that US suspicions weren’t too far wrong) it is odd that Syria is such a haven for the Amercrombie and Kent tour brigade. Old Damascene houses are constantly being turned into boutique hotels and in 2006 a Four Seasons hotel opened just outside the old city.

Yet within three minutes walk of the Four Seasons lies Martyrs’ Square, still host to public hangings, and from all of Damascus the Japanese designed Presidential palace, a texbook James Bond villain’s pile, is visible, squatting in the hills above the city, seemingly reminding the populous that they are always being watched.

However, the Syrians have a bigger ‘enemy’ (for want of a better word) to worry about. We took a car for the day and headed to Quneitra, in the Syrian controlled Golan Heights. It is here that one can see why Syrians loathe the Israelis so, and why they resent Arab nations, such as Jordan, which are willing to converse with Israel.

The city was captured by Israel in the six day war, and was returned to Syria in 1974 as little more than a pile of rubble. The Israelis had removed everything that could be taken, down to coat pegs and light fittings, before bulldozing the entire town. Perhaps most shocking are the two main religious sights, the church and the mosque. Both were treated with the same level of wanton vandalism. The town’s only human inhabitants now are some Syrian and UN peacekeepers, yet even they are ever watched by the Israeli telescopes that sit on the hill opposite. As an exercise in anti-Israeli propaganda it is awfully successful. The Syrians are not themselves blameless (particularly in their treatment of the Lebanese, which I hope to write about later), but, unlike the Isrealis, they are not afforded the luxury of a democracy with which to choose the actions of their country.

As we sat in one of Damascus’s smartest restaurants (courtesy of the family friend of one of my travelling companions), we found ourselves in the presence of, amongst others, Syria’s richest vegetable oil tycoon and a Franco-Syrian Chess grandmaster. The chatter was political, but it wasn’t necessarily what one might expect. Any talk about Israel related to the desire for a peace treaty and for open trade. Israel is here to stay, and only the most deluded Syrian denies it. The consensus here seems to be that regional stability would allow Syria to persue the development that seems so attainable (particularly the tourism and financial sectors). There are also hopes that progress might ameliorate the refugee issue that Syria, like Jordan, has to cope with.

I left Damascus on a positive note, looking forward to moving onwards into Syria, and seeing what the country had to offer after such a promising start.

Our Damaged Hero

It is a truism (so I am told by sharper political minds than myself) that a
lame duck leader, one whose authority is soon to be given to another, is
weakened because his sole method of persuasion, that of future grace and
favour, has been removed. That’s why you shouldn’t announce your departure
any earlier than you have to. Thankfully, cricket works the opposite way round.
Flintoff’s power was not potential, but very much in the here and now. He was

magnificent (at least his bowling was) throughout the test, and especially on

the last day. But those people who lament his going on the grounds that he

couldn’t be that frail given his bowling on Monday are missing what is perhaps

Flintoff’s biggest sacrifice.


Flintoff is a damaged man. His ankles and knees bear the brunt of what is a
frankly pretty horrible bowling action. Although I preach to everyone who
listens of the virtue of a frontish-on action, citing the longevity of
bowlers like Donald, Walsh, and McGrath, Flintoff’s is fairly unique with
the stresses it puts on him. He will have been in pain this week post the
test match, and he’ll probably sacrifice his stomach lining with painkillers

to get fit for the coming match. He’ll bowl at lightning pace, knowing that

if he does, he’ll never be able to bowl that fast again. If he was planning

to stay on and bowl in test cricket after the Ashes, he’d never have bowled

as he did last game. I hope his body stands up this series, but especially

afterwards when he’s playing one-day cricket, and then when he moves on

into the rest of his life. So let us not lament what we are losing in Flintoff

but rather celebrate what he is giving us. And that is a hell of a lot.

On a different note, Pieterson is out for the rest of the series. The
psychological blow has been cushioned by our being 1-0 up, but certainly it
would have been better for us to have him than not. This is a huge
opportunity for Bell. He needs to dominate Australia like Pieterson would
have wanted him to. I think there’s a case for batting Bell at 3, given that
he is a much classier operator than Bopara but also to make him take some
responsibility on again. If he doesn’t score this season, I don’t think
he’ll ever fulfil his potential as an England player which, given his
talent, would be a waste close to the scale of how we mishandled Hick,
Ramprakash, and Devon Malcolm. No pressure, mate.

 

Beauty Is Only Skin Deep

There is a dark side to British summertime; it is not caused by the gathering rain clouds that threaten to ruin our days out but by the pressure that many of us feel to acquire the perfect tan. At the first sign of sun people up and down the country don their skimpiest outfits and go outside to ‘work’ on their tans. According to the BBC, in 2005 UK citizens spent £40m on tanning, with three million of these people using sun beds. Following in the footsteps of Cheryl Cole and Carly Zucker many now consider it essential to have an all-year-round glow; fake bake and sun beds can be used to maintain a caramel hew so there really is no excuse to look pasty. But why is tanning considered to be so desirable? Arguably a tan covers up all manner of sins, hiding blemishes and any uneven texture, making the skin appear to be healthier. Having a tan is often seen as a status symbol; proof that you have been on an expensive overseas holiday or that you can afford the time to simply lie around in the sun soaking up the rays; bronzed skin is the ultimate summertime accessory. Unfortunately, like almost everything fun, tanning is not very good for your health.

