A 14 year old girl provoked widespread controversy last week
by having an abortion, without the knowledge of her parents, only
to change her mind when it was already too late. She had agreed
to have the abortion after speaking to a school health worker. Maureen Smith, the girl’s mother, was distraught after
discoverring the truth. She believes her daughter did not tell
her that she was pregnant because “she was frightened and
felt that she had let me down”. According to her, Melissa
changed her mind after realizing the support she would receive
from her family and had been “talked into having an
abortion” despite “not believing in one”. Health workers are required by law to keep all patient
information confidential, even if they are minors. Teachers are
also not legally bound to reveal the details of pregnancies and
are advised to seek the consent of pupils involved. Opinion is bitterly divided over whether policy should change
to allow for the future support and reassurance to be taken into
account when making a decision or if confidentiality is crucial
in providing an avenue through which teenagers can seek help.
Maureen believes the current policy is wholly contradictory
considering her daughter “requires my consent to get her
appendix removed”. The government’s policies of distributing the morning
after pill in schools and allowing girls to have hormonal
contraceptives lasting up to three years inserted in their arms
has already come under fire. A recent report from the University
of Nottingham report showed that such measures, far from stemming
pregnancies had actually led to their increase.ARCHIVE: 3rd week TT 2004 

The Iraq war claimed another media scalp after the editor of
the Daily Mirror, Piers Morgan, was sacked for publishing fake
photos of Iraqi prisoner abuse. Morgan’s nine year reign came to an abrupt end when
members of the Queen’s Lancashire regiment showed that the
photos couldn’t have been taken in Iraq. Brigadier Geoff
Sheldon said that scratches on an army truck in the photographs
had been matched to a truck at the Territorial Army’s
Kimberley barracks in Preston. Morgan was sacked by the Trinity
Mirror Group and the paper issued an unreserved apology the
following day. The Daily Mirror claimed to have been subject to a
“calculated and malicious hoax”. Conflict between
government and media over Iraq has already forced the BBC’s
Director General and chairman to resign. Morgan was one of the
most vigorous anti-war voices in Fleet Street.ARCHIVE: 3rd week TT 2004 

If there’s one thing I dislike about this place,
it’s the musty world of ‘secret’ societies.
Bastions of old boy networking and the occasional social upstart,
they epitomise everything that makes me cringe about Oxford. That
and the VIP room at da Bridge. These societies pride themselves on being
‘exclusive’. You can’t join at Freshers’
Fair. Prospective members must wait patiently for their
credentials to be verified. Then there is the small matter of
initiation. This frequently involves drinking from a funnel until
you throw it all back up again into a plastic bucket which is
considered the mark of a true gentleman. Other societies insist upon a more brutal selection procedure.
The infamous Bullingdon Club initiate their members by trashing
their rooms, destroying all expensive equipment in their wake.
The point is, if you’re rich enough, you just don’t
care. Wanton acts of vandalism to make even football hooligans proud
are merely the beginning. Piers Gav are reputed to organize soirees of drug taking, at
mysterious, rural locations. Not even the members know where they
spent the evening, or in most cases, how. Abrasive drugs may well
be one way to keep them quiet I guess. At another ‘gentlemen’s’ society, the venerable
members celebrate their historical allegiance to King James II,
making a toast over a bowl of water to symbolize his exile
‘over the water’ in France. Sounds harmless enough. And
then there is the singing of right-wing songs, which has resulted
in bans from many restaurants in Oxford. Typically these societies only invite men into their ranks,
although the more progressive ones do permit a highly select
female contingent to attend certain events. One such Stamford society boasted of its ‘enlightened
attitude towards the opposite sex’ in a recent invitation.
Whatever next? Animals? And for those sorry few of you whose appetites have been
whetted, but remain uninitiated, take heart. A luminous wristband
is all it takes for admittance to the most exclusive society in
Oxford. Just make sure you keep your mouth shut.ARCHIVE: 3rd week TT 2004 

