Oxford had a mixed day at the Henley Boat Races, which take place the day before the Men’s Boat Race. The Dark Blues won every race except for the eagerly anticipated Women’s Blue boat race. Oxford’s Women lost out to a powerful Cambridge crew by two and a third lengths, but there were victories for Men and Women’s Lightweight Blues as well as Osiris, the Women’s reserve crew, and Nepthys, the Lightweight Men’s reserves.
The Women Blues followed a risky strategy which reflected their status as underdogs. Having finished well below Cambridge at the Women’s Head race three weeks previously, Oxford clearly felt they had to rattle Cambridge in the early stages of the contest to win. They blasted off the start rating three strokes per minute higher than the Tabs through the first kilometre of the course to inch into a length lead.
The Cambridge crew, however, kept their composure. Rowing a much more efficient rhythm, they stayed in touch while Oxford charged and exhausted energy. As the race reached halfway, Cambridge pushed hard, cancelling out Oxford’s advantage, before powering into the lead. Oxford had already given too much to respond, and were left clinging on desperately as the Light Blue boat gradually extended their lead to the finish.
President Nicola Fawcett was proud of her team, saying, “the girls rowed everything well. They front-loaded the race to put Cambridge under pressure, but Cambridge’s faster cruising speed paid off”. Fawcett’s disappointment was partly tempered by Osiris’ victory, where Oxford battled to a small lead in the first 1000m before stretching out to a one length win.
The Lightweight races, however, belonged to Oxford. The Lightweight Blues crushed Cambridge by three lengths, while Nepthys was even more dominant, winning by four lengths. President James Gillies commented, “Our squad has been awesome, our coaching excellent and I think the results reflect this.” The Women Lightweights provided the race of the day, protecting a tiny lead against successive Cambridge pushes. Blades clashed all the way down the course as both coxes attempted to eek out a winning advantage and the race was still tight in the closing stages until the Dark Blues pushed on to win by a single length. President Claire Weldon was “delighted and relieved to win such a close race”.ARCHIVE: 0th week TT 2005

Oxford were on the receiving end of a record Varsity boxing defeat at the Cambridge Guildhall, as Cambridge secured the first ever 9-0 whitewash in the history of the competition. Oxford’s Dan Lubrich was knocked out in the final bout of the night to complete the rout to the delight of the home crowd. However, Kathleen Love restored some pride for the Dark Blues with victory in the only female match, which did not count towards the official score. ARCHIVE: 0th week TT 2005

Dark Blue power and rhythm prove too much for Cambridge as last year’s defeat is forgotten
“Our game plan was to go 100% all the way, and we executed it to perfection.” This was strokeman Andy Triggs Hodge’s summary of Oxford’s exceptional performance to win the 151st Boat Race. Up against an eight considered by the Cambridge camp to be their best ever crew, Oxford showed the value of performing on the day. They produced their most techincally efficient row of the season, allowing them to harness their huge power to defeat by two lengths a gutsy Cambridge crew that could not live with the Dark Blues’ devastating bursts of speed.
Oxford got off to an excellent start, setting up a powerful rhythm within the first five strokes. Cambridge, hindered by a messy first stroke in which Tom James’ oar missed the water, found themselves two-thirds of a length behind after 90 seconds. With their tidy rhythm established and the Middlesex Bend working to their advantage, they quickly recovered to make a long push to pull alongside Oxford by the Mile Post.
After two minutes of tense side by side rowing, Oxford made their move. With the long Surrey Bend looming, the Dark Blues put in a powerful burst through Hammersmith Bridge to gain a length lead. As the Surrey Bend began to work in Oxford’s favour, Cambridge were forced to sprint to avoid allowing Dark Blue cox, Acer Nethercott, to steer his eight directly in front of the Cambridge crew.
After allowing the Surrey Bend to drain the Light Blues’ energy for over four minutes, Oxford made the killer blow. At Chiswick Steps, they put in another massive burst; Cambridge, who had spent eight of the race’s ten minutes trying to claw back Dark Blue leads, found they had nothing left to give. 10:50 into the race, Nethercott had enough of a lead to cut across Cambridge – it was all over for the Light Blues. The Chiswick Bend they had hoped to use in the closing stages was rendered irrelevant: out in front, Oxford could take the same tight line the Light Blues would follow. Worse still, Cambridge were now rowing in Oxford’s wake, the balance and run of their boat upset by the dirty water stirred by the Dark Blue oars.
Though Cambridge maintained their technique admirably, Oxford could now see their opponents behind them as they stretched their lead to the finish. When an elated Oxford crew crossed the finish line, Cambridge were two lengths behind.
