At the beginning of Michaelmas term, as Freshers flood in to Oxford, another group of students leave the city with no less enthusiasm: third year language students starting their year abroad. Having just completed a heady two years of literature studies and grammar tests, they head off to the relevant corners of the world to immerse themselves in the culture of their respective languages and to pick up a dodgy accent just in time for their oral exams.

I am one of them, and so Oxford was understandably the last thing on my mind as I headed to the Eurostar last week, feeling rather smug with my one-way ticket in hand, and lugging a suitcase at least twice my weight in which I had tried (and inevitably failed) to pack my whole life for a year. Having sacrificed a few grammar books to make space for more useful things, such as more shoes, I felt ready to discover a world that I knew only from old novels and a few childhood holidays.

Arriving in Paris two hours later, I immediately regretted stuffing a dictionary into my luggage ‘just in case’ when I realised that the metro, unlike the London Underground, is equipped neither with lifts nor escalators. It took all my strength to drag my bags to the school in central Paris where I will be living and working as a language assistant for the next seven months: this is how most students choose to spend the year, as it is undoubtedly the easiest way to find a job abroad.

When I finally reached my destination (looking rather unattractively sweaty and red-faced) I approached the receptionist to announce my arrival. Although I generally refrain from using generalisations, I must say that this woman embodied the stereotypical view of the French as rather unhelpful. My greeting was met with a surly look and the silent proffering of a set of keys, and only after a bit of gentle persuasion did I manage to get some sketchy directions to my room. Fortunately, the vast majority of French people I have since met have been lovely, even if they often speak too fast for me to catch every word.

The first job that you are faced with when moving abroad is to drag yourself away from the new and exciting sights and instead complete a lot of mind-numbingly boring administrative tasks. In the months before my departure, I had received endless bits of paper from different organisations, all requiring signatures, official stamps and proof of ID to comply with various nonsensical regulations.

Fortunately, unlike the majority of students, I haven’t had to find my own accommodation – that’s when the red tape becomes a real horror story.

With a week to go before starting work, I was then free to make the most of my time in Paris. My priority this year, like most other language students, is to make some French friends so that I can get to grips with the spoken lingo. This is easier said than done when you are in a city where you know literally no one. A couple of nights in, I summoned the courage to venture to a bar alone in the hope of meeting, if not some potential friends, some temporary speaking-partners.

Having found a place where the crowd was young and the drinks cheap (but still about twice as much as you’d pay in England), I stationed myself at the bar with a pint – or rather ‘une pinte’ – and tried to look as friendly and open to conversation as possible. Obviously this didn’t work, so I eventually bit the bullet, marched over to the nearest group of French students and introduced myself. I soon realised that reading the complete works of Flaubert doesn’t really prepare you for a conversation about the ignorance of the English when it comes to fine wine, but it nevertheless ended up being a successful night – so ‘successful’ in fact that we didn’t manage to coordinate swapping phone numbers…
Since taking that initial step to shamelessly introduce myself to anyone and everyone who speaks French, it’s become a lot easier to approach people. Of course I still feel like an idiot most of the time, but when times get tough it’s quite easy be consoled by remembering that yes, I am in Paris, the unofficial world capital of culture, fashion and bohemian spirit – that usually succeeds to fill me with a warm, fuzzy sense of self-satisfaction.

How would I sum up my first impressions? Well, I’ve been buying all of the things I forgot to pack, have had a million forms to fill in, and am now desperately trying to make new friends in dodgy bars… perhaps it’s not a million miles from Freshers’ week in Oxford after all.

Cosmetic surgery is becoming an ever-more viable option for young people with personal perfection as a goal and money in their pocket. The American Society of Plastic Surgeons estimates that more than 330,000 adolescents in the USA, most of them female, underwent cosmetic procedures last year.

And this trend is increasing in the UK too. Over half of young women say that they would have cosmetic surgery to improve their looks, according to a 2007 survey of 25,000 females conducted by BBC Radio 1’s Newsbeat and 1extra’s TXU. Women in this country who said they would consider surgery tended to want breast enlargements, with liposuction being the next most popular cosmetic surgery procedure. The number of people having liposuction treatments has risen by 90 per cent in a year, according to the unfortunately-named BAAPS (British Association of Aesthetic Plastic Surgeons). This trend is symptomatic of a growing obsession with the way we look, but is it healthy?