The Beat Cafe
Little Clarendon St
(01865) 553543 With a name to live up to, The Beat Cafe could end up as one
of two things: a horribly pretentious artsy hangout, air thick
with lyrical, introverted poetic angst and the smoke which
accompanies it; or, a more laid back, dare I say, cheaper
alternative to its swanky neighbour, the Duke of Cambridge. But
the two are not mutually exclusive and it seems the Beat Cafe
ranks somewhere in between. Depending on the time of day you choose to visit, thirst can
be quenched with a delicious smoothie or the somewhat less
delicious and also hilariously named Osama Gin Ladan. But cocktails on the whole are reasonable, and when a bar
offers not only a happy but also a stupid hour, who are we mere
students to debate the finer points of cocktailmanship? And
anyway, I have a feeling the experience this bar offers is not
entirely centred around the drinks and the drinking. Indulge in political debate, literary discussion or simply
have a smoke and watch the world (or rather, the worldly
residents of Jericho) go by. Visit on a sultry summer evening
when the front is open and you could almost be in, if not San
Francisco, Barcelona. Which is what The Beat Cafe is all about.
With its terracota walls and romanesque fittings it wants to take
you to the exotic places its hanging pictures depict. Bohemian pretentions notwithstanding, you want to hang out at
the Beat Cafe. You too can deplore the weaknesses of the human
condition and solve the world’s problems, you too can write
heart-felt poetry, and on a sunny evening you too can pretend
you’re somewhere far far away from Oxford. This bar can take you to a more enlightened place. Head on up
to Jericho and go along for the ride.ARCHIVE: 3rd week TT 2004 

The Lemon Tree
268 Woodstock Rd
(01865) 311936 Recently re-opened after refurbishment, The Lemon Tree appears to have regained its former reputation as one of Oxford’s best restaurants. While its location (a considerable way up Woodstock Road) means that it gets less attention than it might, everyone who has made the journey seems to have concluded that it was well worth the effort. Set in a beautiful north- Oxford villa, its décor is flawless. The walls are a warm Tuscan yellow, and the main dining area opens out onto an immaculate leafy patio garden where it is also possible to eat. But what about the food? The menu offered an almost bewildering choice and variety. To start, the black pudding on a bed of onion mash, despite sounding original, was unremarkable and slightly disappointing. The tomato and basil tart, however, was good and the scallops in butter sauce were exceptional. The mains similarly varied in quality. The garlic tiger prawns were pathetically small, but what made the dish truly bizarre was that it was served with what appeared to be gooseberries. The seared tuna on chickpea puree was very tasty, and the smoked haddock on spring onion mash was delicious. It was the dessert that redeemed the meal. The “chocolate pot” was a pot of warm chocolate sponge filled with hot, creamy chocolate sauce and served with white chocolate icecream. Certainly one of the best puddings I have had for a long time. Whilst sometimes over-ambitious with its culinary ideas and inconsistent in quality, The Lemon Tree’s choice of food, originality of dishes and excellent wine list should be applauded. But more than anything, it is its refreshingly individual ambience which makes it so special. It is quite simply a lovely place to eat, and certainly deserves its reputation as one of Oxford’s best restaurants.ARCHIVE: 3rd week TT 2004 

A girl can never have too many bags. They are the ultimate
fashion fix – cheap, versatile, practical (well, sometimes)
and they don’t require endless trying-on sessions. A good
bag can transform an ordinary outfit into a fabulous one. Buy a
bag in any of this season’s key colours – canary
yellow, apple green, and coral pink – and you will have
found a more subtle and forgiving way of wearing such shades. Firstly, the evening bag or clutch bag: must be small enough
not to hinder dancing/mingling but big enough to hold the
essentials for a night out. If you’re wearing a plain
outfit, choose a bag that will add interest: go to Accessorize
for a sparkly/beaded/ colourful clutch. If your outfit is
interesting enough in itself, you can’t go wrong with a
classic black or neutral bag. Think about splashing out on a
vintage designer classic like a Chanel quilted handbag. For everyday uses, you need a carry-all bag. Being an Oxford
student, you will need to make sure this can fit at least one
book in it but a fun, novelty bag can easily disguise dull
contents. For summer, a beach bag is the perfect size for student
essentials and they come in all sorts of colours and prints so
it’s easy to find one no one else will have. Gap is reliable
for this sort of bag (see top left), but if you want to splash
out, Irish designer Orla Kiely is the undisputed expert for
good-sized and quirky bags (see bottom right). The model
carry-all bag, though, has to be the Mulberry Roxy bag (see
bottom left), but at £575 you may need to search long and hard
for a highstreet alternative. There are two types of bag that fall under the ‘weekend
bag’ category. The first type is the one you use every
weekend for shopping and general use – it needs to be
slightly bigger than the evening bag, but you can forget about
having to fit in books – relief. Neutral colours like brown,
cream and black are practical choices for this sort of bag. The
second weekend bag is the type you use when/if you’re lucky
enough to go on a Bridget Jones-esque weekend get-away. All the
designers like Louis Vuitton, Burberry, Mulberry and so on have
perfect weekend choices but equally, the much more affordable
Designers at Debenhams range have come up with some impressive
alternatives. Of course, if you’re a true bag addict, this season alone
you’ll need (or is it want?) the pastel bag, the metallic
bag, the brightly coloured bag, the print bag, the sporty bag,
the glam bag, the list goes on. And if you want to be streets
ahead, for autumn/winter the must-have bag is Gucci satin
patchwork bag (waiting lists will already be huge), and the
bowling bag is back big time. For now though, invest in a cheap
and cheerful summer bag and you’ll be surprised how much it
can brighten up your mood.ARCHIVE: 3rd week TT 2004 