Robin Bourne-Taylor, Oxford’s President, said, “The key was the rhythm off the start. The boat felt really comfortable and this allowed us to turn on the pressure at decisive points.” Bernd Heidiger, Cambridge’s stroke, said that while his crew’s early rhythm was “nearly perfect. We were never comfortable, because we were always under pressure from Oxford”. Light Blue coach Robin Williams commended Oxford, saying, “Oxford rowed tactically extremely well. They kept pushing and pushing, and eventually we couldn’t hold them back any more. All credit to Oxford – we couldn’t have done any more.”
Just before the Blue Boat race, Cambridge’s reserve boat Goldie recorded a crushing five length victory over Isis, its Oxford counterpart. After an evenly matched start, Goldie settled into a cruising speed which was markedly quicker than Isis’. The Light Blues pulled away and, aside from a brief Isis fight back around the Surrey bend, never stopped extending their lead. Their time of 16:48 smashed ten seconds off the course record for the reserve race. Isis 6 man David Livingstone, a winner of the Blue Boat race in 2003, said, “We have to concede they were the better crew.”
ARCHIVE: 0th week TT 2005

The Interpreterdir Sydney Pollack128 mins
At one point in The Interpreter, the Secret Service agent at the centre of the investigations, Tobin Keller (Sean Penn), remarks that around the proceedings swirl “layers of language signifying nothing”. He, in one turn of phrase, summarises what is most absent from the core of this thriller: any semblance of significance in among the supposed weight it believes itself to bear. The plot focuses on United Nations interpreter Silvia Broome (Nicole Kidman) who, alone in her sound booth one night, overhears an assassination plot concerning Zuwanie, the president of the invented African state, Matobo. To divulge any more would be to disservice Sydney Pollack’s impressive sequencing; what can be said is that the scenes which follow are the stuff of terse, competently cut thrillers.
The difference here, though, is that in among the expected stock situations , are woven the threads of subtle device that elevate the film from standard popcorn fluff. Snatches of dialogue are mediated by a certain disquiet that is found only in translation; long takes of beautifully shot montage are imbued with a relentless sense of oppression by renowned cinematographer Darius Khondji, evocatively mirroring the crux of the interpreter’s dilemma. He conveys the claustrophobic atmosphere in his excellent use of the UN’s cavernous First Avenue headquarters, lighting each frame with a view to portraying the relentless pitching of the elements, and in doing so avoids the visual banalities normally associated with the genre.
From the cocooned glass box in which Silvia presides high over the UN assembly floor, to her first barbed exchange with Keller regarding the excesses of communication, there is present the looming influence of a constantly mediated world. Pollack allows for a suppressed threat to emerge here with Keller retorting, “Your profession is playing with words”. It works in harmony with the well-paced paranoid tension created by editor William Steinkamp; the motif culminates magnificently during a highly-charged, quasi-voyeuristic scenario, in which Keller and Silvia talk to each other on the phone while knowingly engaging in a two-way surveillance set-up (a fitting metaphor for sexual exchange, perhaps?).
It is, in fact, the on-screen rapport between Kidman and Penn, two of the finest actors working in film today, that lends The Interpreter its spirit. Cocooned within the generic confines of the film lies a superbly acted chamber piece courtesy of the recent Oscar winners. Pollack exploits the contrast in this most unusual of double-acts with real verve, throwing the characters ino relief with dual-like dischord.
Nicole Kidman is stunning as the interpreter in question. With a pitchperfect Afrikaans accent, her Silvia has a certain reserve that, importantly, allows one to buy into the suspicion; all the while she beautifully manages the tightrope walk between exotic character actor and dominating lead player. Her performance would sit comfortably alongside her best. And her costar, Sean Penn is more than affecting as the cop with a conscience, all tormented and wrinkled-browed. Their penultimate scene together on a park bench along the Hudson is a veritable acting masterclass, where contained emotions are purged in spectacular fashion. The chemistry they exude transcends even the precincts of such capable Hollywood fare; it is a double performance that really does belong to a greater film.
Yet for all the artistic brownie points attained by The Interpreter, there also exist incredible drawbacks. For a film so concerned with international diplomacy and relations (indeed at times playing like a loveletter to the UN), it has a problematically condescending view towards Africa, from the marginalisation of the ethnic characters, to the hackneyed pan-African soundtrack. For the film’s opening, sub-Saharan cliches are also relayed through a dusty, mirage-obscured, sun-scorched lens; it is unfortunate that this is the only glimpse of the strikingly fictional Matobo throughout the entire running time. Yes, the prologue is successful in establishing enigmas that later propel the plot, but these are subsequently dissipated by the clumsy, saccharine postscript which helps to make the whole exercise feel rather implausible come the rolling of the credits. A piece of many contradictions both inherent to the production and inherited by its on-screen translation, The Interpreter allows for the audience, be it for better or for worse, to provide the final transcript.ARCHIVE: 0th TT 2005

When upcoming starlet Abbie Cornish recently had the good fortune of being compared to Hollywood personality du jour, Nicole Kidman, her response was somewhat unexpected. She would much rather, she stated, follow in the footsteps of Cate Blanchett. What’s the difference? Well while Kidman has become a ‘star’ – if not a legend, Ms Bacall – invariably headlining films, Blanchett is one of a number of young actors who are happy to share top billing, take small parts, and star in independent films, all in order to play more interesting roles. It’s a rare thing to have a strong character actor who can also open a film (and who is camera-friendly to say the least), but Blanchett seems to be on her way to attaining a goal arguably only having been achieved by one other actor, the chameleon-like Johnny Depp.