The risks of tanning are well documented: whether sunbathing outside or inside on a sun bed you are exposing your body to UV rays which can damage skin cells and cause skin cancer. Whilst fake tanning won’t kill you it should also come with a warning attached, something along the lines of: ‘Will make you smell like a digestive biscuit and if misused can make you look like an over ripe clementine.’ Most of the general public tend to ignore the physical and social dangers caused by tanning and do it anyway, leaving orange stains on bed sheets across the nation or worse, leaving their skin permanently damaged. Some self confessed ‘tanorexics’ even go so far as to take the interest to obsession and simply cannot function in everyday life without a tan. Sometimes I would like to hark back to a time when it was preferable to be pale, when tanned skin was seen as a sign that one belonged to a labouring class who spent their days in the fields. I would have suited this general fashion for pale skin much better (no toxic lead based powders or bulky parasols for me!) because, you see, try as I might I cannot tan. Several years ago, just before a trip to Spain with a friend, I warned her of my inability to catch the sun’s rays. She smiled and assured me that after the fortnight long holiday I would be guaranteed a healthy glow, just like her own. Fast forward two weeks and there I was back in the airport looking like I’d never left the cloud cover of the UK, no-one could believe that my friend and I had been on holiday to the same place because our skin tones told very different stories! At the time I was fairly disappointed but now I really couldn’t care less…

For those of you lucky enough to have skin that tans easily, embrace it, but for those who don’t, there is nothing wrong with being pale and interesting! Some people look great with a tan whilst others suit a more ethereal complexion; Nicole Kidman, Dita Von Teese and Lily Cole to name but a few. In some cultures it is preferable to be pale, in others it is desirable to be dark; at some points in history pale skin has been admired whereas at others times tanned skin has been more popular. It is all a question of fashion. But whether we are attempting to lighten or darker our skin, appearance should never become a more important factor than health. So over the next few months protect your outer layer and don’t feel pressurised to change what nature gave you. There has never been a better time to love your skin.

 

Applications to Oxford up by 12.5%

Oxford University has once again seen a rise in the number of applicants for its courses.

Recent figures published by the Universities and Colleges Admission Service (UCAS) show that the number of applications made for undergraduate courses in Oxford this year were up by 12.5% in comparison to 2008.

This is sizeably more than the national average across all UK institutions, which only grew by 9.7% since 2008. In contrast, Oxford’s biggest rival, Cambridge University, saw its rates drop below the national average, with the number of applicants only increasing by 8.2%.

Last September more than 15,000 hopefuls applied for around 3,000 places at Oxford, making 2009 the most competitive year in the University’s history.

Speaking to Cherwell, Mike Nicholson, Director of Undergraduate Admissions at the University, described the new figures as “encouraging”.

Rather than relying on its reputation as one of the top universities in the world, Dr. Nicholson puts the growing popularity of Oxford firmly down to the efforts of its colleges and departments.

“The reason why we’ve seen such a significant rise in applications this year is primarily due to a range of outreach programmes and activities set up by the departments and colleges,” he said.

Representatives from Oxford University have been involved in building a number of schemes to encourage applications across the UK, including a series of conferences aimed at teachers as well as students.

“We have run sessions around the country for teachers and guidance advisors to demystify the admissions process so that they can encourage their most able students to apply,” explained Dr. Nicholson in an earlier statement.

Jonny Medland, VP for Access and Academic Affairs at OUSU agrees, “It’s unsurprising that the number of students applying to Oxford has increased in the last year. Oxford is one of the leading universities in the world, and its reputation for delivering an outstanding undergraduate education means that the numbers of applications will increase over time. The active outreach programs which Oxford and OUSU engage in also contribute to the rising numbers of applicants.”

Yet this boost in Oxford applications is unlikely to be solely down to homegrown endeavours. According to the admissions department around half of the recent growth in applicant numbers is due to an increased interest from overseas students.

“Oxford was always my first choice, even over all the American schools,” says Heather Mayer, a US student who turned down an offer from Yale to study Classics at St. Hilda’s.

“I know already what I want to study, I am going to the best place to do it, and I’m getting an experience by going abroad that will serve me well later on. I get to have a new perspective on the world.”

Still another reason why UK students may be being drawn to Oxford is its unrivalled funding provisions. According to bursarymap.direct.gov.uk, a government-run website monitoring the funding opportunities available across the various UK academic institutions, Oxford offers freshers the highest bursaries of anywhere in the country.

First year undergraduates coming from a home with an annual income of less than £18,000 can qualify for the Oxford Opportunity Bursary, a funding grant worth £4,100. In contrast, Cambridge University only offers a bursary of £3,250 for the same income bracket, while Oxford Brookes provide less than half the funding offered by their neighbour, at just £1,800 per student.

