If you don’t accept the reality of human-induced climate change you are at best ignorant or, at worst, highly dangerous.

Climate change sceptics, on a whole, now base their arguments on uncertainty as to the consequences of climate change rather than its existence. To be sure, our modelling of the future contains inaccuracies and uncertainties as one would expect with an issue of this complexity, but the fact of the matter is that climate change is real, climate change is happening and climate change (and everything that stems from it) will probably be the single most important issue in our lifetimes.

As students at Oxford we love to debate, we love conspiracy, we love to argue for arguments sake in an intellectual playground. However, as much as I view debating as an important and honourable pursuit, when it comes to climate change it is high time to take action.

I have to agree with (God forbid) Rupert Murdoch who wrote: ‘Climate change poses clear, catastrophic threats. We may not agree on the extent, but we certainly can’t afford the risk of inaction.’ Quite simply inaction is not an option – the climate will not wait for our computer models to improve.

So what can we do? Are we too small and insignificant to actually make any difference? I could start throwing in names like Martin Luther King and Mahatma Ghandi to show that we can change the world. However, I want to be less abstract and suggest what each one of us can, and should, be doing.

The most important thing we can do is to engage politically – simply writing to you MP gives them more power and leverage. Important decisions are being made at local, national and global levels of government and some of you will be making these decisions somewhere down the line.

As individuals too we must do our bit to reduce our carbon consumption. Think seriously about where you can cut down your energy usage – is the laptop on standby? Do you need central heating with the window open? Why boil water for five cups when you’re only making one? It’s quite simple really: we just need to start to think twice and become less wasteful!

“How wonderful it is that nobody need wait a single moment before starting to improve the world.”
– Anne Frank

Even the most jingoistic of patriots must surely admit that they have, buried somewhere deep inside, an envy of Sweden.

Why? Well let’s briefly consider the facts. Number one: Swedes are, with a few exceptions – such as a certain former England coach – beautiful. As a native of Hull, where 20 is the new 40, I found going to Sweden a bit like leaving a city of ugly sisters and arriving to a nation of Cinderellas.

Number two: Swedes have a lot of space. Just nine million people live in a country bigger than Britain; there’s even a forest in the middle of Gothenburg. Number three: Sweden is safe. There are no gun-wielding gangs here.

The list could go on, but the point is that Sweden doesn’t do bad connotations. However, is there a hidden dark side to the country; are there any blemishes to this seemingly pure profile?

Well, if there is one thing that could tentatively be perceived as a negative, then it is a lack of freedom, which may seem slightly paradoxical in one of Europe’s most left-leaning countries. After Denmark, Sweden has the second highest tax burden in the world with the average citizen yielding 50% of their earnings; meanwhile a third of the workforce is employed by the government.

You’ll struggle to find a better education and health care system in Europe, but imagine taking home only half of what you earn. So Sweden is not the place to get filthy rich, but, walking down the wide boulevards of Gothenburg, you can see the effect that all of that government money has.

The city drips efficiency, from its perfectly symmetrical buildings to its rigorously clean pavements. Trams trundle earnestly by; they are the main form of transport around the city centre, and there are about as many cars as you might expect to see in London if an authoritarian Green party were to dethrone Boris.

A stroll through one of the city’s many parks in the evening is interrupted by an encounter with two yellow-uniformed women, revealing that Gothenburg has volunteers to patrol some of the shadier areas of the city, a policy aimed at deterring trouble-making youths. If they decide that you are not out to meddle, they send on your way with a hug and a lollipop.

With the soundtrack of a culture festival filling the city’s streets with music, I felt that Gothenburg is trying to achieve that most difficult of balances, a sense of community and cosmopolitanism.

Just an hour from the centre of Gothenburg and you can be gazing out across mountains, lakes and fjords. Not that there is the need to ‘escape’ from the stresses of Swedish urban life, because there don’t appear to be any.

The strength of Swedish socialism seems to spread to all corners. Even in the back-alleys, there is not a beggar to be seen, while the city centre has subsidized housing for young people.