That Depp has become something of an anomaly in Hollywood terms is evidenced by the fact that this month the National Film Theatre is dedicating a season of films to him, a privilege rarely granted to so young an actor, going instead to classic icons such as Cary Grant. The programme has been designed to showcase Depp’s range as an actor. Along with the recent Pirates Of The Caribbean: The Curse Of The Black Pearl (2003) and Finding Neverland (2004), the two films which have garnered Depp Oscar nominations and cemented his reputation as one of the most talented actors of his generation, the season features a number of lesser-seen films which have contributed to his current critical acclaim.
Edward Scissorhands (1990), Ed Wood (1994), Dead Man (1996), Fear And Loathing In Las Vegas (1998) see Depp play a number of oddball outsiders in surrealist settings, working with such cult directors as Tim Burton, Jim Jarmusch and Terry Gilliam. Although only Edward Scissorhands fared well at the box-office, all four films have become cult hits, and the idiosyncrasy of the roles transformed Depp from a teen heartthrob to respected actor. Through them, Depp carved a niche for himself as a serious, somewhat spiky performer, willing to take risks with parts that other actors might consider damaging to their star personae.
It is, however, all too easy to pigeonhole Depp as an offbeat actor. To do so is a great disservice to such a versatile screen presence. One of his biggest strengths is to consistently select roles that surprise critics and audiences alike. Pirates Of The Caribbean and Ed Wood highlight his humour, proving that Depp acquits himself equally well in comedies as he does in drama. Parts in the factually-based Donnie Brasco (1997) and Lasse Halstrom’s whimsical Chocolat (2000) see him playing it straight, the latter demonstrating that Depp still has the straight-up sex appeal that he displayed in his early TV parts, and which won him the role of Don Juan in the film of the same the same name. And the jewel in the programme’s crown is What’s Eating Gilbert Grape? (1993). Critical reaction to the film centred on Leonardo DiCaprio’s convincing portrayal of a mentally- handicapped teen, but Depp’s performance as his older brother, the eponymous Gilbert, is as understated in its deilvery as it is poignant in its address.
The success of the actor, and the desire of young upstarts such as Cornish to emulate it, may well be indicative of a new approach to acting amongst Hollywood’s luminaries. While the reputations of icons such as Grace Kelly and James Stewart was premised upon the conflation of the actor with their characters (as Hitchcock famously stated), a new generation of performers, spearheaded by Depp, are looking to extend their range and durability by becoming as versatile as possible. Instead of being stars, they want to be actors, who can transform themselves with each part.
The current trend for ‘uglying up’ amongst Hollywood actresses, including recent Academy Award-winners Hilary Swank, Charlize Theron and Halle Berry, is in no small part due to Depp’s influence; and the industry’s eagerness to reward this nouveau method acting is proof enough of the extent to which his practises have become standardised. A decade before Tom Cruise dyed his hair silver and Nicole sported that nose, Depp was deforming himself with regularity, with little impact on his enduring appeal to female audiences.
Comedian, tragedian and heartthrob, Depp’s distinction lies in the very indistinction of his career. And if proof positive were needed of how many incarnations Depp has taken, it’s now possible to take an online quiz: ‘Which Johnny Depp are You?’ (www.quizilla.com). Cary Grant never managed that.
The Johnny Depp season continues at the NFT until 30 April. Finding Neverland is out now on DVDARCHIVE: 0th week TT 2005

Diamond Versi’s tribunal triumph symbolises the supposed struggle between an oppressed lone minority and a white establishment ogre, such as an Oxford University college.
The law, quite rightly, has been interpreted to support the underdog in such cases for the last fifty-odd years in an effort to redress the balance. And, indeed, it is not as though racism has suddenly disappeared from the shores of the new multicultural Britain, just as other forms of discrimination also linger.
Our generation is perhaps free from the age-old belief in British, and Caucausian, superiority – thank God – but that of our parents can, often unconsciously, slip into what would be termed a racist attitude. For the most part this manifests itself in an unfailing instinct to categorise everyone by labels approximating to ‘British’ or ‘foreign’, or perhaps even ‘white’ or ‘non-white’. But then, all of us pigeonhole people – it’s just that the pigeonholes we put them in vary according to our social conditioning.
But the tables are in danger of turning – indeed some believe they have already turned. The white middle class male, while a majority figure in this country and especially in this particular establishment, is increasingly finding himself to be an easy target.
