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New research from Oxford’s epidemiology unit has confirmed that birth-control pills increase the risk of cervical cancer.

The study, published in the Lancet, involved over 50,000 subjects and research from 24 countries. Lead researcher Dr. Jane Green stressed that the increase in risk was “small and outweighed by reduced risks for ovarian and womb cancer.”

The study also found that risk levels returned to normal in subjects who had not used the drug for ten years or more.

by James Stafford

Oxford is the second best university in the world, according to this year’s THES rankings.

The table, ased on a survey of academics and graduate employers, awarded equal positions to Oxford, Cambridge and Yale, with Harvard topping the poll by a small margin. In spite of a vast funding gap with the US, British universities occupied four of the top ten positions.

The Vice-Chancellor, Dr. John Hood, paid tribute to the “dedication and commitment” of students and staff in maintaining Oxford’s global standing.

by James Stafford

by Henry Clarke PriceI had a slightly strange fixation when I was younger. In the mind of mini-Henry, it was all about tunnels. The London Underground, the Channel tunnel, deep-level air-raid shelters: if it was a hole, I loved it. Freud would have had a field day. This obsession was, er, channelled during my adolescent years. But it wasn’t to last. Along came Oxford and the Bodleian Library and myths of its labyrinthine tunnels stretching out to all four corners of Oxford. Tales of a nuclear shelter made me salivate like a rabid dog. My dreams were filled with elaborate conveyor systems stretching through miles of tunnel, while the unsuspecting world above continued unawares. So when the invitation to delve into the Bodleian’s subterranean book stacks arrived at the office, I basically assaulted my editors until they let me go.

One editorial assault later and I was met in the Old Bodleian by Sarah Thomas, the library’s charming American director. She arrived in Oxford only eight months ago, one assumes as part of the larger sort of Amazon order. Almost immediately she launched into an ardent spiel about the new depository at Osney ‘flood plain’ Meads: this, clearly, is the purpose of today’s visit. Get a little positive PR from the student press by satisfying their unconscious desires. To be fair, she really did sell the depository well. After all, it involves robots – but we can save that for later. One boyish fantasy at a time. With the ‘convince student press it’s sensible to build on a flood plain’ box ticked, we entered the Radcliffe Camera, slyly descending a staircase hidden behind the staff desk in the northern end of the lower reading room. “Ha,” I mocked the mere readers, “while you idly pore over your books, I’m going to the source of the knowledge.” I may also have entertained images of killing a minotaur. Oh, hubris. I’d always imagined the book stacks to be luxuriously-decorated thirty-foot affairs in chamber-like caverns. The kind of place where you’ll trip over the Magna Carta and fall into Shakespeare’s first folio. Perhaps I had set myself up for a fall. Still, the unpainted door wouldn’t have looked out of place in a druggie squat. And once you go through it, the ceiling is only six feet high. It’s more palatial in the back of Argos. You know what really takes the biscuit? The grumpy worker midgets I’d been promised were nowhere to be seen.

With hindsight, my Aeneid-cum-Harry-Potter fantasy was prejudicing my judgement somewhat. After all, it says something for the efficacy of storage that it doesn’t feel like these stacks under the Camera hold over 600,000 volumes. Radcliffe Square was still above us, full of students on fag breaks and tourists taking pictures of each other ‘in front of Oxford University’. I had full faith that David Perrow, our new guide, would re-inject the sense of magic that surrounds the bookstacks. “Between us and the square is a membrane that keeps the water out. When they cobbled the square, they breached it and it had to be replaced… here [pointing to a nasty stain on the ceiling] is where water actually came in, and we had to dry a few damp books.” Magical. Not only was my fantasy lying in tatters, but we were one DIY fuck-up away from being drowned. Well, perhaps that’s a little melodramatic: the water table in this room falls at about waist height. But all it would take is for the pumps that keep this room dry to fail, and we – along with several hundred thousand volumes – would be drenched.

