His legal advice greenlighted Britain’s most controversial foreign adventure since Suez. Kate Greasley talks to the attorney general on justifying Iraq 
 He is the man whose legal advice facilitated the invasion of Iraq. Lord Peter Goldsmith, attorney general since 2001, presented his final memorandum to the government on 17 March 2003 concluding that the proposed use of force in Iraq was lawful. This sparked the ignition for a war which has lasted over four years, claiming the lives of 146 British troops and an estimated 15-30,000 Iraqi civilians, not to mention billions of pounds in government funding. As the government's original grounds for war have been revealed to be shaky, the role of Lord Goldsmith has been portrayed as less impartial legal adviser, more puppet under the sway of the political pressures which led to Britain's most disastrous foreign foreign policy entanglement since the Suez crisis.

 At a time when Tony Blair was attempting to galvanise Parliament into action over Iraq with frenzied claims that Saddam Hussain was stockpiling weapons of mass destruction (WMD), the release of Goldsmith’s advice – which affirmed the legal validity of war on the basis that Iraq had committed a ‘material breach’ of ceasefire agreements according to UN Resolution 1441 – was just the boost Blair needed. Since then, the infamous WMD must have been hit with a paralysing bout of stage-fright, for they never made their allotted appearance. The void left by the absence of Blair’s only firm platform for an invasion was deeply felt. While Blair faced accusations of engineering fake grounds to enter an unjustified war, Goldsmith was demonised as a Blairite puppet.

All rather sensational for a man who has spent most of his career dusting off cases in the archives of commercial law and promoting pro bono work for the poor and legally under-represented. In fact, the first thing that strikes me about Lord Goldsmith is just how disassociated he seems to be from the nuances of political spin and scandal. Straight-laced and serious, he has a firm but fair headmaster rapport: perfectly docile so long as you keep your shirt tucked in, but you wouldn’t want him to catch you having a fag behind the bike sheds. His speech is candid and economical, without much embellishment or hyperbole. I wonder if it is these qualities that have enabled him to adjust to such a highly politicised position from a place of relative inexperience.

He adamantly rebuts any implication of political naivety. “I knew quite a bit about public life before I joined the Government”, he maintains, before reeling off a CV of international conventions, organisations and associations that would impress even the most consummate political nerds. Goldsmith certainly seems to have made an almost seamless transition from the world of the wigs to the world of politics, helped along by his long-standing affiliation with the Labour Party. After a successful career at the bar following his degree from Cambridge, he was appointed a Labour life peer in 1999 before his promotion to attorney general in 2001.

Nevertheless, the ruthlessly public nature of political office will eventually take its toll, and in February this year Lord Goldsmith became the latest in a long line of executive members to get stung when the Mail on Sunday reported that he had been having an extra-marital affair with Kim Hollis, Britain’s first Asian QC. “There obviously are big differences and the public spotlight is one of them,” he says.

Yet whatever snipes can be made at Lord Goldsmith, passivity on the job is certainly not one of them. As the leading mouthpiece for legal issues in Britain he has argued forcefully on an array of legal and political topics, ranging from anonymity for the offenders in the James Bulger murder case to the closure of U.S detention camp Guantanamo Bay. He has recently welcomed controversial recommendations by the Law Commission to move manslaughter by provocation up a category to second degree murder: “The difference between the ‘least bad murder’ and the worst manslaughter may not be that much of a gap in terms of culpability.”

He strongly defends the incitement to religious hatred laws, eventually forced through by Labour last year after a long-haul legislative crusade. Dismissing any suggestion that such laws will operate to stifle free expression about religion, he is at pains to emphasise the government is in favour of outlawing “hatred of people by reference to their religion, not of the religion itself… It is not the same as a blasphemy law.” Maybe not, but there is something in his unreserved enthusiasm that recalls the distant lashings of the Party whip.

Indeed, for some, this party-political cheerleader impression may seem worlds apart from the man who flew to Washington D.C. in 2003 to scrap with the U.S administration for the fair trial of British detainees in Guantanamo. Speaking about it now, it is apparent that the subject still strikes a chord: “I think that Guantanamo is wrong in principle; I think its wrong in practice. It sends a message that the West stands for injustice when the West really is the one place that stands for justice, tolerance and fairness”.