Rachel Cummings, OUSU VP for Women, commented on the increase of young women seriously considering cosmetic surgery to improve their appearance, ‘I can understand the pressures people are under to have cosmetic surgery; it’s a consequence of the image obsessed culture in which we live. It would be far better to start focusing on people’s achievements, personality and values rather than having a society where people’s self-worth comes from the shape of their body.’

Despite this, many intelligent, good-looking young women do consider plastic surgery as an option. I spoke to one second-year Oxford student who does buy into the idea, ‘I have already had non-invasive laser liposuction during my gap year, paid for with my own money that I earned. I am definitely planning on having more cosmetic surgery. It is not a huge amount of money to spend on something that will affect my whole life. If you think of clothes in terms of value-per-wear, surgery is actually far more financially sensible. After all, you wear your body every day.’

On looking at her, this girl is not your stereotypical cosmetic surgery candidate. Indeed, she has the kind of body that most of the miserable, desperate women on Extreme Makeover UK seem to be in search of. But perhaps this is the point. Plastic surgeons are quick to point out that ‘liposuction is not a treatment for obesity’ and that the ideal candidate is an otherwise fit person who wishes to re-sculpt minor imperfections that irritate them. The subtle procedures undergone by many already undeniably attractive celebrities have publicised the trend of going one step further in the quest for beauty.

Adam Searle, a London-based surgeon, and former president of the BAAPS, said he was least comfortable when men pressured wives or girlfriends to become their fantasy woman. He said, ‘One of the situations I find most difficult is when a male partner has brought along photographs, often of airbrushed porn queens, and is saying that’s what we want.’

Intrigued by this idea of women having surgery in order to please the men in their life, I spoke to a few male undergraduates here at Oxford to find out what they thought about cosmetic surgery. Interestingly, the general consensus of these enlightened young men was against the idea of cosmetic surgery for their female counterparts. They agreed that surgery for purely cosmetic reasons was shallow and that they would probably not encourage it.

‘If I were to encourage or be pleased about my girlfriend having cosmetic surgery it would symptomatic of something wrong with the relationship in the first place,’ said one second year. Another added that ‘It’s probably mentally healthier and definitely more admirable to overcome any body issues without resorting to surgery…If she wanted to look like Jordan then it would be a turn off, both because it’s shallow and also because lots of plastic surgery is aesthetically unattractive.’
Although all those interviewed said that they would probably support a girlfriend who had genuine issues to have surgery, they generally thought that cosmetic surgery would make no difference to how attractive they found a girl.

Based on the opinions of these males, the desire of many young women to have surgery is not a reaction to the chauvinism of their peers, but more of a personal decision rooted in self-esteem. The Harley Medical Group advertises cosmetic surgery as a way for women to ‘improve how they feel about themselves.’ Doctors report that the visible number of celebrities having surgery, as well as widespread advertising by commercial clinics has encouraged women to think that they can transform their lives by going under the knife. One third of doctors surveyed by the BAAPS said that the most common reason to turn down patients was because of their unrealistic expectations. It is important to realize that cosmetic surgery, like New Year’s resolutions and other quick-fixes, will not offer a radical life transformation.
Although prices are dropping all the time, surgery is not a cheap option. Private Healthcare UK gives an approximate guide to costs for UK cosmetic surgery, advising that a breast enlargement operation costs from £3,400 – £5,000, liposuction can cost between £1,550- £5,000 and a rhinoplasty costs from £3,000 – £4,000.
These costs can be considerably reduced by opting to have surgery abroad, and many companies offer plastic surgery package holidays. Whilst they may be cheaper, horror stories of botched operations abroad abound in women’s magazines. The BAAPS discourages going away for surgery, as over 80% of surgeons have seen problems with patients returning from holiday surgery, and advises people to check in with organisations associated with the Royal College of Surgeons.
The increase in the number of young British women going under the knife is probably not as much a cause for concern as the reasons behind it. Issues of poor self-esteem related to body issues will never be solved permanently by a surgical solution, as can be seen by a quick glance at any reality TV show.
Despite this, as cosmetic surgery becomes more socially acceptable and affordable, more women will probably be seduced by it. The danger comes in recognising when enough is enough.
This sentiment was well summarised by one of the students interviewed, ‘Jordan – you wouldn’t.’

