Thrilled to be an extra for a blockbuster new film, Guy Pewsey soon discovered that silver screen Oxford is not as quaint as it seems…

 When last term finally ended and the summer holidays at last arrived, most students packed their gowns and escaped the city as soon as the last jug of Pimms was drained. Like many, I had daydreams of putting on my suntan lotion whilst lying on a tropical beach somewhere a thousand miles from Oxford. Instead, I found myself at the town hall at five o clock in the morning, having my hair pulled out to make a rather dashing, yet terribly painful, side parting. One could ask why I was spending my free time in such conditions, and I was beginning to wonder myself, until I was brought back to reality as a few more hairs were plucked from my scalp.

It had started perhaps a week before, when my unhealthy addiction to Facebook finally paid off, and I discovered an advertisement for work as an extra on the set of ‘Brideshead Revisited’, the film adaptation of Evelyn Waugh’s classic novel, made even more famous by the much loved 1981 mini-series. This film had it all: a big budget, big stars like Emma Thompson and Michael Gambon along with up-and-coming actors Matthew Goode and Ben Whishaw as Charles and Sebastian. Never one to shy from the limelight, I was instantly enthralled, and when further reading informed me that the job paid ninety pounds a day, it took me approximately two seconds to e-mail the casting company for more information. With the application came a request for a photograph to check that I could pass for a first year Oxford student (hardly a taxing performance) and a severely off-putting checklist. ‘Can you row?’ No. ‘Can you ride a horse?’ No. Answering these questions, which essentially amounted to ‘Are you a rich boy from the 1920s?’, was a little depressing, so I took to embellishment. ‘Can you play rugby?’ Yes. I could almost hear my Year 11 P.E. teacher chuckling as I ticked the box. ‘Can you punt?’ Yes. Again, memories of last term’s attempts at messing about on the river had certainly proven otherwise. With a few more fabrications the form was complete, and I was imagining the ninety pounds a day nestled nicely in my dwindling bank account. My hopes were fulfilled, and I was asked to come for a costume fitting in Oxford a few days later, for which I would be paid thirty pounds for about half an hour. Now I was almost giddy with the thought of so much money for what I was sure would be the easiest job ever. I promptly called in sick at work for the next fortnight and booked my coach to Oxford. I was trading in serving grease-topped pizza to be a ‘background artiste’ in a big budget film, and I couldn’t help but tell everyone I knew about this glamorous new opportunity, made all the more exciting by my visit to the costume department where I was kitted out in a navy 1920s three piece suit and trilby, complete with vintage cuff-links and braces. I was already contemplating how I could get away with stealing something expensive.

And yet the allure of the silver screen lost a little of its sparkle almost immediately as I awaited the information concerning times and locations for the next day’s start. Instead came a rather blunt text message telling me that I was no longer required for this week’s scenes, but that I would be contacted if this changed. By my calculations I was already down two hundred and seventy pounds, half the earnings I had hoped for from the six day shoot. After toying with polite acceptance, my control went out the window and I e-mailed the company with my grievances, citing loss of earnings and whatever else I could complain about. To my surprise, my efforts were not in vain, and I soon received a call that night requesting my presence the next day. I instantly agreed. "What time?"; "Five ‘o clock for a seven o clock shoot"; "Great, see you tomorrow evening then"; "Tomorrow morning", she corrected. I almost collapsed with the idea of such an early morning after a month of midday lie-ins, and went to get some beauty sleep before my big screen debut.

Which brings me back to the most painful haircut of my life. As I sat in hair and make-up, reflected in the typical lit mirror, talking to one of the many stylists who ran around the room searching for the Brylcreem, I discovered just how passionate she was about her work. She knew the business back to front, had cut the hair of some of the most famous actors in Britain, and, perhaps most refreshingly, was ecstatic to be playing a role in transferring her favourite novel of all time to the big screen. Her banter distracted me sufficiently from the horror I felt at what she was doing to my hair, but even the extra thirteen pounds added to my pay for ‘loss of assets’ was little comfort after I was left with a haircut reminiscent of an eight year old WWII evacuee.

After hours of waiting, I was in costume and ready to go, and that’s where the world of ‘background artistry’ started to rear its ugly head. The production assistant arrived to take a dozen of us to the first site, meaning another dozen would remain behind inactive and, most importantly, off camera. As we were picked randomly to be taken down to Christchurch, the unlucky leftovers, watching as we were led away, glared bitterly, like Veruca Salt when Gene Wilder denies her a golden egg. This is when I realised that for these wannabe actors, the chance to be on screen for a second or two was worth fighting for, especially when they’re competing with a couple of clueless students too naive to realise that for some people, walking back and forth in the background counts as acting.