Many were anxious when hearing about a rise in applications, but thought this only proves the academic strength of the university.

“Its reputation makes it a scary place to apply to,” commented recent applicant Daher Aden, who nevertheless referred to the university as his “pie in the sky choice”.

Other students welcomed the news, “I think it’s really cool that Oxford’s application numbers are growing,” said Mayer.

“It’s already one of the best uni’s in the world, but to have an expanded application pool is wonderful because it will make the university just that much better.”

Oxford officials say that it is still not sure whether the trend will continue. “It’s hard to tell at this point in time,” says Dr. Nicholson. “There will come a time when the number of students who have the potential grades needed to get into Oxford will plateau.”

Still, others are worried about the growing costs faced by prospective students. In a recent article in The Guardian many Oxford academics voiced concern over the possibility of a rise in tuition fees following the next general election.

“Oxford is becoming more socially exclusive,” commented Dr. Iain McLean, Professor of Politics at Nuffield College. “It costs a great deal to educate an Oxford undergraduate and at the moment this is just not being met.”

According to Jonny Medland it may not just be Oxford University application numbers that are set to suffer if costs do rise, “Any change in the funding of Higher Education could have ramifications for access to universities. There is a danger that prohibitively high fees could lead to fewer applications to all universities, not just Oxford.”

 

 

Listen While You Can: Dark Night of the Soul

It’s the sort of thing you’d expect to find in a gravely dark satirical novel. The industrial juggernaut EMI, by means of a mysterious copyright assertion, has left the future of what is truly a remarkable and artistically ambitious project looking worryingly bleak.

Dark Night of the Soul is an album-length collection of songs masterminded by Danger Mouse and Sparklehorse, and boasting a veritable dream-team of collaborators. Integral to the enterprise is film-maker David Lynch, who has put together a ‘visual narrative’ for the music in the form of a series of photographs and who twice takes on the role of vocalist. Elsewhere this role is amply fulfilled by members of the all-star cast: Iggy Pop, Black Francis (The Pixies), The Flaming Lips, Jason Lytle (formerly of Grandaddy), Julian Casablancas (The Strokes), Vic Chesnutt, Nina Persson (The Cardigans), Gruff Rhys (Super Furry Animals), James Mercer (The Shins), and Suzanne Vega.

What’s special about this record is its unity and coherence, quite an achievement in view of the variety among its contributors. Each track is unmistakably in the typical style of whoever’s on vocals, and yet the songs not only cohere but are in fact utterly interdependent, musically and thematically. Structurally simple, the songs underwhelm as isolated pieces, but make perfect sense as part of the album’s grand structure. In some cases the point of a track only comes clear when the album is listened to as a whole. Insane Lullaby, for example, sung by Mercer, seems stubbornly shapeless in itself – muffled tones and aimless melodies – but provides the ideal launch-pad for Daddy’s Gone, the poppy number that ensues; and the transition is capitalized on by a decidedly brief pause between the songs.

The weight of themes such as pain, growing old, and dealing with the experience of childhood, is alleviated by songs which bring out the simple mundaneness of life. Hear for example Lytle in Everytime I’m With You: ‘every time you come by / we get so trashed / and stay up all night; / well it’s so wrong, / but it’s all right – / yeah it’s all right’. Or equally, Vega in The Man Who Played God: ‘all things you can see around you – / you can change them, rearrange them, in your mind; / if you love tales of transformation, / well then 1 – 2 – 3 / you could be / the man who played god’.

Even at lighter points, such as these, there’s an underlying darkness, but it’s certainly not all doom and gloom, as some mistakenly seem always to expect from Sparklehorse (a.k.a. Mark Linkous, and here, I’m afraid, comes the inevitable reminder that he nearly managed to kill himself while on a European tour with Radiohead in 1996 by wildly overdosing on a cocktail of anti-depressants, alcohol, valium and heroin). This is without question his finest achievement so far. There was a good chance it would be a success: the best material on his last album, 2006’s Dreamt for Light Years in the Belly of a Mountain, had been the product of collaboration with Danger Mouse, whose importance to Dark Night should not be underestimated.

Given that this album more than most demands to be listened to as a whole, I’m reluctant to name highlights, but I can’t resist drawing attention to Little Girl. After releasing Is This It?, The Strokes found themselves at what seemed like a creative dead-end. Casablancas’ insouciant vocals seemed appropriate only to the lo-fi, uncomplicated, guitar-based sound that they had perfected on their first outing, and were unlikely to improve. Little Girl gives an idea of what they might (and should) have done at that juncture. It could easily be The Strokes, only with greater lyrical maturity and the judiciously-applied addition of electronic effects.

It’s terribly ironic that one of the year’s most original conceptions has come up against a copyright issue and may never be released. Luckily, in the age we live in, it doesn’t follow that you can’t listen to it. You can. And I urge you to do so while you can (because EMI can be pretty efficient when it comes to copyright infringements). It’s still being streamed in its entirety on the [American] National Public Radio web-site (http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=104129585).