And what of the nightlife? Sweden has great music, including, pleasingly, a sizeable amount of cheese; and it has beautiful people, so there’s your answer.

Despite the fact that so far, this article might as well be a PR release from the Swedish tourism board, intuition does raise reservations. Maybe the cause of this unease is that geographically and politically, Sweden is far from being central. One young Swedish woman echoed this feeling, telling me that she was moving to England because she wanted ‘to be closer to where everything happens’.

Perhaps it’s that it all seems too Stepford Wives-esque, and that the powerful influence of the state lingers in the air. It’s not that there is an invasion into the privacy of people’s lives – this is no Orwellian state – it just all seems a little too perfect.

Or maybe it’s just that familiarity and fondness for Britain’s idiosyncrasies obscure the objectivity necessary to write on the subject.

But if there were Oscars for states, then there’s no doubt that Sweden would be a perennial nominee for ‘Best Country’. I’d hoped that it would disprove its enviable stereotype, and would reveal something unexpected. I’d hoped, slightly sadistically, to find something wrong with it. I didn’t.

Perhaps though, therein lies its weakness. There is a lot wrong with Britain, but hardship inspires creativity and the anger that is often necessary to achieve. Somehow this Scandinavian country seems sterile by comparison.

Sweden is a bit like the house of a middle-class family, looked after by a prim housewife. Everything sparkles, you can see your reflection on the kitchen work-surface, nothing is untidy.

Yet this perceived perfection is unnerving. Reassuring sights, such as a book left out of place or spilt coffee on the kitchen table – something that might make it feel more homely – are absent. What a ridiculous analogy, you might say – and of course ten days in a country is not long enough to fairly judge it – but somehow Sweden has got it so right that there seems to be little left to fight for; indeed describing it is a bit like describing someone as ‘nice’.

So, Sweden: objectively ten out of ten, but personally, the rough edges of Britain remain more appealing.

Model: Kate Leadbetter
Photographers: Alison Crawshaw, Georgina Hood
Stylist: Eda Seyhan

Bangles: Reign
Ring: Aspire
Necklace: Lolapoloza

Rings: Aspire
Bracelets: Reign, Aspire
Necklace: Stylist’s own

Rings: Stylists’ Own
Necklace: Lolapoloza

Rings: girlprops.com, Topshop
Necklace: Topshop
Other: Stylists’ Own

Tearing frogs’ legs limb from limb before stuffing them into your mouth may not seem like the nicest way to eat, but as I found out from visiting Paddyfields, it’s delicious.

Though most people associate the delicacy with our neighbours ‘the Frogs’ across the channel, frogs’ legs are popular in both China and Vietnam. Hence their presence on the menu in Paddyfields, a Chinese restaurant opposite the Bridge nightclub. The first time I attempted frogs’ legs was in a Vietnamese restaurant in Deptford, south London where they were grilled. My friend was reviewing the place for ‘Time Out’ and so we were obliged to eat authentic dishes from the menu. Frogs’ legs turned out to be considerably more palatable and less rubbery than chicken’s feet, and my friend and I finished off a whole plate of them in no time. Now, I actually look out for them on menus.

When I sat down to dinner at Paddyfields and read ‘fried frogs legs with salt, pepper, garlic and chilli’ alongside jellyfish salad and such other delights as lamb hotpot with sheets of beancurd and Chinese leaf, I was filled with greedy delight at the prospect of eating these strangely tasty limbs once more. The menu stated that no MSG or artificial colouring is used in the restaurant’s food, which made me feel that we were in safe hands and free to order weirder dishes from the menu too. To start with we asked for steamed, stuffed dumplings with vinegar dipping sauce, crispy wontons with garlic and chilli sauce, minced fried lamb with lettuce and hot and sour soup.

The dumplings arrived wobbly and steaming, filled with a rich, savoury stuffing of pork with an intense kick of fresh ginger, which we cut through by dipping them in vinegar; the wontons were fried to perfection: not too greasy. The soup was very spicy and teeming with crispy beansprouts, prawns and sliced pork.