Leaving these ‘professionals’ in the holding area at the town hall, we were transported down the street and given our props and first actions. When instructed to walk from beneath an archway out towards the middle of the quad, I was delighted to discover that this meant that I would definitely be in shot. Within five minutes, I had turned into one of them, a background artist desperate for screen time, hiding my trilby so that my face would be visible, practicing my 1920s walk in between shots. Evelyn Waugh had unwittingly created a monster, as I argued for the most distinctive props, insisting that my costume was that of a studious individual who would surely have had a gown and a stack of books. I knew that at this rate, it wouldn’t be long before I was disregarding the director’s instructions to stay in the background. And yet, by the tenth take, the fifteenth take, the twentieth take, the glamour was fading and the books were getting heavy.
I could tell that while some of the extras were here for the exposure, some were here to see the stars. Most had their eyes peeled for Emma Thompson or Michael Gambon, to such an extent that they didn’t realise that the real stars, those playing Charles and Sebastian, were walking amongst them. But it soon became clear who was getting paid the big salary. As I was assigned the action of pinning 1920s notices on boards, Ben Wishaw, star of 2006 film ‘Perfume’, drew attention to himself by spinning around dizzily on his toes. The extras wondered who on earth this nutjob was, and it took everyone about five shots to realise that he was just getting into Sebastian’s drunken demeanour. Once it had been made clear that Ben was actually not a freak, but the star of the film, a completely different atmosphere descended on the group. With a named character in shot, the chance of getting on camera increased, and so did the eagerness to have a decent action. When the production assistant asked if anyone smoked, so that they could have a shot of a student sneaking a cigarette in the cloisters, several non smokers fell over each other to answer him. Moments later, one of these boys was taking his first puff with a mix of disgust and pride imprinted on his face.

And so the day went by, filming the same scene twenty times before the director decided to move on to the next one. In between takes, I was given new props to make me appear as if I was a different character, although a new set of books and a hat was about as effective a transformation as Clark Kent’s spectacles. After eight hours of paid work, we were finally given lunch, but not before the rules were established. Extras must wait until all others have received food before they do, so the cast, the crew, the stylists, the prop masters, the head painter, the mini bus driver, even the work experience boy, got to eat before us. All day I had wanted an opportunity to discover if there was any truth in Ricky Gervais’ successful comedy series, where he chats casually with stars such as Kate Winslet and Samuel L. Jackson on the tea break. Here was my chance to rub shoulders with the stars, but it quickly became clear that this aspect of ‘Extras’ lies in fiction. Everyone ate in the same room, and yet it was as if there was a barrier, an invisible force field of ego and salary preventing us lowly background artists from venturing beyond a six feet radius of anyone important.

As lunch ended and the sun came out, the tourists crowded around in their masses, creating a new problem as we posed for photos with the Japanese schoolchildren who, ignorant of the crew, assumed that we students still wear 1920s suits and hideous side partings. The day passed by, and we were elated to realise we’d gone into overtime at ten pounds an hour. Despite this, I was relieved beyond belief when we were sent home after the twelve hour day, and I did what I could to reshape the mass of Brylcreem which had now solidified to an alabaster-like hardness around my scalp.

The next day, to my relief, was to start at two o clock in the afternoon. Surprisingly though, there were only five of us, as the others had been called the night before to be told that their presence was not required. But at four the schedule changed, and we were sent home without ever setting foot in hair and make-up. I left in the knowledge that I was receiving ninety pounds for two hours of sitting in the town hall, although I had been looking forward to putting my suit back on.
The rest of the time I spent filming was a wildly unpredictable and uneventful two days; sometimes I would move from left to right whilst on a bike in Radcliffe Square, or move from left to right in Magdalen’s cloisters, or move from left to right at Christchurch meadows. The idea of money was all that kept me and my fellow ‘actors’ going, so it was with great annoyance that I discovered from a seasoned extra dressed as a priest that wages take six to eight weeks to process, and include a large commission charge. Even worse, when some of the others discovered that I had been one of the lucky few to be requested for the two hours of work a few days previously, I could tell that they resented the fact that I was randomly chosen above them, the seasoned professionals. Similarly, when one extra was promoted to ‘handsome boy’ and asked to punt Charles and Sebastian down the river, we could tell that several of our ‘colleagues’ had their fingers firmly crossed for him to fall in.With fatigue setting in and money a far-off promise, suddenly filming a movie got a little old, and although I’d had some fun and met some great people, I was bored of listening to ‘boy on bike number 4’ talking about his commercial experience. The career of a background artist is an erratic one; sure, you can tell your friends that you’ve worked with Nicole Kidman, that you’ve been in the same room as Johnny Depp, but to be a professional extra is to admit to yourself that you’re not quite good enough to be the star, or for that matter to be worthy of a name. It’s definitely worth a go, if only for the chance to say you’ve done it, but I won’t be jacking in my degree anytime soon. That is, of course, unless Spielberg happens to notice the lanky boy in the navy suit erratically cycling in the background, grinning like a maniac and trying to get in shot. One can only hope.