Had Diamond Versi been an old Etonian from Wiltshire, and Roger Boden an Indian from Birmingham, I very much doubt that there would have been any case for “unfair dismissal”. Maybe there would have been no cause for it, but why do we assume that racism only works one way?
Nor is racism the only area in which it is useful to belong to any subsection of society which could be classified as “a minority”.
I, as a woman, could very easily bring an unfounded sexual harassment charge against my boss for pinching my bottom. But how successful would I be if I wanted to file a genuine complaint against a potential employer who I believed had not hired me simply because they had already filled their middle class ‘quota’?
An ideology such as that used to uphold Diamond Versi’s claims is absolutely necessary to protect those who need protecting, and often it has been, and still is, used for exactly that purpose. But it also lends itself to potential abuse, especially when you consider the bias it gives to those groups which are traditionally discriminated against.
I am not suggesting that we, as a society, need to worry excessively about protecting the white middle class male – he’s hardly an endangered species, yet.
But are we brave enough to acknowledge that not all cases brought by someone of ethnic origin against an establishment figure need necessarily be ruled in favour of the prosecutor? And when will we see a true precedent for cases in which a middle class man successfully files a charge against a minority defendant for positive discrimination?ARCHIVE: 0th week TT 2005

Bar Risa, Hythe Bridge StreetSaturday 16 April
After an hour and a half of freely flowing beer and copius numbers of cocktail pitchers, the Saturday night Jongleurs crowd were always going to be up for a laugh. This certainly made it easier for compere Andy White as he worked his way through some standard audience banter complete with reasonably witty topical comments, before handing a thoroughly warmed-up audience over to Kevin Dewsbury. Dewsbury delivered a series of wry social observations, making it clear what makes him a Kevin and definately not a ‘Kev’, and sharing his frustration at the frequent need to explain that Cheshire is not in fact populated by the fit female denizens of Hollyoaks: “’Cos if it were, why would I leave?” Quite.
Next up was self-proclaimed ‘Souf London geezer’ Harry Denford, a man whose bombastic voice is second only to his girth. Blustering on stage in a roar of expletives, Denford’s presence commanded complete attention and he quickly gained control of his audience. After dispensing with the obligatory “fat bastard” and :Souf London” gags, he moved onto more original territory by recounting his experiences as a former airline pilot and his way with the ladies. In these routines he deftly led seemingly predictable gags in unexpected directions, delivering punchy lines to confound the audience. He used bully- boy tactics, and even managed to force some unsuspecting males from the crowd onstage for what seemed little more than a torrent of unnecessarily harsh abuse. But towards the end of the show, even this achieved a comic climax as he somehow convinced them to perform a Full Monty.
With a regular Tuesday night slot at London’s Comedy Store and numerous TV and radio appearances under his belt, veteran circuit performer Sean Meo came equipped with a reputation for brutal satire. He began his set tamely, playing the laconic Brit delivering pithy observations on the state of the British railways and illegal immigrant London cabbies. As the set progressed, Meo’s profoundly macabre humour knew no bounds, venting spleen on Germans and starving African children with equal vehemence. Gags about terrorist taxi drivers and deformed midgets occasionally stretched beyond the bounds of decency, yet Meo broadly managed to walk the fine line between humour and discomfort with the ease of a consummate professional.
Meo’s biggest crowd pleaser was undoubtedly his audience banter. Within minutes he honed in on his chosen unwitting targets for the evening, manipulating their responses to his seemingly innocuous questions and then launching into a relentless barrage of cutting jibes. With a group of hairdressers in the front row, he was never going to be short of material. Despite often resorting to cheap insults, his vituperative wit remained close enough to real life to ensure that laughs were plentiful: proof positive that well-aimed invectives will always be funny however unashamedly un-PC.ARCHIVE: 0th week TT 2005

Remembering his ten hours queueing in the Vatican City, Mark Cooper describes his pilgrimage to Rome to honour the late Pope, John Paul II. While the atmosphere was at times mixed, the reward was to bid farewell to the great man.
Most will have seen images on the news of the great crowds gathering to walk past John Paul II while he lay in state. The ten hours I spent in that crowd turned out to be some of the most memorable of my life. Words cannot fully convey the mixed emotions I felt in that situation, from the sadness of John Paul II’s death to the joy of remembering his enormous achievements.
I flew out to Rome in the early hours of Tuesday 5 April, reaching the Vatican by about 2pm to join the masses of people queuing to pay their respects. Feeling somewhat put off by the severe numbers I asked one of the stewards how long the queue was going to be. He said it would be about four hours, so I decided to go ahead. After all, what would be the point wandering around Rome for two days when the only way I could justify leaving behind my revision for finals was that I wanted to pay my respects to the Holy Father, the man who had meant so much to me? I reached the High Altar of St Peter’s at midnight. John Paul II is the only Pope I have ever known, so his death marks the end of an era for me. He has been such an inspiration to millions of people, young and old, and I wanted to pay my final respects to him. But I was disappointed at the behaviour of some in the crowd, many of whom were hungry and exhausted. Elderly Italian women would push me, yelling that I hadn’t moved that extra available inch towards the person in front of me. I felt lonely too, as I queued by myself while everyone else seemed to be in groups. I stood bewildered seeing so many people of different nationalities, ages and attitudes. It seemed some were queuing out of a morbid curiosity: I heard an American woman remark, “We’re not religious – we’re just in Rome for a few days and thought this would be something to do.” I was finding the waiting difficult for emotional and physical reasons, and here was someone who was quite happy to bring her family into such a situation for “something to do”.