However, the Guantanamo fiasco pales in comparison to the controversy for which he is currently known and probably will be remembered. Tentatively I broach the subject of Iraq, wondering how he will account for the questions surrounding his legal advice. His answer is that of a man who has been asked this question a thousand times or more: unsearched for, perfectly intoned, yet still somehow convincingly sincere.

“Part of the reason it has been so controversial is simply because the war has been so controversial,” he explains. “People have been deeply disappointed that when the invasion occurred those weapons of mass destruction were not found.” He insists, however, that the scare over WMD was not at all “critical to the legal advice” which recognised the legality of the war on the original basis given by the UN in 1993 in Resolution 687. This authority had “never been cancelled” but “only ever been suspended on condition that Iraq complies with the ceasefire conditions”.

“It never did. And this was confirmed by UN Resolution 1441.” The point he makes is relatively clear: the connection between the alleged WMD and the legality of war in Iraq is merely a misguided illusion that has been cultivated in public opinion. The real ground for war rested on an unrelated UN resolution which preserved its potency and was taken up again in 2003 in what he labels a “revival of original authority”. However assuredly expressed, there is something strained in this testimony which simply doesn’t seem to cohere with the government’s zealous sermonising of the WMD threat in the prelude to war, and his attempt to retrospectively downgrade its relevance to the question of legality doesn’t quite convert me.

What is more, his explanation suggests not only that the invasion was legal, but that it always has been legal ever since 1993 – another  caveat which leaves me slightly incredulous. Then there is the residual question of the curious divergence between the first and second versions of his memorandum which remains unaccounted for and a major source of cynicism about the underlying political forces working the pullies backstage.

Of course, no one views Lord Goldsmith as the bad man in the Iraq affair. You will not find his name smeared indignantly across anti-war posters or working its way into protest chants. Rather, he is characterised more as the weak and wavering subordinate – a kind of Igor to Blair’s Frankenstein.

In person, there does not seem to be much that is weak and wavering about him, and even in the face of my scepticism, I can’t help but believe the sincerity of his conviction about the legality, if not the overall justification, of the government’s decision to go to war. A part of me is even inclined to shrug off some necessary degree of partiality as inevitably bound up with the nature of his position.

The overall impression is that of a progressive, legally astute professional, whose political career, rightly or wrongly, has been eclipsed by the blundering mess that is Iraq. With this in mind I ask him what he would be doing if he hadn’t made a career in law or politics. For the first time in the whole interview he pauses to think, before replying tactfully,

“Enjoying academic life.” Perhaps it is a shame that he isn't.

Ah me, but it’s refreshing to listen to a band with such a varied and distinctive sound. What make this six-piece from Raleigh, North Carolina interesting is that their album consists of such an eclectic mix even within individual songs. Probably the best song on ‘Be He Me’ is the opener, Brother which begins as an ethereal folk ballad, before morphing into a stomping, post-rock Arcade Fire-esque finale, bringing itself to a rather abrupt end.

The album continues, first into sunny pop and then the electronics and experimentalism of Carry Around, an aural union of Air and Gorillaz. Bull and the Goat is The Kinks given a frantic modern edge, while the four tracks that close the US version are all modelled on the acoustic side of ‘The Bends’ era Radiohead. The UK version is given an extra 3 songs. Ease My Mind begins as a dreary acoustic number, until country fiddles appear, whilst River Run juxtaposes an upbeat verse, that sounds like it’s being played on the piano in the saloon of a Western film, with a chorus of mournful crooning over melancholic trumpets. The closer Misty Coy recalls the early electronic experimentation of Pink Floyd. The bonus songs are intriguing, but at 15 tracks and over an hour long, ‘Be He Me’ could do with some trimming.

Annuals have interesting ideas, but their first effort lacks any notable melodies. Strong vocal lines are sometimes sorely lacking, sometimes brilliantly compensated for. Most of all this album shows ambition and promise; in a couple of years, they could be legendary.