In keeping with the recent trend of films inspired by classical themes, 300 is based on the Battle of Thermopylae (c.480 BC) when 300 Spartans led by King Leonidas (portrayed by a swaggering Gerard Butler) attempted to defend their territory against thousands of Persians apparently hell-bent on conquering Sparta.
Aside from facing destruction at the hands of the Persians, Leonidas faces betrayal from within in the form of Theron (a deliciously vindictive Dominic West) who takes advantage of the king’s absence to strike a deal with the enemy and move in on Leonidas’ Queen.
So far, so simple but the twist is that this version of 300 was produced by the makers of Sin City and was heavily influenced by Frank Miller’s graphic novel of the same name. The result is stunning, experimental cinematography that combines the dramatic imagery of a graphic novel with the latest in CGI. In short, this version of 300 is a definite step forward from Rudolph Mate’s 1963 adaptation.
This might not be the film to watch if you’re looking for historical accuracy but the presentation of Spartan society is highly engaging. Taught never to surrender, the Spartan warriors are bred from birth to be killing machines. This is perhaps what makes Leonidas such a tragic figure. Furthermore, the fight scenes are beautifully orchestrated and there is just enough plot to keep the viewer emotionally connected.
Combine this with the fact that the absurdly muscular Spartan warriors spend the entirety of the film in a virtual state of undress and it’s difficult to find something to dislike about this film. 300 is perhaps just a touch anachronistic (with Leonidas ruling rather more like a 21st century Prime Minister than a Spartan King) and it’s littered with some rather cheesy one-liners (most notably, “Spartans, tonight we dine in hell!”) but unlike the interminably pedestrian Troy, 300 is still absolutely unmissable. Warner Bros. are releasing a myriad different editions; the two-disc special edition is the one to go for, positively brimming over with extras.

The Grand Café, with its opulent – some might say a touch overdone – décor, unintrusive background music, and friendly staff, has an atmosphere a world away from the bustle and dust of the High Street outside. Breakfast is served in the morning, brunch from mid-morning onwards, and afternoon tea from 2 until 5.

With the residing atmosphere being either that of a literary salon or a colonial tea house, the Grand Café is perhaps the last bastion of Oxonian decadence. Chandeliers hang for the ceiling, Earl Grey and lashings of clotted cream fill the menu, and old ladies from North Oxford meet regularly to discuss the latest goings-on at the Conservative club or how their grandson is doing at the Dragon School. All in all, a fine example of good old bourgeois frivolity.

Arriving a little past midday, my boyfriend and I gravitated toward the brunch menu, which at £6 for most dishes is a little more expensive than my typical post-lecture sandwich. The food was, however, utterly worth it. I ordered the kedgeree, a substantial portion of curried rice and peas with delicious, firm chunks of smoked haddock, topped with a knob of butter which melted into the dish as I ate. My companion’s smoked salmon bagel with scrambled eggs was even more tasty; the bagel toasted just right, the smoked salmon perfect.

Desserts, too, come highly recommended, my chocolate cake neither too dry nor too moist, and the Belgian waffles well-dressed with maple syrup and ice-cream. The pot of Darjeeling that accompanied our meal was good, but the Grand Café excels in its cocktails, which are half-price after 7pm. The brandy Alexander looked as appetising as it tasted, the elderflower Collins was refreshingly minty, and, best of all, even champagne cocktails are included in the half-price offer.

The service was discreet enough that I felt relaxed, but our attentive waitress noticed, without fail, when our teapot was empty and our plates needed to be cleared.

In the evening, the tables are adorned with candles, and even when my friend managed to knock one over and spill wax on a chair, the staff were good-humoured and patient concerned only that he might have burnt himself. While the tables are perhaps a little too small to accommodate the medical textbooks I prepare essays with, at least one table was occupied by a student, his cup of tea, and a book that looked far too boring to be read for pleasure. I almost expected to look over my shoulder and see a huddle of long coated intellectuals.

While the café was busy, it was quiet enough to make it not only an attractive lunch venue, but an ideal venue for a date or meeting. With cocktails as cheap as £3.50 in the evening, the Grand Café has the potential to rival even the illustrious Duke of Cambridge, not least due to its more central location. And the food is as fine as the drinks – while the prices make lunch here a luxury, treat yourself to it at least once; it’s worth it.