Despite its appearances and imminent risk of soaking, this is nonetheless the site of a great innovation. Here, underneath Radcliffe Square, is the first example of mobile shelving suspended from the ceiling, reputedly designed by Prime Minister Gladstone (although it was not implemented in his lifetime). While it might seem obvious now to make maximum use of the space between shelves, Gladstone Shelving is one of those masterstrokes born of a dire situation. Sadly, no similarly pioneering solution to diminishing space has since been devised, which is one reason why the Bodleian’s least-used volumes are sitting in a salt mine in Cheshire. Through the next door, we reach the first of those much-craved tunnels. This is the passage way which leads to the Old Bodleian. One line of track embedded in the concrete floor marks the path that a railway used to run to transport books between the Radcliffe Camera and the main Bodleian. The conveyor system that serves the New and Old Bodleian libraries doesn’t extend here, much to the annoyance of the stack workers.

“The Camera, although it’s a very popular space, is quite difficult to serve books into, especially with Health and Safety legislation,” explains Perrow. Books and stairs are not the friends of Mister Inspector. Or one’s back. The Radcliffe Camera’s charming good looks do not help the Bodleian staff one bit. It’s under the Old Bodleian that we meet up with the conveyor system. The little cars that run in the cage are mind-boggling. Our guide tries (in vain) to explain the intricate system of knobs that tell a car where to stop. Letters from A to L are marked on the side of the car, and the slider can be set to any of these. It just seems amazing that this eccentric machine is relied on to deliver thousands of books every day. But despite being over six decades old, it still works (just) – although there is no practical way for it to be extended to the Radcliffe Camera. As part of the New Bodleian’s refurbishment (another project on top of the Osney Mead depository), it would be torn out and a new system installed. If you want an idea of how much that would cost, the Radcliffe Camera extension alone of a new conveyor would be £2m. Still, probably cheaper than the health insurance of the bookstack workers. The tunnel winds round and down at this point, as we move under Broad Street. The cage containing the conveyor system (and, alarmingly, what appear to be several water pipes) is to our right. The unpainted concrete walls and ceiling, along with the institutional strip lighting running the length of the tunnel, give the passageway the feel of some Cold War bunker. The notices stuck to the door of the New Bodleian certainly give that paranoid feel. “Have you told a colleague where you are going?” asks one notice. “Emergency evacuation or lost in the stack? Follow the yellow lines on the floor and they will take you to an exit.” That’s right – as if the imminent threat of flooding weren’t bad enough (and the bitumen tanking under the water table is frequently breached here too), these books also risk going up in smoke.

In the New Bodleian, Perrow points out where the sealant around girders has deteriorated. If there were a fire, the holes between the ceilings and these girders would act as a chimney, feeding the flames. National Archives, the authority that decides whether the Bodleian can be trusted with materials of great cultural relevance, is so concerned that it has only temporarily renewed the University’s license to house collections for the nation. Until the New Bodleian incorporates proper measures for fire protection and suppression, it will never satisfy the catchily-named BS 5454:2000, the standard for storage of library material. And if the University loses its license, not only would it be banned from holding manuscript material deposited in lieu of Death Duty, but its chances of attracting any more materials of significance would be nil. Researchers, so integral to the workings of Oxford, would be discouraged from working here. And let’s face it, who wants to study at a University whose collections are either sitting underwater or are one step away from feeding the most excruciating bonfire known to man?