Lamb was a marvellous substitute for the usual duck with plum sauce, and instead of a pancake, we used crisp lettuce to wrap round the lamb and plum sauce – something common in Vietnamese cuisine too. Though I’m a fan of Hoisin duck pancakes, I found this meal more interesting – the sumptuously fatty, salty lamb and sweet nuttiness of the plum sauce were lifted by the freshly washed lettuce.

For main courses we ordered frog’s legs, lamb hotpot, spicy ginger squid, sizzling chilli beef, chicken with blackbean sauce (not everyone wants to eat pondlife), noodles with beansprouts and egg fried rice.

Needless to say, the frogs’ legs were fabulous. They’d been cooked in a lighter-than-light tempura batter, well seasoned and with a fried garlic and chilli garnish. They were moist and we tore the delicate translucent flesh from the bone with aplomb. The squid was not chewy at all, and had an intense ginger sauce.

The lamb in the hotpot was soft, with flavoursome gravy, and accompanied by the Chinese leaf which was tender. The more familiar plates of beef and chicken delivered what was desired of them without any of the excessive gloopiness or fluoro colours common in seedier Chinese restaurants. The service throughout the meal was impeccable: the waitress refilled the water jug repeatedly without us having to ask and all the food on the table was kept warm with candle-heated hot plates. All in all, Paddyfields would make an excellent night out – even if you’re not thrilled by frogs’ legs.

Price: £15-£20 a head
In a word: ‘Authentic’

Contentedly sitting in the White Horse, enjoying a casual pint and reminiscing about his time at St Anne’s, Oliver Poole mixes excited chat about his newborn baby with talk about his five gruelling years in Baghdad. It’s hard to believe that somebody who has witnessed pure horror is able to speak in such an easy, almost carefree manner.

“I was reading an article about those journalists who had been in Baghdad.” Poole begins. “And there was this photograph with it. It circled the heads of everyone sitting by the poolside of some hotel in the Green Zone.

Next to these circles were little arrows. And they read – ‘kidnapped,’ ‘post traumatic stress’ or just… ‘’shot.”
As the first British daily news reporter to travel with the US Army, Poole endured the toughest posting the Daily Telegraph could hand him: Iraq Correspondent. Poole was able to experience the war at astonishingly close quarters and, having survived unscathed, recounts everything in his new book – ‘Red Zone’.

In his opening chapter Poole describes his decision to return to war-torn Iraq after his initial tour in 2003. “It was whilst I was playing some pool in Hackney that I realised with utter certainty I wanted to go back. Even surrounded by people enjoying their Saturday night out, I could not forget the bodies I had witnessed.”

During the interview, I tried to gather an insight into the mind of old Oxonian turned war reporter. What exactly was it like to live in Baghdad? How does that affect the way Poole looks at human nature? And what does it feel like returning to Britain?

“Once I began to live permanently in Iraq, there was nothing more astonishing for me than coming back to Britain and seeing everybody carrying on as normal” Poole explains. “I’d get on a plane in Amman and would be on the tube in about four and a half hours. For the first few days, I’d derive complete wonder and fascination at every day normalities of life back in England…It was kind of good to know that despite everything, things were carrying on as normal back home.”

Poole admits that after witnessing events in such candid detail, the adjustment wasn’t always that simple. “I’d be really intolerant of small complaints-a friend getting worked up about her mother-in-law or somebody chuntering about a burst boiler. Luckily I had enough self-awareness to realise this was my problem, not theirs, and I had to just keep my mouth shut and deal with it.”

More than anything, ‘Red Zone’s’ uniqueness is in Poole’s closeness to the people of Iraq. “Despite everything they’re no different from us”, he says. “The astonishing thing about speaking to people in a war zone is that they still chat about the same things. How their business is going. How their kids are doing at school. Their ambitions-what they’re going to make for supper. It’s become a bit of a cliché, but it’s said that there’s no Iraqi you can’t speak to about Beckham for two and a half hours-everybody has an opinion on him.”