The Oxford glitterati were out last Friday, stalking the Union
pathways like a catwalk. The reason? UFO (Unique Fashionable
Objects), showcasing young graduate designers from Hong Kong. The show began with Rock Wong’s collection of pinstriped
corsets and sculptural Hussein Chalayan skirts. The descriptions
given to collections were slightly lost in translation from Hong
Kong to London, such as the caption for ‘Tomas’:
“My inspiration is a Cargo Box”. Many had a worldpeace
theme: Edith Sze dedicated her landscape-sewn dresses to all of
“Nature’s Shiny, Happy, Little People”. The Hussein Chalayan theme continued into Connie Wong’s
collection of white, Yamamoto-style dresses, which had human
faces sculpted into the material. There were also traces of
inspiration from Alexander McQueen and Bjork, throughout the
show, such as the white scarves wrapped around Wong’s
models’ heads, covering their faces (see left). They
resembled a disturbing combination of the Klu Klux Clan and the
recent photos from Iraq. Wong’s message, apparently, is that
“we are all united in our humanity”. The finale featured amazing bejewelled lingerie, by Jenna
Phillips. Models appeared in sub fusc and tentatively shedded
their intellecutal cloaks to reveal tiny see-through silk and
lace lingerie, covered with ribbons and jewels, while the boys
wore silk boxers and flexed their mussels. Phillips explains that for European women “sensuality is
integrated into ordinary life; wearing beautiful lingerie is a
daily ritual”. Do you hear that everyone? Chuck out your big
pants and Y-fronts, girls and boys, the time has come for a bit
of sensuality and it will give sub fusc and finals a whole new
pornographic dimension.ARCHIVE: 3rd week TT 2004 