To their credit, the Roman authorities gave out free water at a rate of one million bottles per day, and there were plenty of ‘portaloos’ around. Medics were on standby to deal with those in need. There were a million people and Rome was completely overwhelmed. Occasionally some of the young people in the crowd would start chanting “Joannes Paulus” and clapping, but few seemed to be joining in with the hymns and prayers coming through the speakers. The majority of those around me were young Italians, aged between 14 and 30. What a testimony to the legacy of John Paul II, I thought.
When hearing of the thousands of young people gathering in St Peter’s Square on the Friday before he died, the Holy Father remarked, “I have looked for you. Now you have come to me. And I thank you.” I reflected on this while waiting, and realised how much of an achievement the Holy Father had made with young people. The World Youth Days, which had been held in Rome and Toronto, had attracted millions of young people from all over the world, who wanted to come and hear the Pope speaking about the Good News of Jesus Christ. Another day is planned for this year in Cologne, and the Holy Father was said to have been looking forward to it greatly.
At 9.37pm, on Saturday 2 April 2005, Pope John Paul II died in his apartment in the Apostolic Palace, Vatican City. Despite its grandeur, the Holy Father’s own rooms are relatively simple, with a bed, a side table, a few cupboards, a study with a selection of books, and a dining room. The rooms leading from where the Pope lay had been bustling with cardinals, other senior clerics and nuns who look after the Pope. In addition there were doctors and members of the Vatican Press Office, all making sure that that he was comfortable and that the world was being informed of his state of health. Born in 1920, John Paul II grew up in pre-war Poland. As a youngster he excelled at sport, enjoying football and skiing while his great love for the theatre almost led to him becoming an actor. However, he decided to study philosophy before training for the priesthood. He was eventually ordained in 1946 and after rapid promotion he became Archbishop of Krakow in 1964. Archbishop Wojtyla, who became a Cardinal in 1967, was considered very much an outsider for the Papacy, after the sudden death of John Paul I, after just thirty-three days as Pope. Taking the name John Paul II, Cardinal Wojtyla was elected Pope in 1978.
When the news broke that the Holy Father’s health had severely deteriorated I was just about to go to bed. It did not come as a complete surprise, for he had been ill since February, having undergone a tracheotomy to aid his breathing. Over the past ten years or more, the world has witnessed the physical deterioration of a man once known as God’s Athlete, largely due to Parkinson’s disease.
The period of Sede Vacante (or ‘Vacant See’) is a mixed one: the Church is without its chief shepherd, the vicar of Christ. However, it is also a time for reflection upon and celebration of the life and work of the late Holy Father. Never has a period of Sede Vacante been more significant than after the recent death of Pope John Paul II. The Church’s 264th Supreme Pontiff had been the first non- Italian for over 450 years and the youngest for over a century. His twenty-six year Pontificate was the third longest in history, after St Peter and Pius IX, and in that time he wrote more than all of his predecessors put together.
With one of the most recognisable faces on the planet, Pope John Paul II was hugely significant on the world stage. Most Popes have not tended to leave the Vatican a great deal. The running of the Roman Curia (the Church’s administrative and governmental workings) is a very busy job. The Pope has to personally oversee all appointments of cardinals, bishops, nuncios (ambassadors to the Holy See) etc, as well as speaking out on a whole range of moral and social issues. Adding a hectic program of international travel was a vast undertaking by John Paul II, and a step in a very new direction for the Catholic Church. In his twenty-six year Pontificate, the Holy Father visited more than 120 countries. To each of these countries, including various parts of the UK in 1982, he has taken his message of The New Evangelisation.