The thought must have crossed your mind as you find yourself subjected to yet another Noo-Noo like clinch in some dingy club corner. Why did we choose such a bizarre and potentially messy gesture to express desire?

General opinion remains hopelessly divided over whether the act of kissing is an instinctual impulse, or a social habit picked up during childhood.

Scientists have suggested a range of theories to prove that kissing is hopelessly, unavoidably instinctual. Freud would have us believe that our preoccupation with kissing indicates a desire to return to the safety of the maternal breast. Hardly a comforting thought, that subliminal childhood memories of your mother are the driving force behind your most intimate sexual encounters.

Slightly less disturbing are theories that put kissing down to caveman practices, crucial for survival, whereby mothers would chew food to an edible pulp and transfer it to their unsuspecting offspring with a ‘kiss’.

To explain the kiss as an erotic act, scientists have claimed that placing mouths together allows couples to detect how suitable their chosen partner would be as a mate. By smelling each other’s pheromones, you can supposedly determine how biologically compatible you are, although a brief survey of kissing couples would be unlikely to produce ‘necessary pheremone exchange’ as a primary motive for making out.

Perhaps, then, there is room to argue that kissing is a learned practice. The fact that 10% of humans don’t indulge in kissing of any form certainly undermines the idea that it is a basic subconscious human impulse.

Different nations have turned to kissing as a form of self-expression for a variety of reasons. As early as 2000BC, there is evidence of communities who viewed kisses as a religious act. Bringing lips together signified a highly spiritual union, and by breathing out the couple exchange a part of their souls.

Sadly, there is no obvious soulful explanation to justify our modern obsession with the erotic kiss. Maybe, after all, it’s something we do merely because it feels good. The lips are an incredibly sensitive area, and a skilful kisser can provoke highly intense sensations in their partner, perhaps rendering any further explanation unnecessary.And that elusive non-kissing 10%? Well maybe they just haven’t caught onto the joys of the kiss quite yet. Give them time and I’m sure they’ll get there.

Sally Kidson 

Since their creation in 1923, 750 million pairs of Converse All Stars have been sold at a rate of 30,000 pairs per day. Much like owning a mobile, an iPod or anything in Burberry print, these shoes have become a must-have item for any self-respecting sheep in society. They’ve had a good run, but perhaps it is time to acknowledge that, as with Burberry, over-saturation of the market has devalued the product. A quick visit to urban dictionary, modern society’s grapevine, will tell you that converse are "shoes that used to be an expression of individuality, but are now an overused fad".

Usually such a damning definition would be the kiss of death, but ironically, despite now being a shoe of choice for sloanes, valley girls, and I fear even Britney Spears, Converse have managed to keep a semblance of their integrity due to the fact that they are the uniform de rigeur of the ‘emo’ kids. Unlike Burberry, which unfortunately for the brand, became a favorite of chavs and Colleen McLoughlin, generally one of the most derided and despised sections of British society, Converse are still worn by the cool kids. Admittedly, by the slightly scummy, I-need-a-haircut, unkempt looking ones, but this only lends them a slightly dangerous and subversive edge. So, despite being worn by the masses, they’re still pretentious.

Of course, Converse are even more beloved by the fashion crowd because they can be considered ethical, which is very ‘in’ right now. Made of canvas and rubber you don’t have to kill a cow to fit in with everyone. How jolly! Unfortunately, since 2003 the brand has been owned by Nike, which has outsourced their production to the heart of Asia (and we all know what that means) and hiked up the price. Never fear: so popular are these shoes that a looky-likey, ethically produced alternative has been created under the brand ‘no-sweat’. Of course, these aren’t half as popular as they lack the All Star logo and stamp of authenticity. Fashion is a fickle friend.Then again, it’s not all about fashion. Converse are practical and comfortable. Sure, they’re miserable to wear in the rain, and they begin to squeak, and they make you look like you have clown feet, but it’s always the practicality factor which comes first. Of course, this is why ballet pumps are so popular. At the end of the day I’ll happily admit that converse are a design classic, but surely by now the novelty’s worn off.

Milly West

Much as our generation might like to claim Converse shoes as its own discovery, All Stars have been around since 1917, with a lengthy and quirky history behind them. Sports stars have been wearing Converse shoes since they were invented, making them the best selling athletic shoe in human history.

Converse products were even used during World War II, when the company produced parkas and protective footwear for American soldiers on the front line. The Converse empire is far more than a fleeting success story. It’s a veritable institution, firmly entrenched in American culture and history.