The New Bodleian desperately needs deep refurbishment if Oxford is to maintain its National Archives Approved Status. For this to happen, its 3.5 million volumes need to be ‘decanted’ (a technical term, perhaps deriving from the fact that running this place is enough to drive you to drink). Loath as I am to promote the party PR line, the Osney Meads depository is the only realistic place that this could happen. And while Congregation mulls over it, more and more books are arriving. Far from tolling the knell for printed works, the onset of the digital age has heralded an explosion in publication. Which is great for academia, not so fantastic for librarians. When the New Bodleian was built between 1937-39, the intention was that the library’s intake for the next century would be catered for. But with three decades still to go before we reach that hundredth year, it is already 130% full (based on its original envisioned capacity). With this unexpected surge in incoming volumes, the University’s libraries have had to make rushed, piecemeal expansions. In 1974, Nuneham Courtenay, 8 miles from the Central Bodleian, was converted for use as book storage. Planning permission to expand the Nuneham site was comprehensively refused in December 2003, and books literally started piling up in the New Bodleian, so much so that access to certain stacks was completely blocked off. Subsequently, the University placed its least-used items (dubbed “Bod X” material, but disappointingly unpornographic) in commercial storage in Wiltshire and Cheshire. Dumping books in a cave might sound like a cheap operation, but in 2005-6 it cost the University £110,000, and this cost has been increasing by around £10,000 each month. “We told the University ten years ago that we were out of space,” says Perrow. “We should be opening the depository today instead of talking to you about it.”

So, about those robots I promised earlier. The new depository would sport a system called ASRS which, apart from looking like “arse”, stands for Automated Storage and Retrieval Systems. Within seconds of a stack request being made, the system swings into action to find and deliver the volumes. Because it’s a robot rather than a person at work, bookstacks can be higher and more densely packed than usual. ASRS is six times more efficient with space than Gladstone rolling shelving, and ten times more efficient than conventional shelves. My experience with photocopiers – one which involves tugging and tearing paper out of the depths of a machine while getting covered in toner – made me wary of this system at first. But ASRS (nope, still looks like “arse”) is a proven technology, and when delegates from Oxford University Library Services went on a jolly to America they saw it work and not chew up priceless books. When I ask Sarah Thomas what the Bodleian staff feel about being replaced by robotic claws, her response seems sensible enough: “One of the things that we’ve planned here is a natural wastage, or normal attrition… These jobs have relatively high turnover, so no-one is going to lose a job because of the depository.”

And what about this floodplain business and the dreaming spires? On the first count, I fail to believe that David Perrow and Sarah Thomas, who work with such zeal to care for Oxford’s collections, would happily send millions of volumes to their doom. Far from it, they’re keen to save the Bodleian’s collections from the fiery or watery demise that seems increasingly likely in the New Bodleian. The 22-metre thick defences of the Osney Meads depository are designed to withstand a 1 in 5000 year flood. That’s with climate change factored in. As for the dreaming spires, the depository (as far as I can see) has a negligible effect on the landscape. At the risk of sounding direfully emotional, we should remember that the Bodleian is one of the primary reasons that Oxford has grown to be the great city it is today. If we neglect its collections in favour of a postcard picture, we neglect the very reason tourists come here – and the very reason why Oxford remains one of the greatest academic institutions on earth.

by Robin WhelanI know what you’re thinking: “Snob slates manufactured pop. In other news, Pope Catholic”. But easy prejudices shouldn’t come in to considerations of merit. Elvis? Manufactured. Motown? A veritable production line. Some of the best and most interesting music of our time is being made by superstar producers and songwriting teams. We snobs don’t enjoy admitting it, but the commercial, manufactured genius of the likes of Timbaland and Xenomania is infinitely preferable to the sincere and heartfelt (yet second-rate) offerings of various rent-a-band clones.

So where does this leave The Spice Girls? Britain in the mid ‘90s, stranded forever in a certain time and a certain place. Manufactured pop is about the bottom line. It has to be catchy, with a face for radio. By these standards, The Spice Girls are the best manufactured act in history: they sold by the bucket load, largely through ruthless exploitation of the Tweenie market.