Joseph Cardinal Ratzinger, the newly elected Pope, and John Paul II’s Prefect for the Congregation of the Doctrine of the Faith, and Dean of the College of Cardinals, summarises the New Evangelisation as follows: “Human life cannot be realised by itself. Our life is an open question, an incomplete project, still to be brought to fruition and realised. Each man’s fundamental question is: How will this be realised — becoming man? How does one learn the art of living? Which is the path toward happiness? To evangelise means: to show this path — to teach the art of living. The deepest poverty is the inability of joy, the tediousness of a life considered absurd and contradictory. This is why we are in need of a New Evangelisation — if the art of living remains an unknown, nothing else works. But this art is not the object of a science; this art can only be communicated by [one] who has life, he who is the Gospel personified — Jesus Christ.” With this understanding of the New Evangelisation in mind, we can make more sense of his Pontificate. We can see John Paul as a man persuaded of his mission to spread the word of his God, applying his faith to the significant problems facing the world. He will perhaps be best remembered for his stance against the communist regime in his native Poland, where he supported the Solidarity Movement. Along with pressure from US President Ronald Reagan and Margaret Thatcher, the communist regime was toppled and the people of Poland looked to their country’s greatest son as a father for the whole nation. In more recent times, John Paul II firmly opposed the War in Iraq and labelled it “a failure of humanity”. Both George W Bush and Tony Blair individually visited the Pope during the conflict, and he apparently expressed his immense sorrow and disappointment at the action they were taking in Iraq.
John Paul II’s radical pilgrim papacy almost led to his death in 1981. While being driven around St Peter’s Square four shots were fired by two would-be assassins. One ran away and was never found, but the other, Mehmet Ali Agca, a Turkish Muslim, is still in jail. John Paul II famously met Agca in prison after recovering from the attack, offering him forgiveness. During the week before the papal funeral Agca reportedly asked to attend the Requiem at St Peter’s, but his request was turned down.
A key theme of John Paul II’s Pontificate was ecumenical and inter-faith dialogue. Much has been done to heal the split between the Eastern and Western Churches, such as the returning of the relics of great Eastern Patriarchs Saint Gregory of Nazianze and Saint John Chrysostom, which were stolen by crusaders in the Middle Ages. During his 1982 visit to the UK he became the first Pope since the Reformation to meet the Archbishop of Canterbury. The Pope was involved in a number of ecumenical services during his visit—something unthinkable in previous eras. Great crowds, both Catholic and Protestant, followed his every move and there was even talk of union between Rome and Canterbury. This was an historic trip made all the more significant as it took place during the Falklands Crisis. He called for a peaceful end to the conflict, an appeal repeated in a visit to Argentina days later.
John Paul II met with senior representatives of all the major religions throughout his papacy, and will be especially remembered for his dialogue with the Jewish and Muslim people. Jews in 1978 were not at all sure what to make of a Polish Pope, yet he has come to symbolise for them much of what is best in Christianity. He was the first Pope to visit a concentration camp, Auschwitz, in 1979, and made history in 1986 by being the first Pope since St Peter to visit and pray in a synagogue, condemning anti-Semitism as “sinful”. He also affirmed the validity of Jewish faith and of God’s covenant with the Jews: “The Jewish religion is not extrinsic to us but in a certain way intrinsic to our own religion. With Judaism, therefore, we have a relationship which we do not have with any other religion. You are our dearly beloved brothers, and, in a certain way, it can be said that you are our elder brothers.” During 2000, the Pope went to Israel. As was his custom, the Pope kissed the soil of the land he was entering and listened to its national anthem. The Pope visited the Western Wall, the last remnant of the Jerusalem Temple and like so many humble Jews before him, he placed a prayer of petition to the God of Israel in a crack between the stones. Dialogue with the Islamic faith too runs through the Pontificate of John Paul II. In his eyes, there should be no hostility between Islam and the Catholic Church. When the Pope hosted the World Day of Prayer for Peace at Assisi, thousands of Muslims accepted his invitation to world religions to observe a day of fasting and prayer for peace. The Pope’s outreach to Islam began with his address to 50,000 young Muslims in the stadium at Casablanca, where King Hussein introduced the Pope to the crowd as “an educator and a defender of values that are shared by Islam and Christianity”.
On reaching the doors of St Peter’s I realised what had been going on for the last ten hours. My pilgrimage to pay homage to the Pope had been a tiny reflection of his life of much travelling and physical suffering. How could I possibly complain about ten hours of sore feet, tiredness and hunger, when the Holy Father had suffered from Parkinson’s disease and other ailments for so long? There is an old Polish saying that anyone who dies in the Easter Octave goes straight to heaven, and as I walked passed his body I was sure that John Paul II was already enjoying the fruits of eternal life. I paused and genuflected for a brief moment before being ushered along by the stewards.
By the time I left Rome on Wednesday, the queue was reaching well over fifteen hours yet it seemed not to discourage people from joining it. There were at least three separate queues to join the main one, which started at the bottom of the Via della Conciliazione and trailed around the side streets for a couple of miles then heading straight up to St Peter’s Square, before meandering into the Basilica. Watching the crowds on the news back home filled me with great joy, particularly the images from Krakow. Images of thousands of Poles being crowded onto trains to undertake an uncertain journey are usually found in films about the Second World War, but these Poles were undertaking the greatest pilgrimage of their lives — to bid farewell to one of their greatest countrymen.