Converse shoes are far more than a brand name. They have been a formidable presence within several different music genres, including the punk, indie and emo movements. There is even a Converse music festival, a yearly event which gives amateur bands the chance to jump-start their careers by performing at mainstream rock festivals.

The beauty of the Converse All Star lies in the sheer variety of styles available. This is not a static trend, unlike the painfully clichéd "tea towel" scarf or the age-old Pashmina, which leave little room for individuality.

Converse do, quite literally, come in all shapes and sizes, ranging from the conventional lo-top classic to the bolder hi-top shoe, or even the outrageous extra-hi boot-like models. And then of course there’s the pattern itself. Some of the most outrageous designs feature rotund beige elephants, yellow Batman logos and even plastic bacon-and-egg insignias for the more outgoing fan.

Consequently, the chances of bumping into someone with exactly the same style of Converse are refreshingly slight. For one brand of shoe to remain unwaveringly popular for over ninety years, the designers must be doing something right. Whether it’s how blissfully comfortable they are to wear, or how seamlessly they seem to blend in with the most bizarre of outfits, the Converse formula is nothing short of unbeatable.

Inspired by the novel by Russian author Sergei Lukyanenko, Day Watch is a fantasy horror epic in which the supernatural beings Dark and Light battle each other for supremacy on the streets of contemporary Moscow.
The Day Watch are a team of Light beings who monitor the Dark Ones in order to protect mortals. After a member of the Day Watch (played by Konstantin Khabensky) is accused of killing one of the Dark Ones, the fragile truce between the forces of darkness and the forces of light is left hanging in the balance. In order to clear his name and prevent an open war, Anton embarks on a journey to find the ancient Chalk of Fate which, according to legend, can correct all mistakes.
When initially released in Russia, Day Watch became a major hit grossing over $30 million. It is partially easy to understand why it was so popular, for one thing, the effects are very impressive; being at once visceral and fantastic. Director Timur Bekmambetov says that the key to the look of the film was juxtaposing reality and fantasy; “The Russian audience doesn’t have any experience of this kind of film, because we’ve never had any fantasy movies or comic books…So the only way for me to begin was to make everything very realistic, so the audience would believe in it enough to accept the fantasy”. Bekmambetov thus creates a world in which a run-down appartment block is the home of an evil sorceress and an ordinary repair man is a powerful wizard.
Despite a promising start however, the flaws came thick and fast until by the end of the film I was literally aching to escape. Firstly, Bekmambetov somehow managed to make a relatively simple plot so unecessarily convoluted that the main thread of the narrative was irretrievably lost by the second half of the film. On top of this at 140 minutes Day Watch is just too long – by about 120 minutes. In other words, most of the film is a collection of gratuitous, utterly irrelevant, shots set to a pounding heavy metal soundtrack that left me feeling like I was watching an extended music video rather than a film. It’s almost as if the editors were so impressed with their own work that they couldn’t quite bring themselves to cut the film properly.
All this leaves me to conclude that Day Watch was made for two specific groups of people; fans of the book and people who enjoy watching films in which narrative and character development are substituted with bright colours and dazzling effects. If you feel you don’t belong to either of these groups, I’d give Day Watch a wide berth.

Meeting Anthony Horowitz is probably the closest any of us will ever get to meeting someone who thinks like James Bond. Handsome, approachable and undeniably upper class, the creator of teenage super spy Alex Rider has a feel for adventure and an ability to charm that even 007 would have envied. Daniel Craig may have bigger muscles and the real MI6 agents may have better computer skills, but when it comes to understanding pace, people, and creative ways of killing, Anthony Horowitz wins every time. His Alex Rider novels are some of the most popular children’s stories on bookshelves today, and have been described by one critic as "every bored schoolboy’s fantasy only a thousand times slicker and more exciting". Sales of Snakehead, the latest instalment, have been so brisk that it is currently ranked 15th in amazon.com’s children’s bestseller list in spite of the fact that it won’t be released until 31st October.

But despite his double-0 mindset, Horowitz insists that he has nothing in common with his fictional creations. Indeed, he attributes much of his success to his conscious efforts to distance himself from his writing. "I think the biggest mistake any children’s author can make is to base anything or anybody on his own experiences or the experience of his own children," he says emphatically. "I’m writing about universal children, for universal children. Alex Rider has got absolutely nothing to do with me at all, except for the fact that I happened to write him."