However, going for the earworm isn’t a route to timelessness, not without something more concrete. Lyrics that tug on the heartstrings, or other body parts for that matter. Production values. Songcraft. ‘Wannabe’, ‘Spice up your Life’, ‘Headlines’: these songs are instantly hummable, yet ultimately ephemeral. They, rather unsurprisingly, have the emotional depth and sexual development of a pre-teen. You can almost hear the ‘E’ numbers. Frankly, it’s all rather creepy, the musical equivalent of those Kids TV presenters who pretend to be 13 years old.

So, buy this album for a nostalgia trip if you wish. Party like it’s 1995. Party like a gullible pre-teen. But remember, be it a haircut that you could’ve sworn looked cool, Union Jack t-shirts, or that unrequited crush from primary school, some things are better left as a rose-tinted memory.

by Phil AherneAs far as the death metal genre goes, Dutch destroyers Severe Torture are commendable for their proficiency, but not their innovation. This is a good thing. There is plenty of promise, diversity and confident execution of thrashing riffs, surprising time changes and impressive solos that rejuvenate the songs and make them an enjoyable listening experience.

Despite the fact that it is not particularly exciting, there are some moments where the band really breaks into their stride. Tracks such as ‘Fight Something’ and ‘Countless Villains’ are impressive and reveal the talent on display. However, one does get the sense that the full potential is not really being fully realised.

This could be a genre problem. Death Metal is notoriously generic, and without much space for creativity. That is why its first major scene in Scandinavia imploded. If Severe Torture want to survive, and indeed achieve more success, they will have to break out of these constraints.

Also, the album does seem to lack a sense of focus. Angry for the sake of it seems to be the rule of thumb. This factor does not boast promise of longevity either. They need to focus lyrical and music content onto a specific aim, and this may release better results.

Mixing wise, the drums seem flat and the vocals toneless. The growling/barking is expected, but it seems to be slightly needless, and in some cases self-serving. The vocals are generally what results in the inaccessibility of the genre, and it needs to develop. ‘Buried Hatchet’ is a step in the right direction with regard to this.

Overall the album is very direct and immediate; hardly any of the songs get to the four-minute mark. Perhaps if they allow themselves some more space, and relax the boundaries of their style, this band could be something truly great, as the title track indicates.

by Lauren JacobsSince Dizzee won the Mercury Prize in 2003 all sorts of questions have been raised regarding his credibility, and whether he has, in his words, “stayed true to his grammar”, leaving behind the world of pirate radio stations. Well, money and fame are difficult things to avoid, (for some), although his new album, Maths + English still offers insights into life on the streets and his rise to fame. The one difference seems to have been the new fans he has picked up on the way. He became the first rapper ever to win the aforementioned award which led to him gaining the respect of the NME and edgy Guardian types.

This was evident looking round the newly refurbished “Carling Academy”, lots of skinny jeans and pointy shoe types hanging out at the back looking like they were there for the irony of it all, or would have been if they understood what irony meant. But it appears that Dizzee’s use of the English language still maintains some of its authenticity as there were also 15 year old “yoots” in hoodies. Oh, and girls that obviously wanted to try and get off with Dizzee later, judging by their leaving nothing to the imagination outfits.

The rapper himself appeared to revel in this melting pot of fans, playing up his main-stream recognition when playing his track featuring the Artic Monkeys, ‘Temptation’, from Maths + English. His DJ proceeded to play the Kaiser Chiefs and the White Stripes as a brief interlude. But his roots in Grime and Jungle also shone through with another interlude featuring Shy FX’s ‘Original Nuttah’, which all the hooded heads bopped to, then playing his new track ‘Old Skool’ for emphasis.

The overall performance was of high energy and crowd-pleasing, harking back to his days as a garage MC doing club nights. But the presentation was slick and carefully thought out, with his videos playing on plasma TV screens syncing with the songs. It appears Mr Rascal’s grammar is indeed true, it just happens to have had elocution lessons.

by Naggeen SadidMeeting Calum Melvile, current President of the all male a capella sensation OOTB, is quite an event. He stood before me wearing cowboy boots (over jeans), a matching leather jacket, the obligatory artsy scarf, and a wry smile; I must say I felt quite ordinary meeting such a high standing member of the Oxford a capella community.