Jacob Lloyd

THE OXFORD University Freemasons’ Lodge is at the centre of a national campaign to recruit undergraduates into the organisation.

The 'University Scheme', started by Assistant Grand Master of the Freemasons David Williamson, targets Bath, Bristol, Exeter, Durham, Manchester, Sheffield and Birmingham, in addition to Oxford and Cambridge universities.
The scheme is the result of success by Oxford and Cambridge masonic societies in enlisting students. In a statement, the United Grand Lodge of England said, “Oxford and Cambridge have proved just how popular Freemasonry can be at universities. I hope we can help to make those same wonderful experiences available to more prospective masons.”

Geoffrey Bourne-Taylor, Secretary of the 'Apollo' University Lodge on Banbury Road and former Bursar of St Edmund Hall, said that the organisation took in huge numbers of undergraduates every year. “They come in droves, they're queuing out the door,” he said. “We can barely take in any more than we do already. Around 50 undergraduates join a year, seven to eight are initiated at every meeting.”

Bourne-Taylor said that out of 350 University Lodge members, around 30 were current undergraduates and between 50 and 100 were recent undergraduates.

“We have an awful lot from Brasenose and Christ Church, five to six members from Teddy Hall, and three from Pembroke,” he said.

Bourne-Taylor said that many prominent public figures were active members of the University Lodge, but could not disclose their identity. “I can think of a dozen household names who are still members, who don't come as often as they used to because of public commitments, but they take it [freemasonry] with them.”

To become a Freemason, members must profess a belief in a supreme deity and be prepared to have any criminal convictions scrutinised. Only men may join the University Lodge and be of good character and reputation.
Bourne-Taylor said that entry was open to all, but existing links to members were important. “If your father's a Freemason you've got a head start. If one joins, then the whole rugby team joins.”

The University Lodge allows special privileges for Oxford students, including the opportunity to join at an early age. “The qualifying age for Freemasonry is generally 21 years, but the Lodges of Oxford and Cambridge have the unique distinction of exception from this rule and may initiate members under this age,” its website states. “Members pay half of what normal Freemasons would if they're under 25.”

Chris Connop, spokesman for the National Grand Lodge of England, said that students were attracted to a number of the organisation's moral virtues. “Freemasonry is a positive force in society, it encourages members to be good citizens, to uphold the law, and encourages values of tolerance and understanding. It supports old-fashioned values as a lot of young people find themselves bored with current youth culture. The type of people attracted are usually traditionalists,” he said.
In changing times, it gives them something to get their bearings from. They love the formality, they love the dining, and they love the egalitarianism. Last Saturday we had 110 people at a meeting. It's very convivial, but I've never seen anyone drunk.”
Connop also emphasised the Lodge's charity work, which was undertaken to support the University. “We support the undergraduate hardship fund in the name of the lodge, giving up to £4,000 a year,” he said.

Jenny Hoogewerf-McComb, OUSU Vice-President (Women), said that the all-male nature of the Freemasons made them seem out-dated, but initiatives to involve students suggested positive future changes. “Personally, as a feminist, the concept of all-male networking clubs is a bit old fashioned. This shows that they're changing focus, and might one day admit women.”

Bourne-Taylor responded by defending the all-male nature of the University Lodge. “I think women don't like that sort of thing, it's as simple as that. I think men tend to gravitate towards clubs. There are two Grand Lodges for women, who are fiercely independent,” he said.

Britain has an estimated 270,000 Freemasons and there are around 11 million worldwide. The University Lodge claims to be the oldest University club, founded in 1819 at Brasenose College with the permission of the Vice-Chancellor. Prominent former members include John Radcliffe, Cecil Rhodes and Oscar Wilde. Albert Edward, Prince of Wales, and Prince Leopold were former members and Masters of the Lodge.

Obligations are those elements of ritual in which a candidate swears to protect the "secrets of Freemasonry", which are the various signs, tokens and words associated with recognition in each degree with. A person must achieve the title of Master Mason before he is entitled to participate in most activites.