Like many veterans of the 60s, my parents pride themselves on their openness about subjects their own parents’ generation considered too taboo even to acknowledge. When it comes to candour about these matters my mother, who is not only a former hippie but French, is doubly credentialed.

So whenever she and I go to the movies, I try not to think twice if the poster features a scantily clad woman or if the review has warned of explicit sexual content, as it did when we went to see Brokeback Mountain.

After all, why should a mother and son feel any discomfort about watching a man lubricate his penis with his own saliva, right before thrusting it into Jake Gyllenhaal with all the explosive, repressed passion of a lone gay cowboy in a red state?
Under normal circumstances, that particular scene probably wouldn’t have made much of an impression on me. It’s just that, with your mother sitting right beside you, you may, even in spite of the most cosmopolitan attitudes, begin to worry that some small, irregular motion on your part will betray you as reacting to the fleshy images with anything other than detached interest.

You suppress the urge to breathe deeply, taking your air in small sips. Your oxygen debt gradually accumulates, and when you finally give in, heaving as if your life depended on it (because it does), you look up at the screen to find Heath Ledger in the middle of a groaning, pyrotechnic orgasm. As he collapses in a heap of post-coital exhaustion, your mother, having caught the escalating rise and fall of your shoulders out of the corner of her eye, asks you how you’re doing.

Shortly after you’ve started to take your mind off breathing, Ennis and Jack are scampering by the stream in their full frontal glory. At this moment, it comes to your attention that your boxer shorts are tightly bunched around your inner thighs, and you realize that you won’t be able to tolerate the discomfort for much longer.
Your hands inch slowly toward the front of your pants to loosen the offending cloth. When you finally discover that it won’t budge because you’re sitting on the slack, you attempt to manage without hands, squirming your hips restlessly in the seat – just, as it happens, as the two men’s wet, muscular frames lock in a passionate kiss.

The credits roll, and the two of you emerge quietly into the late afternoon glare. She finally ventures to break the silence. ‘God, Jake Gyllenhal is so sexy, don’t you think?

Peter James, British film producer turned best-selling crime novelist, is distinctly charming, well-spoken and precise. And although his subject matter does revel in a sense of chilling horror – the grimy, criminal underbelly, men buried alive, brutal murders, and most recently, human organ trafficking – the way that James talks about his rather macabre subjects is engaging, rather than purely chilling or designed to shock.

James has written over 20 books, been translated into over 29 languages, and ridden high on the top of the Sunday Times bestseller list with his most recent books which feature Brighton-based Detective Superintendent Roy Grace. The books have quickly become one of the world’s most popular detective series, and this is in no small part due to the well thought-out and thoroughly researched plots. James’ latest book, ‘Dead Tomorrow’, focuses on the struggle of a mother whose daughter is suffering from liver failure, who turns to a black market broker to find the vital organ. Meanwhile, Detective Roy Grace follows the grim trail of child traffickers to Eastern Europe. The subject matter is evidently harrowing and shocking, so does James plot his books with this in mind, with topics picked for their scare factor?

‘I write about what I’m intrigued by,’ he tells me as he sits across the table, in a small bar-slash-restaurant-slash-coffee chain, as he drinks alternately from a beer and an espresso. He leans forward with a glint in his eye, ‘Do you know how much your body is worth?’ I become slightly unsure of where is this interview going. ‘On average, about a million dollars. $400k for your liver, the same for your heart and lungs, $60k for each kidney, a bit more for other bits and pieces… You’d make a lot of money, if you could live without your heart.’ I place a protective hand over my liver. Again, athough part of this speech is clearly designed for impact, it is a subject James knows a huge amount about and just wants to share. There is almost too much to take in, as he flits from anecdote to fact, and back again.

‘An English doctor was struck off for buying kidneys from Turkey. I met him and he said to me, ‘You can survive well on one kidney, and there are people dying because they can’t get one. Why would anyone have a problem with it?’ In India, the going price for a kidney is £250. For us to buy it, once it’s gone through the middle men, you are talking £25, 000. China lowers the threshold of the death penalty every year. They get a million pounds a body.’ And why is this happening now? Sadly, what has happened is that as organ transplant techniques have gotten better, the supply of donors has gone down.