As President of the most successful a capella group in Oxford, Melvile is a busy man organising the group’s hectic schedule, the group’s particular brand of pop a capella being quite popular. I innocently ask what the schedule currently contains, expecting a few gigs here and there in Oxford. The schedule is in fact The Schedule, including a private party at Gleneagles (yes, the G8 summit venue), potentially an Oxford Ball, a tour of South Africa, and an upcoming show at Keble. Much of Out of the Blue’s success Melville puts down to ‘the hard work and the hours the guys put in’, and the group’s founder, Derek. An American Post-Grad studying in Oxford, Derek formed the group eight years ago, with an inception including secret initiations, trust funds, and a constitution. Talking to Melville, one barely gets a sense of the group’s success: they are the only Oxford group to sell out the New Theatre.

Out of the Blue have certainly been a hit in Oxford, and, well, the world in general. Having conquered the East Coast of America last summer (‘a capella groups are huge in the States’, Melvile informs me) and played at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival, the Out of the Blue world does seem a whirl of events and non-stop touring. What is even more appealing is that the money they are paid for performing (I won’t tell you how many hundreds of pounds they earn for a mere 40 minutes) goes towards their travel expenses and accommodation.

The commercial success of Out of the Blue has meant that they are able to donate half of their yearly earnings to charity. The group are thinking of flying out to South Africa to visit a potential school for sponsorship, ‘It would be so cool, because it’s something that we as a group can feasibly do, indefinitely, and see develop.’

Melvile often talks of the group in a charming understated way, only mentioning the New Theatre amidst other gigs, despite having sold 1500 tickets of the venue’s 1800 capacity already. Get tickets while you can. Even if you’re not a fan of a capella, we’re talking a group of guys, all seriously (but entertainingly) singing high pitched renditions of Take That and Boyzone classics. You’ll love it

by Ben LatimerCian Ciarán, keyboard player of Super Furry Animals, walks into the interview room looking a little worse for wear. It is hardly surprising when, after a few minutes of holding his head in his hands in obvious discomfort, he asks if I’d mind coming to the band’s own backstage hangout. Evidently, the background din of the roadies’ onstage sound-check was bugging him, so before we long relocate. Truth be told, he is nursing all the symptoms of one mother of a hangover, and I sympathise when I notice the lengthy list of all the other interviews he has to do over the next two hours.

There’s no particular reason why this state of affairs should surprise me; only you come to imagine your heroes as attaining a kind of superhuman existence, a kind of life outside of themselves. Yet apparently these people still get ill like the rest of us; they sleep and eat, perhaps even bleed. You would not have thought it. Of the 8 albums SFA have released over the last 11 years (solo and side projects aside), there has been not one dud among them. In fact, new album Hey Venus, and its predecessor Love Kraft stake a claim to being the very pinnacle of SFA’s career so far. The one-time darlings of the NME remain largely overlooked by today’s music press, however, which begs a lot of questions.

I ask Cian if this might be due largely to the demise of the whole Britpop era in the late 90’s, since his band tended to be carelessly lumped into this broad category. He replies that he ‘never really felt a connection to the whole movement’, but that they were lumbered with the tag by some journalists. Certainly, this lazy pigeon-holing of the band does not do any justice to SFA’s genre-defying hybrid of psychedelia, anthemic rock, techno & soaringly melodic pop anthems. Yet, what may have a greater bearing on SFA’S neglection by the music press in recent years is simply their complete and utter lack of concern for it. Any band who hopes to become stratospherically successful in terms of sales must also play the game to an extent, maintaining a constant flirtation with the music press. Cian sums up the band’s attitude to this with ‘We certainly didn’t fly the Union Jack. The Union Jack is like a fucking swastika as far as I’m concerned’.