Partying, politics and pessimism Laura Pitel goes in search of the young people of Lebanon
In most places in the world it might seem distasteful to lose yourself in hardcore trance on the site of a former civil war massacre. But this is Beirut and every Friday night, dancing on hinged wooden coffins, the city’s young and up-and-coming do just that.

BO-18, the city’s longest standing club, is packed full of Lebanon’s wealthy students from the American University of Beirut, who turn up in Ferraris and flash their cash with an extravagance that the Bridge’s VIPers can only dream of. As Anthony Haddad, a 22 year-old political science student, tells me, “Partying is absolutely crazy here. Whether it is an incredible resilience or a desensitised hedonism that allows the Lebanese to party even under showers of bombs it is awe-inspiring.”

But whilst this breed of wealthy Lebanese may be able momentarily to forget about their country’s problems, a reminder of the instability is never far away. Just a mile across the city, tenacious supporters of Lebanon’s political opposition camp out in tents under one of Beirut’s busiest highways, watching the revellers walk past on their way to the pubs and clubs of Rue Monot.

The predominantly Hizbollah protesters are there in an attempt to force the government to call early elections because they feel that some sectarian groups, namely Shia muslims, are underrepresented in the Lebanese parliament. “We are here to demand full participation of all different groups in the political decision-making of our country,” says Mohammed, a 24 year-old taking part in the protest. 

The beginning of this year saw huge protests in favour of both Hizbollah and pro-government factions, but it’s been almost five months since the opposition set up camp and Lebanese politics has reached a standstill. Rather than feeling invigorated by their nation’s lively affairs, many of Beirut’s young people are pessimistic and disillusioned. “I feel crippled by the sit-in,” says 18 year-old Roula Hajjar. “Even though the people in the sit-in are my fellow Lebanese, they are a constant reminder of how much my future in Lebanon is not in my hands.” The sit-in is badly damaging the economy as well as virtually closing off Beirut’s popular Downtown district, which is encircled by barbed wire and armed soldiers.

“Here politics dictates whether school will be closed down the next day, whether there’s a quarantine, or areas you have to avoid going through because of an assassination or a dismantled bomb sighting,” says Anthony. “Politics has the unfortunate effect of paralysing daily life here. It necessarily consumes the Lebanese, students included.”
British university students would find the level of participation in politics amongst their Lebanese contemporaries unrecognisable. At the American University of Beirut, one of the Middle East’s most prestigious institutions (and the first in Lebanon to get onto Facebook) the charge around elections for the Student Representative Body puts the fervour of Union hacks to shame.

Affiliations with the country’s real-life political factions (including, rumour has it, large amounts of funding) make elections highly pertinent as results often predict and mirror events on a national level. “When a political party wins at the student level the party at the national level boasts it,” explains Lynn Zovighian, editor-in-chief of Outlook, AUB’s student newspaper. “Results of student elections are printed in all national newspapers and are taken very seriously.”

Like Oxford, the University acts as a practice arena for Lebanon’s political players, and many of the country’s big names over the past forty years – Walid Jumblatt, Samir Geagea and George Habash – were AUB-educated.
For the days surrounding the elections security fears are so high that the army is brought in: last November saw 350 armed soldiers turn out to patrol the university campus. Their concerns are not unfounded. During the civil war the University became a political target, with kidnappings, assassinations of members of staff and a bombing of one of the main buildings.

But despite being necessarily engaged in current events, many young people are frustrated and feel that important issues are being overlooked amidst the obsession with politics. Unemployment is one such problem. Although the Lebanese are fiercely patriotic the majority of rich, well-educated twentysomethings feel compelled to move abroad, allured by higher salaries and greater stability.

As Khaled, a 23 year-old currently living in Canada puts it, “I was born and raised in Beirut and there is nothing I would like more than to live in Lebanon. Unfortunately, I came to the conclusion that it is virtually impossible to make a decent living there. How sad to know you can never make your way in your own country.”
“Why is everyone is trying to do things their own way?” asks 19 year-old Ziad, a student from South Lebanon. “We are living together, in a country that is smaller than a village in the western world and yet we have so many sections and leaders that tear us apart rather than uniting to build a better Lebanon.”