Now the Church looks to the future, with Cardinal Ratzinger to be the new Pontiff, as Pope Benedict XVI. Whatever his plans for the Church, one thing is not in doubt — John Paul II will be difficult to replace.ARCHIVE: 0th week TT 2005

Plum Sykes, socialite editor and novelist, entertains Josh Spero with stories of Bergdorf Blondes and American Vogue
Considered from afar, Plum Sykes is an imposing figure: a popular novelist, a contributing editor at American Vogue, a history graduate from Oxford, all wrapped in a glamorous and fashionable lifestyle. In person, however, she wears this clothing with grace and charm, as I discover over lunch with her one day in South Kensington; her unforced friendliness soothes my nerves. The type of woman who possesses both striking success and style often accessorises them with hauteur, but this is not Sykes.
Asked by her old tutor at Worcester to give his students advice on how best to pursue a career in the media, Sykes is coming to Oxford to talk at the Union on the evening of Wednesday 27 April. In the same week her first novel, Bergdorf Blondes, is released in paperback, so when we meet both topics come up.
Bergdorf Blondes is far more than its “veneer of extreme silliness” (in Sykes-speak), and although I approached it with low expectations, the satire brilliantly confounded me. It is acute, but not bitchy. Sykes disagrees with my choice of the word ‘satire’ for this tale of Park Avenue princesses and their quests for PJs (private jets) and ATMs (rich boyfriends): “I always picture a satire as political and something with which you really attack something, but I think of [Bergdorf Blondes] more as a social comedy, I suppose. I was going more for social comedy in the vein of those 1940s movies like The Philadelphia Story.”
Terminology aside, there is certainly sharp rebuke for the superficial world of New York heiresses, albeit clothed in the faux naivety of the narrator, identified only as Moi. If calling a character Moi seems precious, it is only a diversionary tactic: she is sharper than she lets on, making penetrating remarks under the shadow of shallowness. Part of the reason this book is trumpeted as printed Sex and the City and was dismissed by many critics is because Sykes employs a great deal of subtlety in her prose, covered by a layer of brashness and fashion which proves distracting.
‘Moi’ also implies a level of autobiographical involvement. I ask Sykes, how much of ‘Moi’, is ‘Me’? “That’s not my life – I’m writing about a group of very, very elite, privileged New York girls. Now I discovered that because at American Vogue I was always reporting on them so I got that inside view. That wasn’t me living it, but I was very much party to it.” This is true of much of her work for Vogue, and proved by the fact that, the day after our interview, Sykes is flying to Paris for three days to write about bras. However, she is anything but complacent, “Believe me, I know I’m really lucky in the sense that the job has glamorous moments but if you’re being a journalist you’re always remembering, ‘Well it’s not actually for me.’ I’m not going to wear these handmade $900 bras – I wish I was. I’m just writing.”
The outrageous nature of many lines and scenes in Bergdorf Blondes makes me wonder what could have provided inspiration. Much is drawn from life. “I think a lot of the best lines in the book, I couldn’t have made up because they’re too good. I interviewed so many heiresses and stuff so I had loads of material I hadn’t used in my articles. I was sitting next to [a Bergdorf Blonde-type] at the MTV awards or something, and she said, ‘You know, Plum, I’m such a New York grooming addict that my nails actually ache if they’re not manicured.’ And so I put that in the book. I’m not clever enough to invent aching nails.”
Surely, then, drawing so heavily on real women, Sykes must have upset those she parodies (however affectionately)? “Do you know what’s really weird? All the girls, all those Palm Beach heiresses, were reading it by the pool, laughing, and they think it’s very flattering to be called Bergdorf Blondes because they think, ‘Oh we’re funny and we’re glamorous.’ They can see the funny side and they feel flattered.” But if they were flattered, I would have thought they wouldn’t have realised the satirical subtext of the book. “The thing is, when these girls in real life say this, they know that they’re dumb, they know it’s all a performance, so they’re all in on the joke that they’re a joke in Bergdorf Blondes.
“They’re meant to be the conflicted modern girl: glamorous, silly, intelligent, smart, shoe-obsessed, and I’ve always had this thing in my life where people think because I’m glamorous I couldn’t possibly be intelligent, particularly in New York. The city is full of really glamorous, really intelligent women who will play up to their silly side because they know it’s funny and they’re living for the performance. The Julie Bergdorf character is very true to an heiress who’s performing, hamming it up. So it’s meant to be quite real.”
There are, however, some appallingly obtuse, self-unaware characters, like Moi’s friend Jolene. “Oh Jolene’s just really dumb. Julie and Moi are the smart funny ones but the rest of them – the Greek chorus – are completely stupid. You can’t have a comedy full of smart people, it doesn’t work.”
Sykes may be far away from the air-headed characters she writes about, but Moi’s circumstances bear suspicious likeness to Sykes’: they are both writers at top fashion magazines, both had unsuccessful engagements to photographers, and the quick intelligence of bothis often overlooked. The English press are Sykes’ bete noire for this reason and others: “They can’t understand how a serious person could write a silly book.”