In the first week of this term, Cherwellprinted the sorry tale
of Brian Butterworth, first-year psychology student at Merton,
who was sent "into digs" for sleeping with a woman on
college accommodation. Scandalous, yes; but ameliorated
considerably by the fact that the story in question was reprinted
from a 1964 edition. Surely, then, in 40 years, the University
has moved on; surely such stifling moral interference is long
gone by now? Perhaps in theory. Unfortunately, though, the moral stance
taken by Oxford’s educational institutions is, in practice,
still repressed and repressive. While colleges clearly cannot
prevent consenting men and women (in any combination) having sex
on their own time (not least under the European Convention on
Human Rights), there are still regulations in place regarding
accommodation for which the only purpose seems to be discouraging
sexual contact. Many colleges, for example, operate a system of signing in and
out guests who are to sleep in a member’s room. This may seem
perfectly reasonable for a parent, or a sister, yet shows a
complete misunderstanding on the colleges’ behalf of the nature
of modern sexual relationships. If I’m considering bringing a
woman or man I’ve met in a club, say, back to my room, on the
premise of a coffee, my chances of sleeping with her are likely
to be greatly diminished by requesting she give her signature to
the duty porter first. My own college, St John’s, operates
just such a system, and threatens all kinds of punishments for
refusal to comply with its sexually crippling procedure. So why should we stand up for our right to have one night
stands? Rather than arguing fervently in favour of sexual
promiscuity (next week, perhaps), the most compelling reason is
that we should be free to engage in any sexual activity that we
wish, as consenting adults. It is not the place of the college to
impose its own archaic morality on us – it exists as an
instituion to teach us, and we live in its accommodation.
However, we pay for this privilege, and accordingly it does not
have the fallback that parents do when they demand you abide by
their rules (“As long as you live under my roof etc.”).
The relationship is not what schools call in loco parentis;
rather, it is one of landlord and tenant. The colleges that operate such systems will undoubtedly claim
all sorts of practical reasons for maintaining them: St
John’s’ favourite is to cite the fire risk of not
knowing exactly who is in the building at night time. These are
clearly rubbish. In the event of a fire, I would either be in my
room with the person in question, in which case when I was found
he or she would also be discovered, or, on the off-chance that I
was in the toilet when such a hypothetical blaze erupted, the
authorities would either assume I was in my room (in which case
they’d discover my guest when looking for me there), or find
me first, and I would point them in my guest’s direction.
Such a mix up, with one person in the toilet and the other
trapped in the room (or whatever precisely the college fears), is
just as likely to happen during the daytime. The most farcical
aspect of the whole system, though, is that only if the two of us
are going to be asleep together do we need to sign in – in
which case, we’ll both be in the same room, and as soon as
the potential rescuers discover me, my guest’s presence will
be obvious. Surely the real fire risk is the college-mate from
the quad next door who pops up for a chat at three in the
morning? He genuinely might get lost in such a disaster. At the end of the day, though, if St John’s really cared
about fire risks, it would have had more than one smoke alarm per
stair case when the Tommy White building caught fire last term.
What actually lies at the heart of this ‘safety’
measure is an instinctive conservatism to which institutions such
as Oxford colleges are inevitably prone. The desire of the powers
that be to i m p o s e their own m o r a l i t y onto us should
be resisted fiercely – it is the sort of infringement of
civil liberty that adults should not have to suffer once they
leave school, and which, at any non- Oxbridge university, would
be laughable. The whole concept of the scout, insidiously checking that we
behave, is similarly ridiculous. Yes, we are grateful for the
option of having our rooms cleaned, but the idea that our rooms
be inspected at least once every two days is patently absurd, and
implies the colleges see us as little children to be monitored
carefully. While it may seem petty to become so irate over whimsical
sexual encounters, the problem of college restrictions on guests
is far more wide-ranging. Relationships, both inside and outside
college, become difficult to manage. At St John’s, special
permission is required from the dean if a guest is to stay for
more than two consecutive nights, because of the strain on
college resources. In fact, of course, a guest requires no
resources at all, aside from a little extra water to brush his or
her teeth with. Such an utterly farcical explanation from the
college does not justify the seriously significant amount of
bureaucracy that is invoked in order to have your girlfriend or
boyfriend stay over for a long weekend. There have always been conspiracy theories about the way in
which colleges attempt to manipulate people into working. The
dire nature of some college bars, for example, is often put down
to an attempt to encourage students to stay in and work – or
at least an apathy about any part of life not academically
fruitful. While these may or may not sound credible, the immense
difficulty of sustaining a long-term relationship if your partner
is unable to stay in college accommodation without decanal
permission, is real and tangible. Ultimately, it is high time that some of the Oxford Colleges
realised that the happiness of their members is the true mark of
success in a college, and long-term, colleges that stifle their
undergraduates will not attain the high application rates that
they need to achieve academic success. St John’s is the
perfect example of this: despite its superior wealth and
placement in the Norrington tables, it receives far fewer
applications than its more casual neighbour, Balliol. Moreover,
the University as a whole already has a reputation for being a
lot less fun than non-Oxbridge institutions. If it doesn’t wish to see its prized academic success
disperse into the university system as a whole, then Oxford needs
to abandon its authoritarian instincts. Unable to reconcile
sexual freedom and the elusive Oxford dream, I’m packing my
bags and heading off to study under the Professor of Cognitive
Neuropsychology at the University College London, a certain B.
Butterworth (BSc, Oxon).ARCHIVE: 3rd week TT 2004 