Unity is the word on everyone’s lips. Tiny Lebanon is home to eighteen different sectarian groups and it is viewed as crucial that they put aside their differences in order to avoid another civil war. Sadly, even attempts to unify the country become a political competition. In February, amidst tension surrounding the anniversary of the assassination of former Prime Minister Rafiq Hariri, a striking poster campaign was launched. ‘I love life’, read huge red posters written in English, Arabic and French, dotted across the country. The group behind them claimed to be politically neutral and non-religious but, like every other message in Lebanon, the posters were politically loaded.

Funded by the pro-government Sunni/Christian/Druze coalition, the ‘I love life’ slogan was a stab at Hizbollah leaders’ gung-ho warmongering and repeated claims that they do not fear death. Unsurprisingly, retaliation followed, with an “I love life, undictated” campaign quickly following suit; the opposition’s dig at the government’s bowing down to the wishes of America and the West.

Roula is not convinced by the campaigns to unite the country. “Although Christians, Muslims and Druze interact now more than ever, the sectarianism and prejudice is always there,” she says. “In Lebanon you are always categorised according to your name and where you’re from.”

Alex, a 21 year-old student from northern Lebanon, sees hope for the future. “The older generation is more inclined to promote divisions between groups here,” she says. “Younger people, in theory at least, want to put aside their differences.”

But Anthony is reluctant to attach significance to any outward signs that may present the illusion of unity or consensus amongst young people in Lebanon – the spending, the clubbing, the beach parties. “I think that is wishful thinking of Western observers and the thin, privileged class of Lebanese that can afford to participate in Beirut nightlife,” he says.

“The sad reality of the matter is that while a Sunni and a Shiite wouldn’t mind clinking wine glasses at a bar one night, if push were to come to shove they probably wouldn’t hesitate to take up arms against each other the next day.”

It’s a pessimism shared by many. The only thing that seems to unite people here is a tired, world-weary attitude towards the current political wrangling and a genuine dread at the thought of another civil war. “I have a very bad feeling for the days to come,” says Hussein Abbas, a 23 year-old shop keeper, with a sad smile. “I pray to God, for the sake of my beloved Lebanon, that I am wrong.”

“You can’t judge a book by its cover.” But when the book is the new album from Brazilian baile-funk hipsters Bonde Do Role, and the cover depicts Rio’s famous Christ the Redeemer statue shooting red lasers out of its eyes, it’s hard not to make assumptions.

As Brazilian purveyors of sleazy electro with an energetic front-woman, comparisons to CSS are inevitable, and well founded. The key difference is that, despite opener Danca Do Zumbi threatening “death to your speakers” in a Darth Vaderesque voice, Bonde’s lyrics are almost all in Portuguese. This may be a blessing, as some of their lyrical efforts would make Peaches blush. Bonde cite their influences as “Nasty stuff. Sex with food, general perversion”: “I saw a whore/I put my tongue into her asshole/And my tongue came out all dirty” intoned one of their early efforts, and album track James Bonde imagines a gay 007.

The producer is Diplo, M.I.A’s collaborator on Arular, and the latter’s quickfire beats and trumpet bursts are recalled on Gasolina, one of ‘With Lasers’’ standout tracks. Bonde do run the risk, however, of being dismissed as a novelty act: orgasmic groans in Office Boy; arcade-game zaps in the awful Quero Te Amar, and Tieta sounds like Aqua in Portuguese. But with highlights like Solta o Frango, with its catchy call-and-response refrain, the band nevertheless packs a whole lot of fun into half an hour.

The big, dumb, garish, funky, sleazy, colourful carnival of ‘With Lasers’ is guaranteed to get the party started.

Daniel Roberts

We Hughsies are a boring lot, or at least so it would seem. When I went down to our lodge last week to get some entertaining anecdotes from our college porters I was sure that fourteen years of working in college must have yielded some funny stories. After all, we are students, aren’t we? This is supposed to be the time of our lives when we do crazy things just because we can. Sadly we seem to be somewhat lacking on the wild front.

Still, at least one fellow student seems to have got the idea. Apparently, in the not so distant past, the porters rushed to one particular building when the fire alarm went off. When they arrived however, they were met by the smell of sizzling burgers. By all accounts they had a hard time convincing the inhabitant of said smoke-filled room that using portable barbeques indoors was not a good idea.