Which leads on to something I was hoping to ask him on anyway – how important the band’s Welsh identity is to them. Here, I’m referring specifically to the fact that SFA are, apart from Catatonia, the only band of recent years with any significant international renown to release music in their native Welsh tongue. Cian assures me this is no gimmick; it was simply the natural product of having a band of bilingual musicians. Their album Mwng, sung entirely in Welsh, reached #11 in the UK album charts, and is cited to be the most commercially successful Welsh album ever. When I ask if Welsh songs were written specifically for this album, Cian responds that the band are constantly writing in both languages, and it simply ‘felt more coherent to release them together on one record’. He then turns the tables and asks whether I would ‘have even asked that question if it was an English artist releasing an English-language album, or a French band in the French language’.

He makes a valid point; and with music this good, who cares about questions of language and national identity? Just sit back, crank up the volume and let yourself be swept away by the hauntingly beautiful melodies.

by Daniel Roberts‘You’re up, big man’ I hear Editors’ tour manager say as I wait outside the band’s dressing room, before bassist Russell Leetch emerges. The Birmingham four-piece, successful purveyors of epic gloomy post-punk, are watching the rugby: taking a well deserved, but not very rock ‘n’ roll, break from heavy touring to promote their second album, An End Has A Start. Was it hard, I wonder, for Editors to follow up their Mercury nominated debut, The Back Room? Leetch doesn’t think so: ‘when you are doing your first record, you are working and you are doing other things – you’ve got day jobs. When you are doing your second, yeah it’s a short period of time, but we were confident; we’d been on the road for so long that we wanted to go and record, we wanted to try new things.’

Indeed, the second album does present an obvious progression – sweeping, soaring, melodies; spiky guitars swapped for building choruses. The album title also hints at a change. Whereas before singer Tom Smith’s vocals seemed consumed by existential doubt and despair, now there is hope: ‘even an end has a start’. While The Back Room was ‘claustrophobic and tight’, says Leetch, the less despairing outlook of it’s follow up is thanks to ‘love lives, or just where your head can be at. We are all in a good place at the moment’. Edith Bowman then, Smith’s famous other half, is partly responsible for the change in tone.

That’s not to say that Editors have cheered up completely.  Leetch admits that there is a lot of fear and doubt in the band’s music, ‘especially cos people can do anything but they tend to just destroy a lot of things. That’s definitely a theme that runs through it – you go outside and walk down the street and there are just so many different people and walks of life, it can be interesting, but sometimes it can just be really threatening.’ Musically, the band want to keep pushing themselves, but it won’t be into completely alien territory: ‘we could end up doing an acoustic record, we could end up doing a rock record in two weeks in the local studio where we do our b-sides’. Leetch does note that despite the epic direction the band are going in ‘we don’t want to come out as pompous at such and early stage’. So they don’t mind doing it later? – ‘Yeah, exactly!’

Like it or not though, there is no escaping the fact that Editors have hit the big time. From adoring fans (‘Japan is just crazy – people come up and hug you and tell you that they love you!’), to celebrity friends (‘we were over in LA recently and Jamie T was there and we hung out with him – he’s great for a 21 year old! He’s got a lot to say.’), the band are now in the big league. Not big enough to release their records the Radiohead way though. Leetch thinks that the Oxford band’s move can only harm emerging artists. ‘It does devalue it. Radiohead are an established band, how can non-established acts get to that point?’

There are signs that Editors’ excessive touring regime is taking its toll. The band’s performance later in the night seems somewhat weary, and Leetch is not impressed with the conversion of the Zodiac, a venue the band played twice before: ‘these Carling Academies… you start at half eight and it’s over by ten, it’s just a bit naff really. They make more money doing club nights, which is a bit sad.’ One thing that hasn’t changed is Smith’s on-stage contortions, the inspiration behind his dancing? ‘Elvis’. I say that i don’t see it. ‘No’, says Russell, ‘but that’s the beauty of it.’ At least Editors are aiming high.