Natives of LA love to complain about it: the pollution, the
superficial, fastpaced lifestyle, the total lack of history and
culture. These people live in LA for business, purely practical
reasons, and once out of it they’ll move elsewhere: a calm
and gentle place, a place with museums and opera houses, a place
where everyone isn’t chasing their first million, a place
where people have some spiritual and emotional sense, a place
with people whose IQs don’t equal their weight in pounds. A
place like San Francisco. It’s hard to live and survive in the movie business
without being one of these types, and if you’re in LA
you’re in it for the movies. That was certainly the reason
I’d come to LA Not the films themselves perhaps, I could see
them anywhere, but the movie culture: the stars, the sets, the
general milieu. LA is the movie Mecca, the place where the deals
are made, the pictures are shot, the stars are born. LA doesn’t have its own Empire State building; it
doesn’t have the White House or Golden Gate Bridge. It
doesn’t have Aspen mountains or Mississippi rivers. But LA
has one thing unlike anywhere else on earth: more movie stars per
square metre than every other place in the world. And those were
the people I was there to see. Unfortunately I hadn’t arrived during Oscar season. It
turned out the tickets were far too expensive and hotel prices
(even hostels) were in the stratosphere. I guessed every movie
geek in America made pilgrimage to Mecca at this time. So I
arrived in winter, still sure that there would be enough movie
stars wondering around the streets to satisfy my blood-lust. I booked into a hostel as close to the centre as I could
afford. I’d heard that no one walks around the sprawling
metropolis that is LA and the public transport system is
nonexistent; and since I needed to be where all the action was
(surprisingly there aren’t any hostels in Beverly Hills) I
settled in Santa Monica, the next port of call for rich and
famous. I’d prepared my trip like a paparazzo professional. After
months of studying Hello!and Heat, I knew all the hangouts of the
stars. I knew the glitzy vegan restaurant that fed Gwynnie and
Madge, the nightclub where J-Lo liked to shake her booty. All
these places had been filed in my memory and locations mapped out
before I even arrived. I woke up bright and early on my first morning, rising with
the LA sun and donning my jogging gear from a trip to Venice
beach. Of course I had no intention of doing any exercise (being
an Oxford student and not an LA starlet) but I knew that Johnny
Depp took his morning excursion at said beach and I was going to
witness it. Depp must be the sexiest creature in show business
and probably the only thing that could get me out of bed at 6 am. So there I was, decked out in lycra, the fattest sight in a
fifty mile radius, waiting for a glimpse of the
high–cheekboned Adonis to rush past me. I waited and waited,
my exposed parts slowly burning in the LA sun, and waited and
waited. By the end of the morning I’d seen someone who
closely resembled Luke Perry from 90210, an extra I remembered
from an episode of Nash Bridges, and a dog-walker who I was
pretty sure must have had a number of famous people’s dogs
in his clutch. Such was my disappointment that I debated whether or not to
follow the dog-walker back to his clients’ houses, in the
hope that I might catch sight of Britney Spears or Brad Pitt. But
I was in no fit state to encounter any of my idols. If there was
anything worse than not meeting Brad Pitt, it would be meeting
him while I closely resembled Edwina from Ab Fab. That being the
case, I trekked back to my hostel to gather my wits, slather
myself with sunblock and begin again. The next stop was The Viper Room, death place of River Phoenix
and, I’d been reliably informed, the place to be for the
young celebrity about town. This time I wore my hippest clubbing
gear. I wasn’t deluded enough to think I could actually get
in the club but I needed to blend in along Sunset Strip. As it
was I blended in very well, spending the entire evening in an
alleyway holding the arm of some filthy rich, desperately drunken
teenager while she vomited the entire no-carb contents of her
stomach all over my fake Manolos. Not quite the Hollywood
experience I expected. A week later and the situation hadn’t improved. I’d
covered half the square footage of LA and still any and every
remotely famous person had eluded my grasp. I had images of
Gorgeous George leaving eateries a few seconds after I’d
entered them, of Winona Ryder dashing out of department stores
before I’d had a chance to clock her, of Cruise and Cruz
engaged in a kiss and make-up snogging session only a few feet
away from me at any given time. I’d taken to nipping around
street corners in the hopes of catching them unawares, of looking
at the world through binoculars so I wouldn’t miss a thing.
I’d even begun to follow the dog–walkers’ home. Unfortunately, despite my most concerted efforts, the
situation didn’t improve. Two weeks in LA and the only
remotely famous person I saw was the fat bloke from The Full
Monty. A bloody Brit. I probably could have seen him down Camden
Market. I packed my bags and headed for San Francisco. Maybe
I’d bump into Britney in Maccy D’s.ARCHIVE: 3rd week TT 2004 

Blithering on about how wonderful summer is seems to be a
major vocation in Oxford. The cliché of ‘Pimm’s,
punting and parties’ is hardly fresh and original. Still, it
cannot be denied that summer in Oxford is an ideal time for
relaxation. This is reflected in the sporting options available.
To be suited to summertime, a sport needs to be as relaxed,
stress-free and slow-paced as possible. The reasons for this are
obvious: have you ever tried to play rugby on sun-baked ground?
Summer is a time for relaxed, peaceful pastimes. Cricket, for
example. Or croquet. Or tortoise racing. Tortoise racing probably has a long and distinguished history,
no doubt dating back several centuries to when Sir Herbert
Gufflewhit introduced the first hard-shelled reptile to Oxford in
a fit of port-inspired zaniness, then bought another one and
decided to race them. The casual observer might find such a slow-paced, drawnout
pastime to be something of an anachronism in today’s
quick-fix high-paced world. Granted, the races take ages, but
that’s exactly the fun of it – it gives the spectators
more opportunity to get sozzled on (sigh) Pimm’s. Which, if
we’re frank here, is more or less the point of summer sports
in Oxford. No doubt one day animal rights campaigners will protest at
this cruel tradition, citing scientific ‘evidence’ that
it does horrendous damage to the tortoise’s psyche and
results in all sorts of insecurity issues and inferiority
complexes. Until then, enjoy it. Tortoise racing is
old-fashioned, slow-paced, stuck in the past, and seems to
revolve around getting hopelessly smashed on Pimm’s. How
very Oxford…ARCHIVE: 3rd week TT 2004