Fire alarms seem to be a bit of a theme, actually. Another recent mishap involved a student dropping his cigarette during a covert smoke in the bathroom, thereby setting fire to a towel. Despite having unlimited water close at hand said student decided to run away. After all, who would want to put out the fire and miss out on the glory of such a magnificently stupid act?

After these two gems, however, the well of porter gossip I had been tapping seemed to dry up. Apparently, within the porter’s circuit, St. Hugh’s is not known for its outlandish pranks. Perhaps its because we’re all so tired by the time we’ve made it all the way back from town that we can’t be bothered to create mischief and mayhem (yes, we are in a different parish to the rest of the University…). On the other hand, I hear from our morning porter that Teddy Hall have a book in the lodge recording all the entertaining incidents that have happened there over the years.

I’m not willing to let this drop though – surely Hughsies must have been entertaining enough to rival Teddy Hall in the past? I ask whether any post-club fondling is ever caught on our many CCTV cameras? The porter seems offended. thinking I’ve implied that one would only take a job at the lodge to get access to free porn that we provide. He does catch other entertaining acts on tape though. In my defence, they shouldn’t leave the trolley for wheeling suitcases to people’s rooms lying around if they don’t want me joy riding it down the disabled ramp after one too many sambukas at Ponana.

To retain any credibility at all when talking about classical music, here’s a tip: call Rachmaninoff’s second piano concerto “Rach Two”. It’s a bit of a buzzword; it sounds like you know what you’re talking about. Jargon is three-quarters of all music snobbery, so go with it and you’ll be fine. Rach Two, then, is one of the most romantic pieces written for the piano, full of soaring leaps and impossible fingerwork, alternately brazen, gentle and moving.

There’s a grandiose elegance too, and an emotional complicatedness that belies a few very simple themes. It is a beautiful piece, and soloist Will Stuart does it justice. His driven performance was full of feeling, retaining nonetheless the precision and musicality that the piece demands. He played with style and flair, a quickness that gave the concerto energy without rushing it: a youthful interpretation that didn’t sacrifice subtlety for vigour.
The concerto is unusual in its emphasis on the orchestra, especially in the first movement, introducing as it does most of the main themes. Conductor Ben Woodgates gave an expanded Christ Church Orchestra an excellent tone, swelling under and around but not overtaking the piano’s notes. Christ Church Cathedral’s acoustics felt a little muffled, but that was probably due to the large and appreciative audience. Stuart’s was an accomplished performance that left a friend in tears: “it’s just so beautiful,” she said. And it really was. But to the bloke who farted just as the third movement began: time and a place, my friend. Time and a place.

Adam White

I feel like I’ve been on one of those jerking, rattly, helter-skelterish roller-coasters. I’m finding it difficult to coherently fit all the glimpses and fragments of inverted reality into some linear fashion.

This is not undesired, however; the play is described as a ‘big ball of bizarre theatrics.’ Bizarre is an understatement, the show is a Björk dress of a spin on entertainment. The problem with this rogue attitude towards convention is that there is a tightrope walk between the luminous creativity, energy, and eccentricity of a director/writer like Jack Sanderson Thwaite, and presenting entertainment in a manner coherent enough for an audience to appreciate the wackiness. It is a quadruple loop the loop, bruise your head repeatedly on the safety harness sort of a feat to pull off, but equally astounding to witness if done successfully.

The show is a series of manic, energetic, and balmy sketches, which are light hearted and blunderingly silly. They have principal, recurring characters, and there is a tenuous thread between the scenes which is sometimes so puny as to be terminally threatened with extinction. However, there it remains, against all odds, evidenced now and then by the players’ mocking of form by ‘accidentally’ dropping catch-phrases from their other personas, culminating in one sketch based entirely on the actors doubling up and playing other characters. This is one of the most successful sketches in the play, it is no easy task to make humour work with solely the parody of style and physiognomy as a comic foundation, and it works with sophisticated ironic ease.