As our conversation progresses, however, I begin to realise that the line between fact and fiction is not nearly as clear-cut as it seems. Like so many successful children’s authors Horowitz had a miserable childhood. Born into a very wealthy yet emotionally distant family, he was brought up by nannies and packed off to boarding school at the age of eight. "In my early books, yeah, I was using my own childhood," he concedes. "I think in all the books of course I’m escaping from it still, and reacting to it. Why did I become a children’s writer in the first place? Well, having a miserable childhood probably helped." It certainly did: Horowitz’s hated grandmother is brutally satirised in Granny, while his nightmarish experiences at prep school, Orley Farm, form the deliciously sinister backdrop for the Groosham Grange novels. Today, Horowitz claims to have "dumped all that and moved on". Yet his heroes remain outsiders who have been orphaned or abandoned. The Diamond Brothers, Alex Rider and even the heroes of the Power of Five books are all forced to take control and survive on their own wits, resisting unwelcome manipulation by malevolent members of the adult world.
But to draw too many conclusions from these similarities is to deny Horowitz’s talent. Alex Rider may be an orphan, but he is also a highly athletic teenage spy who speaks several languages and is equipped with gadgets that ordinary teenagers could only dream of. He can even kite surf and snowboard on an ironing board (which Horowitz assures me is at least theoretically possible). The truth is, Alex appeals to teenagers in general, not just those who happen to have had a rough time at boarding school. Horowitz is the author of 38 books and several screenplays, many of which have little or nothing to do with his own life. In his latest book, City of the Dead, the main character is a girl, something Horowitz is not and has never been. "I’ve always been quite nervous of creating a female character," he reveals. "I’ve resisted it for years; I thought I would muck it up totally. But I’ve created Scar and I’m really happy with the creation. She’s got a vitality that my boy characters don’t have. She doesn’t quite do what I think she’s going to."

While Horowitz is rightly proud of his heroes, he’s passionate about his villains. The moment I mention Nightrise, the corrupt corporation which lends its name to the latest Power of Five novel, Horowitz sits up straighter. Abandoning his glass of merlot, he tells me, "The bad guys are without a doubt the most fun a writer can have. Heroes are actually quite boring. By their very nature they have to be fairly straight-laced." Horowitz’s villains are, of course, some of the most relevant in children’s fiction today. Where JK Rowling contents herself with giving Lord Voldemort Nazi overtones, Horowitz looks to today’s political and social leaders in an attempt to create more complex villains. "I think villains have moved away from sort of stock children’s villains, who do tend to be Long John Silver with a curious disability or something, to more politically motivated villains," he explains. "That’s the huge difference between my later books and some of the books that have gone before it. In Evil Star the villain is a freak with a giant head, but he’s also basically Rupert Murdoch. The people who are causing the problems of the world aren’t pantomime villains any more, but are in corporations, in politics, in power."

Of course these days the personification of evil is a risky business. Insistence on political correctness means children’s authors have to be careful not offend. Charles Dickens may have got away with describing Fagin as "a very shrivelled old Jew" who enjoyed counting his money and consorting with small boys, but very few authors would take similar risks today. Before the collapse of the Berlin Wall things were easier, Horowitz tells me. "Villains were either Nazis or Communists, and that was pretty much that. Creating villains in the 21st century is getting harder and harder." Herod Sayle, the villain in the very first Alex Rider book, Stormbreaker, is a case in point. In the original novel, first published in 2000, Sayle is described as the son of a failed hairdresser from Beirut. In the American version which came out a year later, he is reborn as the son of a failed oral hygienist. Apparently the original description was potentially homophobic. But the biggest change is seen in the screenplay, also written by Horowitz and released last year. Lebanese Herod Sayle is transformed into Darrius Sayle, white trailer trash from California. Middle Eastern villains, it seems, are no longer acceptable. So what’s left for children’s authors? Expected to produce believable bad guys, but constrained by excessive political sensitivity, they are faced with an increasingly difficult creative task. For Horowitz the solution is a simple one: entertainment. "My original aim has always been to entertain," he tells me. "But if you are an intelligent person, and I hope that I am, you also have to look at the world and in some way reflect it. The secret is not to start writing political books, or to start propagandising young people. It’s to still write adventures and excitement and chases and violence and jokes and all the rest of it, but to inform all of that with what you see and believe." And with these words Horowitz blows away all those politically correct politicians and "thought blocking" aides in much the same way that James Bond might get rid of an enemy, setting the rest of us free to think about and even comment on religious, racial and cultural issues. Provided we aren’t too boring about it, of course.