‘The big irony is that the biggest cause of the decrease is more people wearing seatbelts in cars. The perfect donor is someone who has a head injury, and dies with his or her body intact. Now with modern cars being stronger, if some is killed in a crash they’re normally pretty badly mangled. But, certain countries have realised that there’s a business to be had. I used to think it was an urban legend, you know, the man who meets a pretty girl in a bar, goes back to a hotel room, and next thing he wakes up in a bathtub short of a kidney. It’s not.’

‘Do you know how much your body is worth? About a million dollars.’

James’ fascination with organ trafficking started almost seven years ago, when James met Kate Blewett, the documentary maker behind Channel Four’s harrowing ‘The Dying Rooms’, who talked to him about her new subject matter. ‘She’d heard about this organ trafficking trade. Kate sent two researchers out to Columbia. They were both murdered. She couldn’t go on with the documentary, but she said that I could have her research. It went on from there. In Columbia there will be two kids begging at an airport, cop arrests them, sells them for £50, and they get a nice upbringing in the countryside, get to the age of thirteen, fourteen and someone in the West, their daughter needs a new liver, and that kid disappears. Their liver sold, heart, lungs. It is going on.’

But, surely it couldn’t be that easy to get hold of, say, a liver? It’s not exactly the type of thing you can type into Google. ‘I actually met a couple who live in England – one of the biggest focuses of my research – and their son from about the age of eleven had progressive liver failure, and they couldn’t get him to the top of the transplant list. And they were told he’d die.

So they went on the Internet, and found a broker, who found them a liver for about £200-300,000, and they started raising the money. Luckily, a liver came through, and they were ok but…’ The ‘but’ hangs in the air, a testament to the tangle of morals around the subject. This is where the tone of our conversation changes, from fact-swapping to something much more emotionally charged. James meticulously researches his stories, and he seems to have a real engagement with the ethical dilemmas behind his plots. ‘Dead Tomorrow’ displays a real knowledge of the human suffering that forces some people to the lengths of buying and selling their own body parts. James spent a lot of time in Romania, just talking with the people who had suffered under the oppressive regime of Ceauşescu.

‘Seeing street kids was heart-breaking. It was really hard, the hardest thing was the sheer desperation, thousands of people living way below the poverty margin, literally in holes in the road, just to be by the central heating pipes. All the youngsters want to get out and their dream is to come to some western country… although I say western, it’s outrageous, Romania is western. It’s in the EU and it shouldn’t be there. It’s a third world country.
You drive one mile out of the city and you’re in slums, and then the slums give way to several hundred miles of rubbish. The first time I went I thought, ‘Hmmm, it’s snowing.’ And then I realised it was just litter.’

‘Hell will freeze over before a crime novel gets onto the Booker shortlist.’

It is clear that his interest in writing stems from wanting to draw attention to things he feels have been overlooked, or unfairly confined to the background – and this applies as much to the British police, who James joins on average every week on their daily rounds from murder scenes to rehabilitation centres, as it does to the harrowing organ trade. ‘I think they [the police] are severely underappreciated. The public have this slightly jaded view of the police; they think they’re not actually out there fighting crime, but in the course of a career, almost every police officer, almost without exception, will have his life endangered.’ And could he be a police officer? He says very simply, ‘I don’t think I’d be brave enough.’

Brave enough, however, to be a crime writer in a literary world that still sneers at the genre. When asked why this is, it seems that James can’t quite answer. ‘I get really annoyed. The chairman of the Booker prize, three years ago was asked, ‘Why is there never a crime novel on the booker shortlist?’ and he said, ‘Hell will freeze over before a crime novel gets on the book shortlist’. So, that means Dickens would never have made it; Deschosky, Shakespeare, Aristotle…so many writers have written what we would now consider to be crime fiction. My point is that people get very precious about literature.’ James made a very brave move to start writing crime – he began when horror was the genre du jour and made the leap of faith to a different publisher who supported his vision.

His final word on the matter? ‘Writers are entertainers; the writers that survive are the popular ones.’ And there is no doubt that James is and will continue to be a popular writer, although he goes beyond the merely entertaing. Advice for budding writers? ‘Is to read. Do not be afraid to say, ‘I love this book’, whether it’s Stephen King, or Rankin, or Trollope, whatever it is that you love, and think, ‘how did that writer make that book so great?” James has achieved prolific status and though he may never make it on to the Booker shortlist, or even the longlist, his crime novels are reviving and revitalising an often pigeonholed genre in a way that he hopes might remove some of the literary stigma.