The comedy is illogical and absurd, the idea being that the Irreverence Realm is replete with surrealism, the humour of this idea is Pratchett-esque in its creation of a world which is a ludicrous version of our own. So the ideas are psychedelic; we have desperate, pasty-faced fruit and vegetable addicts, a slow motion stick ‘em up gang, and a ‘wise man’ with a special hat. Some flow like molten chocolate joyously towards rapturous laughter, whilst others give us a more jolting, stultified ride. The ideas are impressive, and Sanderson- Thwaite’s talent is in evidence abounding. Comments on Python influence are unavoidable amongst student comics, as they are amongst comics in general; such is their ubiquitous, silly influence on sketch shows and with non-sequiturs and daftness replete, this show is no exception. This is not a threat to the internal-organ- rattling enjoyment of the kaleidoscopic treats on display, but the lack of pace at times is a difficulty.

The comics themselves are a pyrotechnic, harmonious mix of personalities, which adds a depth to the humour. One needn’t worry about a show in the masterful hands of Alex Craven’s dry, sardonic wit, James Rupasinha’s nervous fumbling and gaping, worried eyes, and Sarah Hillman’s hilarious physical presence. All these elements create a symphony of comedy which is alone worth seeing. James Callender has the challenging role of ‘compare extrodinaire’ who speaks to the audience and is our fourth-wall-breaking guide. He is intentionally verbose and nervous, the reason why is unfathomable, as he ends up looking like he soiled his underwear. Although he has moments of brilliance, he is in danger of being upstaged by his multicoloured hair. However, he does have the gravitas and charisma to pull off a difficult role.

The show is a dizzy whirl of flashes of comic delight and moments of jolting halts, the problem is the difficulty in pulling on the reigns of form and style to add a cogency which will stop it from descending into a free-fall of things that seemed like a good idea in the pub last night. Generally, the play achieves this, and is a very good offering for student comedy, but when roller-coasters make my head spin too much, I always want to get my feet back on firm ground.

Charlotte Brunsdon
 
Dir. Jack Sanderson-Thwaite
BT, 7.30pm

Remember the last two weeks of April? Remember the cricket, the punting, and the blissful sunshine spilling out all over the quads? Remember the Met Office blithely telling us that it was the driest April since records began in 1659?

Flash-forward to May, the only one of the summer months that falls entirely in Full Term, and gaze disconsolately over a stunning vista of grey on grey. That is, if you can see it at all through the driving rain and forbidding clouds. The only people more miserable than the punters, picnickers and cricketers, are the global warming theorists. Where did it all go wrong, indeed?

There is, of course, an interesting point to be made here about how our expectations change. A British summer is the worst kind of oxymoron – the type that provokes wry laughter from foreigners and indeed, most natives. Whole years drifting by without a real cause for short sleeves haven’t exactly been unheard of. I think it’s only been the last couple of years when we’ve not only had real hot weather, but a lot of it. So rather than dropping everything and rushing out at the first rays of sun, we’ve gone steadily on in libraries and workplaces, safe in the knowledge that it will still be there at the end of the day. And that’s why, I suppose, people have been stomping around the streets of Oxford taking the rain as a very personal insult. “How dare you be raining?”, we ask the sky. Never mind that it’s early May in Britain, where’s the sun?

This is perhaps compounded by the fact that the clothes people choose to wear always seem to depend on yesterday’s weather, rather than today’s. If it was sunny yesterday, people will be wearing T-shirts and shorts, cotton skirts and flip-flops, in scant disregard of the puddles. It always seems to take a couple of days before it really sinks into the collective consciousness that wellies are the way to go. It’s hard to be Little Miss Sunshine when you’re wearing a miniskirt while it’s five degrees.

And, of course, Oxford is so very nice in the summer time. There are the traditional pursuits, already mentioned, of cricket, eating strawberries and cream and messing about on the river. But the simple, day-to-day course of life is also immeasurably better. It’s all in the details: the scent of flowers after dark, the intense colour of the sky, cobblestones baking in the sunshine warming your feet. It’s an old cliché, but it’s true, everyone really is much more cheerful. Total strangers smile at you and hold doors open. Even the people drifting past in sub fusc seem a tiny bit more serene. The only real disadvantage is that hot weather brings the tourists out en masse – hands up who’s had to dodge a Japanese-language tour taking up most of Broad Street – but it’s perhaps not too steep a price to pay for the glorious weather.