In a line up of the greatest actors ever to have graced the silver screen it’s unlikely that 63 year-old Dutch actor Rutger Hauer would immediately spring to mind. Yet, Hauer will rightly be remembered for taking centre stage in a truly great cinematic scene.
The film in question is Ridley Scot’s cult-classic Blade Runner starring Harrison Ford. Set in Los Angeles in 2019, the film follows Deckard (Ford), an ex-’Blade Runner’ brought out of retirement to hunt down sophisticated androids known as ‘replicants’.
Eventually, only one of these remains, a commando known as Roy Batty (Hauer). He stalks Deckard through an abandoned house before a final, climactic confrontation on the rainy rooftops of a grimy, dilapidated slum.
With his programmed life expectancy about to expire, Roy saves Deckard, catching him as he falls off a roof, before delivering his monologue; a speech so achingly brilliant that it can only fail to strike a chord with people who are dead inside.

I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe.
Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion.
I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhauser gate.
All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain.
Time to die.

As he speaks his dying words, you can see, with every nuanced contortion of his face, and hear, with every painful pause, his desperate attempts to grasp the meaning of his life, even as it slips away. The emotional intensity of this scene relies on many factors. The setting is perfect: the rain falls continually out of the darkened sky, a steady drumming of despair echoing across the rooftops. The score by Vangelis is deeply affecting, a penetrating, bittersweet melody that soars through the scene. Finally, Scott must be congratulated for visual simplicity, aware that this is a cinematic scene of emotional depth, not technical fireworks. The essence of the scene is captured with simple beauty; no cynicism, and no sly, satirical wink to the audience. There is, instead, a soulful integrity that is neither sentimental nor soppy, but entirely sincere. It is a classic piece of cinema.
In the aftermath of Roy’s death, there are precious seconds of reflection. Roy loved life, indeed he loved it enough to save the life of an enemy. He talks of the wondrous experiences in his short life, and he realises, in his final moments, that he will lose those memories forever; everything that has made him who he is will suddenly cease to exist.
Yet, Roy finds his humanity in the knowledge that life is transient, and in the comfort that, for every human, there will always be a time to die.

It is the plight of the techie to facilitate but never to join in. To enable, but never to be adored. Our fate is eternally to sit on the sidelines, watching the bright young things onstage, ensuring the audience have a clear view through the fourth wall. We are relegated to the dark void of the tech box, never to bask in the warmth of the limelight that we ourselves have lovingly rigged. But whilst we resent this tradition of segregation, occasionally we do our bit to keep it alive.
After a successful Edinburgh run of what ScotsGay affectionately called `camp nonsense’ (four stars), your humble techie decided it was time for some theatricality of his own, and this time it wasn’t going to be a team effort. Being hands-on types, practical jokes come naturally to us. The script called for drinking, and lots of it. Through the magic of theatre, the stage manager, accustomed to performing minor miracles, achieved the impossible in turning apple juice into wine. In celebrating a fictional Eurovision night, the cast had to get through enough alcohol to knock out a fair sized student party, and to act accordingly. Feeling uncommonly generous, I decided to give them an evening off that notoriously difficult feat of acting, at my own expense.
Up came the lights and in came the actors, brimming with hammed-up gestures, unsophisticated jokes and, unbeknownst to them, the best part of a large bottle of gin. Only someone who, from his box, had seen the show more times than he could count could have discerned the looks of panic which spread through the cast as they worked their way through their distinctly un-virgin gin cocktails.
The show must go on, and I had quite a job following the script (as, it seems, did they). In my opinion the performance benefited no end from my little intervention. For once, the characters were believably drunk and the script frankly made more sense.
It seems the cast didn’t agree: A rugby player moonlighting as a thesp landed a punch squarely in my chest for my efforts and things were icy for a day or so. I suppose it’s lucky there wasn’t enough in the budget to replace the icing sugar with real cocaine.

Sarah Kent examines the biases and stereotypes facing Oxford students. 

University is a liberating place: suddenly the overbearing parents are gone, the controlling girlfriend is miles away, and there’s no one who knows that embarrassing story about what happened at that party. It’s little wonder that many people see university as a chance to reinvent themselves. Stepping out of his mummy’s car on the first day of fresher’s week is not Craig Potts, famed at school for his greasy hair and unpleasant odour, but Craig Potts, super stud, who over the summer has had a haircut and bought some Lynx. OK, perhaps he still has some way to go, but the point is clear: university is a time to grow from the caterpillar you were into the butterfly you always knew you could be.

University is certainly a liberating place. But what everyone seems to forget is that university comes with its own baggage, in Oxford’s case some 800 years worth. While it is perfectly possible to reinvent oneself, and shed the personal embarrassments and mistakes of the past, you cannot change the attitudes and preconceptions surrounding an institution with which you are affiliated. Much like family, where you go to university will always be there, lurking in the background, ready to embarrass you the minute you hear the words, "Oh, you didn’t go there did you? My son simply loved it there, you two must meet."