Sykes’ most public, bruising runin with the press came in The Daily Telegraph under the headline ‘Bergdorf Bitch’. She shows no signs of this viciousness at our lunch, so where did it come from?
“Well I was a bit stupid. [The interviewer] showed up and started asking me all these confusing questions and in the end I said, ‘Have you actually read the book?’ Eventually she admitted she hadn’t. So I very stupidly said, ‘You’re unprofessional,’ and I’m afraid it went downhill from there. But I learnt my lesson, which is, unfortunately, that with the English press you have to lie.” However the conversation we have and the opinions Sykes proffers mean I am willing to believe that she is making an exception in my case. Perhaps this is part of her magic.
Later, we talk about how Sykes started in the media. Coming from Oxford, she was lucky to be taken on at British Vogue as an intern, which translated into a full-time job. “I was virtually sweeping the floor of the fashion closet at Vogue.”
In 1995 Sykes quit British Vogue for its American sister, where she rose to assistant editor. However, she stepped down in 2002 to become contributing editor, which requires her to submit occasional pieces. This transatlantic move was not popular, as the sisters are also rivals: “I got stolen. You can’t really move between the two without actually quitting one and moving to the other. They’re very competitive – they [British Vogue] absolutely hated me for moving, but I wasn’t going to say no.”
Sykes succeeded in her career despite not being involved heavily in student journalism. She is keen to show that there is no guarantee of meteoric success after being involved at university level. “It’s the weird thing about student journalism that all the people who were very interested in it when I was at university since became editors at newspapers – not top editors but they’re moving up – or they became writers, but none of them became really, really famous. None of them have made a massive splash like, ‘Oh, I remember them.’”
Sykes acknowledges she has been fortunate. “When I was at Oxford I just thought I wasn’t clever enough. The main thing is thinking you can do it.” However, she emphasises that there is no golden road to a career in the media straight after university. “I hope you realise that life when you come out is awfully disappointing. Let’s say you’re interviewing David Starkey now, but if you wanted to work for a newspaper, you’d be cleaning up their coffee mugs. After you leave Oxford, nothing will ever be that good.”ARCHIVE: 0th week TT 2005

Ben Coffer gorges on pies
THE BE-MULLETED eighties pop duo Tears For Fears were wrong about so much, yet in one respect they were right on the button: this is, as they sang on the soundtrack to Donnie Darko, a mad world. And in such a mad world, there are few things which have any enduring significance. Popes die, promises made to Chancellors of the Exchequer are forgotten; even the royals we assumed would live in sin forever eventually do the right thing and tie the knot.
Nonetheless, there remains a single area of modern life that is, like one of those towns on the retreating cliffs of Whitby, firmly immured against the salty tides of change: the Great English Pork Pie. Anything the world throws at it simply slides off its greasy pastry outer shell, disdained. The pie is a monument to empire. The pie is forever. The pie will be here after Armageddon to feed the cockroaches.
The reason for this is simply that the pork pie is the perfect food, in no need of change. Its pastry crust speaks to a diner of infinite potential, obscuring what’s within and defying conventional conceptions of identity. “Don’t ever f**king judge me,” it proclaims, like those modern-day philosophers and renowned lovers of the pork pie, Slipknot. For who can say what lies beneath a crusty mask? While the ’Knot remain forever obscured by theirs, however, the ever-rewarding savoury simply teases until all is revealed with the first bite. Further mouthfuls continue to surprise, offering the full range of textural experiences: an average pie (if such a thing exists) provides the obvious moist chewiness, along with moments of unexpected and inexplicable crunch, and even the more unconventional quivering of the jelly.
Such icons inevitably have detractors. There are those, for instance, who frown and tell me that the Pork Pie is too unhealthy to survive in a world where even McDonald’s sells salads. But so what if British meat is accepted worldwide as a breeding ground of BSE, Foot and Mouth, and myriad other plagues? No sane Englishman seriously expects a pork pie to contain real meat. It’s a scientific fact that a pie is 73% safer than a British steak. Pies: one; modern world: nil.
“But that’s not the only reason they’re unhealthy,” retorts that insistent voice of modernity. “Pies are incredibly fattening.” Yes they are. And it’s an acknowledged truth that the majority of girls prefer larger men. Pies two; modern world: nil.
Still, though, our whining contemporary society persists in its attempts to prove the invulnerable Pork Pie defunct, practically screaming, “Pies don’t actually taste very nice.” No, indeed they don’t. But to dwell on such points is really to misunderstand the ethos of the pork pie. This is a pastry that doesn’t care what people think. It doesn’t need your affirmation. It couldn’t give a toss whether or not you like how it tastes. Rather, it challenges you to eat it in spite of its blandness. This isn’t some nouveau riche foodstuff that wants to be loved. The great English Pork Pie is the aristocrat of the culinary world, and I but its humble serf.ARCHIVE: 0th week TT 2005