Still, there are probably wonderful things to be said about rain, although it must be said that right at this moment I am at a loss beyond the decidedly Aristotelian “it makes the plants grow”. Perhaps there is some moody poetic beauty about the dreaming spires seen through a blurring mask of rain. Still, I’m not convinced. Any beauty there is palls after ten solid days of thick grey clouds and endless downpour. There’s only so far you can go to wring literary significance out of stormy weather. Ultimately, it all comes down to the decidedly unromantic feel of rainwater down your neck, cars whooshing past through six inches of dirty water, and a sudden need for paracetamol and cough syrup. In short, there’s nothing like rain for making everybody miserable.

So I shall hurry to look on the bright side – no pun intended – and remind us all that it might just be improving. No longer must I run down Holywell Street with the Cambridge New History of India on my head because the heavens are opening in cacophonous fashion above. It’s been a gradual process. At the beginning of the week, the sun came out for twenty whole minutes and rumour has it that there were people seen engaging in sporting activity. Later on, this was followed by whole days of sun, and again, a renewed hope that maybe this time we could trust it would stay. I’m particularly enjoying the nights, at the moment. The heat of the day lingers, becomes deliciously cool and still, and it’s a joy to sit outside reading or having a picnic. Let’s hope that it stays, if not for good, or even long enough to develop an even tan, but long enough to dry out my umbrella and eat ice-cream without excessive need for self-justification. And, of course, long enough for the general mood of soporific misery to leave the city with the fog.

But perhaps I have been a little too scathing about the rain. If we pause to consider the even brighter side, fifty years from now, whilst we all roll in battered wheelchairs across the dried, arid sands of the Greater South-eastern Deserts of England and Wales, watching salamanders loll in the baking sun, we can look back to the good old days at Oxford, when temperatures were not hot enough to melt lead, and occasionally, water even fell from the sky. Take your comfort where you can find it is the moral of the story, I guess. More importantly, take an umbrella, and sing in the rain while it lasts.
Iona Sharma

It was always going to be interesting: six of Oxford’s finest young playwrights paired with six directors, randomly assigned to a group of actors and then given twenty-four hours to produce an original piece of theatre, all in the name of charity.

The results were varied, both in content and quality. The majority clearly fell vitctim to a conflict between the grandiose ideas of the playwrights and the time constraints imposed by the exercise. The Gingerbread House in particular, while to be commended for its artistic vision, was dull and practically incomprehensible, and surprised everyone by abruptly finishing within ten minutes.

The two most enjoyable plays, Alex Christofi’s The Reception and Cathy Thomas’ Who Needs Jesuits? kept it simple. The former centered around three slightly-inebriated bachelors slumped in a forgotten corner at a wedding reception, while Thomas’ delightfully irreverent production began as a stereotypical family breakfast that soon degenerated into bedlam. Both managed to be funny without seeming contrived and featured some excellent one-liners – but the highlight had to be an enthusiastic dance from Jack Farchy wearing nothing but a polka-dot mini dress. Also deserving special mention was Tom Campion’s touching play about the relationship between two cantankerous old men, roles which were played to perfection by Jonny Totman and Peter Clapp. And, as one would expect from any self-respecting playwright hailing from Wadham, there was of course a gratuitous and completely unnecessary reference to Nelson Mandela.

While, conceptually, the idea of the 24 Hour Plays pulled all the right strings, in that it tested the creative skill of the playwrights and the initiative of the actors, the productions were, by and large, over-complex and over-ambitious, and as a result unpolished and unclear. In many of the plays the audience was left confused and frustrated, and dare I say it, wishing they had spent the last two hours watching re-runs of The OC. Ultimately, in a production with such unique time constraints as this, simplicity would have been preferable as opposed to trying to make artistic statements at the expense of coherence and clarity.

Sarah Davies
Dir. Various
Keble O’Reilly