Of course, having to spend painful and silent minutes with the offspring of family friends is hardly an experience unique to Oxford students. Even if you did not have the tenuous common link of sharing an educational institution, it is likely you would have been made to sit in the corner having a "delightful time" anyway. And of course, you are just as likely to have to write Cousin Bob’s personal statement because you go to Leeds, and he’s simply dying to go there, as you are if you go to Oxford. Yet Oxford has its own special identity and it comes with a unique ability to create truly uncomfortable situations the minute you admit to studying there.

Of course there is no denying Oxford’s credentials as an intellectual heavyweight. As Wikipedia helpfully points out, Oxford has been placed best in the United Kingdom for the 6th consecutive year in The Times Good University Guide (2003-2008). Quite how it has been ranked for a year which has not yet occurred is a mystery. Still, it’s certainly performed crackingly.
Indeed, there’s a lot to be said for the argument, backed by the venerable statistics supplied by The Times, that being associated with Oxford can be very very beneficial. It will help you get a job, make contacts, and generally sustain a nicely bourgeois level of existence. This is proved by the illustrious list of names to be found attendant at our careers fairs. Companies which consider only a handful of universities in the country worthy of a recruiting visit invariably place Oxford on the top of their lists. What could be better? All because of Oxford you walk out of university cherry-picked for a job, having put in hardly any effort yourself.
Or at least that’s what you’re meant to think. In this age of positive discrimination, the name Oxford seems to be losing its illustrious ring. Attending a recent talk at a top-tier London law firm I was assured that Oxford and Cambridge were afforded no special treatment, and students from these universities were certainly not at an advantage when it came to getting a job. I was inclined not to be unduly worried by these words, since this very firm had already employed me, and indeed the majority of those working with me were from Oxbridge. Still, HR seemed to find this strange, and a little off-putting. This is the discrimination that 800 years of privilege has earned us.

It is beyond an exaggeration to say that going to Oxford will damage your career prospects, but we no longer live in the age of old boys’ clubs and nepotism, or at least not openly, and it is, probably, not a guarantee of employment.
But if, in the search for a job, graduates are happy to scrawl the word Oxford all over their CVs, it is a different matter when it comes to interactions with peers and equals. Making friends is a tricky and awkward process at the best of times, and it can be made even more tricky and awkward if you are having to waste time challenging silly preconceptions. This is where Oxford’s 800 years of history really starts to make itself felt. A lot of preconceptions can be formed in that time, and many of them are not particularly positive. Even if they are, they’re not going to help you make friends. Take, for example, the people who you worked with in Tesco’s over the summer. One goes to Luton University, another reads media studies; this is not a snobbish social commentary on those who work at Tesco’s (remember one of you goes to Oxford). In this reasonably typical situation, the conversation in which you discuss what you do and where you go is going to be inescapably awkward. The response will either be, "Wow, you must be so clever," or, "I hear everyone who goes there is a posh twat." Both tend to kill conversation.

Of course you could always lie; I’m often tempted to just say Manchester and leave it at that, but then you always risk getting caught out, which tends to prove even more awkward. In these situations it doesn’t matter how much you’ve changed your hair and started to use deoderant you return to your inner Craig Potts, the generally abused outcast.

Even worse is the situation in which you’re sitting with old friends who have never quite gotten over not getting into Oxford. It’s not your fault, you have done nothing wrong, but it’ll always cause tension in the friendship. It’s even worse when the person with a chip on their shoulder is a stranger. The conversation invariably turns into a competition in which they continually try to put you down in order to prove that even though they didn’t go to some fancy-schmancy university, they’re every bit as clever as you. After being forced to prove you can name the capitals of half the countries in the world, this tends to get old.

Of course it’s not fair that something of which you should be proud can be such a stigma. Whatever its faults, whatever the flaws in its reputation, there it no denying that getting into Oxford is an achievement. And yet students here are very aware of the stigma that can go with attending such an institution. Indeed, it is ironic that many of them consider it to be true and even promote it themselves; it’s not uncommon to hear an Oxford student complain that everyone at the university is unbearably posh, when what they really mean is different. It is a shame that not only does prejudice exist within the University, but that it radiates out to reflect not just upon individuals, but everyone who studies there.It is a truth almost universally acknowledged that university is one of the most important times of your life. Even if it doesn’t actually shape the way you yourself are, which it invariably will, it will shape the way you are perceived for the rest of your life. Ultimately what must be remembered is that, however hard you try not to tick the boxes, it will always remain an inescapable truth that everyone starts life as a caterpillar.