With so many Iraqi friends, Poole was able to associate the war not just with horrendous atrocities but with a heightened respect for the goodness in people. “Everything was completely stripped down-people were reduced to complete rawness. All relationships involved risk. People were putting themselves at risk when they invited me into their homes. I put myself at risk going there. I trusted them not to contact somebody and get me kidnapped, and they trusted my discretion. It’s a strong bond.”

Before Poole arrived in the war zone, his expectations of the reality of war were mainly derived from war films: “I watched all these films. I think it’s a male thing, but I always wondered how I’d react if I was getting shot at.” After his time in Baghdad, Poole says that the reality of war is undeniably different from its portrayal in cinema.

“There are two main things you’re not prepared for”, he explains. “Firstly, wars don’t happen in isolation. The fighting occurs in people’s lives. Where they were born. Where their grandparents were born. Where their favourite restaurants were. Where they’d bought their favourite clothes from. The second thing is that the sophistication of modern warfare means that war’s more and more anonymous. Snipers can pick people off from three quarters of a mile away. Tanks can fire from two miles away. It’s not personal. The first thing people know about it is that they’re dead.”

In 2006 the Daily Telegraph closed down Poole’s office. After five years of war correspondence and two books describing his experiences, what did Poole feel he’d achieved? “I don’t claim to have made any huge difference, but I’ve come away with pride,” Poole muses. “Nobody else was there-they’d all pulled out. It was just me and the Times. There was all this bollocks coming from Blair and Bush, and in my own little way it felt good to be able to provide some sort of factual content. It was just a pebble in the ocean. But it felt good.”

‘Red Zone’ is available for £12.99 from Blackwells or www.reportagepress.com. Part of the proceeds go to International PEN.

Last Easter, Christ Church student Isla Kennedy was severely injured after falling 100m while on a ski tour and subsequently suffering a coma. The swiftness of her recovery has been a great relief to friends and family, and she plans to return to Oxford next term.

Three days into the Officer Training Corps expedition of uphill and downhill mountaineering on skis, Isla had a terrible accident. While traversing an icy slope, she lost her grip and “fell, head-first, out of sight, approximately 100m, hitting rock all the way”. She was flown by helicopter to Geneva hospital, where she remained in a coma for 3 weeks, and was then flown back to England, still in a state of agitated unconsciousness – “I kept pulling out any tubes, even my breathing tube”.

Isla was in a coma for over 5 weeks. Upon finally waking, she stayed in hospital for another 5 weeks, and was then moved to a rehabilitation unit. To begin with, Isla could not sit up alone and was in a very large, supportive wheelchair, but in the 14 weeks she spent in the unit, she had physiotherapy, psychology, speech, language and occupational therapy – “I had to re-learn a lot of things, but most things came back with time,” she says.

Isla, being a member of the OTC, was then lucky enough to be moved to Headley Court, the Defence Medical Rehab Centre. She has spent 6 weeks there so far, and has 4 more to go. “I have met some amazing people here,” she says, “including many guys who were hit by mines in Afghanistan… Their comradery is inspiring.”

Isla is likely to be in rehabilitation until Christmas, working on her fitness, speech and cognitive functions, but she plans to return to Oxford part-time in February, then continue with her PPE degree after Easter and having had a year off.

Isla is extremely lucky to be left only with “such minor imperfections”. She tells me that “90% of people in a coma for more than 4 weeks never reach a state better than severe disability”. Not long ago, “my voice was monotone and I could barely carry a bag”, yet just the other week, she was thrilled to be able to wear high heels, and go out dancing for the first time since March. “Recovery after a brain injury continues for years, but I have made a remarkable and quick recovery, above expectations…”

“Obviously I never wanted a brain injury,” she says, “but so many positive things have come out of it… More than ever, I want to be an officer in the Army.” Her accident has not put her off skiing, though she urges all skiers to wear helmets, and she has been organizing mountaineering expeditions from the rehab centre, impatient to get back to normal life.