Sunday 29th June 2025
Blog Page 24

Why reading for pleasure still matters at Oxford

Ruby Tipple
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Why reading for pleasure still matters at Oxford

The idea of students reading for pleasure during term time has sparked much debate. Simply put though, Oxford’s intensive schedule makes it near-impossible. The natural consequence of eight weeks of unrelenting academic work is for some hobbies to fall in priority, and reading for pleasure is often the first to be swept away by the Oxford whirlwind.

The decline in reading for pleasure among students might seem like a natural consequence of our new exposure to the pressure cooker of career readiness innate to the ‘adult world’. Why would we make time to read a book when we have to decide what we want to do with the rest of our lives, and how to make it happen?

This, though, is perhaps not the sole reason for the decline in reading rates. Whilst university is undoubtedly a stepping stone for our future careers, that shouldn’t be its only function. 

Rather, I think there’s another reason that’s particularly pertinent to Oxford students. Because of the uniquely demanding course of study we’ve chosen, most simply can’t make time to read. 

Reading requires a level of intellectual labour that many of us are simply unable to commit to on top of our degrees. With the old adage of “work hard, play hard” in mind: why should students devote our attention to something even more academic (regardless of its benefits), when they could be recharging with something like going to the pub or watching TV — something that’s social, or more obviously relaxing? 

At the start of last term, I realised I wanted to try and reignite the passion I once had for reading. I set aside time in my week, got friends to recommend books and hold me accountable, and joined book clubs, both in Oxford and at home.

The immediate benefit was feeling like a child again, reading under the covers in my lamp-lit student bedroom — a quiet act of rebellion. I think reading is remarkably intimate in this way; the solitude of it feels as if you are the only person capable of accessing these worlds that have been created just for you. 

Over the course of the term, reading ended up having a grander purpose in my life.

Reading for pleasure is one of those hobbies that serves the dual purpose of allowing you to engage intellectually, yet it’s fun — you get to choose what you read and when you want to. It doesn’t have the same academic pressure that Oxford students are expected to manage. 

With reading, nobody can enter your head to see how well you’re doing. Nobody will quiz you. There will be no 2500-word essay. I didn’t fully realise how fulfilling this freedom would be: to concentrate on something without it having to be an ‘academic project’. 

For all students that’s a worthwhile feeling to have — but it’s a particularly important one to hold onto in such a rigorous academic environment like Oxford, with its constant requirement to perform. 

But, what to read? 

I have made the decision to read  mostly modern fiction in term-time, and leave the classics for when I’m able to dedicate extended time to them. 

One of the most exciting books I read last term was Ariana Harwicz’s Die, My Love. Her writing has such a wild, electric charge driving it forward, pairing perfectly with the book’s intense exploration of a woman driven to a violent breaking point by the expectation of motherhood. The book chills you from the opening line. 

Something lighter is Nick Hornby’s High Fidelity: a particularly great read for any music fan. It’s a witty and self-aware story of a music-shop owner, Rob, who revisits his past relationships to reflect on why he’s still alone. There are some great anecdotes that stem from his obsession with making ‘Top 5’ lists — the top five songs to play at your funeral, for example.

And finally, Haruki Murakami’s The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle is a surreal, elusive and fascinatingly magical book. Its cast of quirky characters and deceptive, labyrinthine plotlines make for the perfect form of escapism within the traditional Oxford term.

But everything I’ve read, even if I haven’t personally enjoyed it,  has made the long Oxford terms far more academically fulfilling. It may take consistency, but reading hasn’t been the extra burden that I’d expected to have to schedule. Rather than making the university experience more stressful, it’s done the opposite — it’s enriched it. 

Ruby Tipple

The Pasts Contained in Preloved Books at the Oxford Premier Book Fair

Maya Heuer-Evans
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The Pasts Contained in Preloved Books at the Oxford Premier Book Fair

Although post-collections celebrations usually involve nights out, followed by long, long lie-ins, I spent Saturday morning taking the bus to the Oxford Brookes Headington Campus. Why? Because the Oxford Premier Book Fair had come to town – a rare and fleeting gathering of sellers of antique novels, aged children’s books, and antiquated pamphlets from around the UK. Sprawling far into a large hall in the Fusili building of the site, the Book Fair represented a treasure trove for the curious; its busyness a testament to Oxford’s love for second-hand books.

But why is it that we find objectively old, musty, and often damaged books so fascinating? I overheard one,very posh-seeming, goer saying they had spent £320 on goods in the thirty minutes since the fair had opened. Why are people willing to spend such extortionate amounts of money on books others have owned before them? The answer may be academic purposes, with what seemed like the entirety of Oxford’s many male faculty members over the age of sixty, attending the event. But a simple mix of nostalgia and curiosity is often at the root. An affinity for the pages of a book on fairy illustrations from the twenties because they are reminiscent of those you read as a child. Or piqued interest in the battered bluish spine of an old novel on flowers, because you want to know how differently they gardened in the eighteenth century. Writing at its most inspired combines curiosity with imagination. Sifting through the first copies of niche works from centuries before is a testament to just how long we have been motivated by these impulses to create and explore.

A good second-hand bookstore or book fair can also make real the community of readers that have preceded you. Scribbles in margins by another’s pencil, or proud block letters proclaiming that this book belongs to ‘Melody, Eight Years Old, February 1980’ – they bridge the division between past and present and make stories feel timeless. In an impossibly large, ramshackle second-hand store in Inverness, I once picked up a book on Scottish nationalism (despite, I’m sorry to say, not being Scottish,) and found three generations of questions pencilled, inked, and felt-tipped into the front page. The first: ‘when will my beloved country, my beautiful land, my Scotland – be free??????’ The second: ‘still not – 1999’. And the third: ‘NEVER – and I write this 30 years later – 8/1/06’. Together, they formed a dialogue of disappointment between three individuals who would probably never know each other, but had been united briefly by this book. I did not, for those wondering, disappoint them further by adding my own update from 2025.

For me, it was the children’s books stands that called my name. Ever nostalgic, and ever a sucker for a good, fantastical, inked illustration of the kind you get in older versions of The Hobbit, I spent the majority of my time leafing through the stand of a seller from Cambridge (The Other Place – I know). And as a historian the tiny books, pamphlets, and illustrated fairy tales on display were fascinating. It has often been through children’s reading material that imperialist, nationalist, or patriarchal sentiments were subtly reinforced and imbibed: I found, even in an innocent-sounding collection of pixie illustrations from the early twentieth century, a dubious scene in which a young fairy was admonished and made an example of for daring to reject the proposal, via tiny flower-stalk ring, of her social better, the flower-lord.

Finally, having aroused a good deal of suspicion from the old men around me by taking copious photos of every page and work I found even slightly interesting, I left the fair without buying anything. That sadly included leaving behind an old almanac from 1884 (see the cover picture) which congratulated me on Charles Dickens’ death falling on my birthday. My student budget, unfortunately, does not stretch to paying £50 for a single book, but I’m nonetheless glad I went. Most of all for the feeling it invoked – probably more to do with just how anomalous I was age-wise than the event itself – of being very small and young again, with endless avenues, stories and times left unexplored, and unlimited time to do it in.

Maya Heuer-Evans

Review of ‘Intermezzo’: Chess, law, and the philosophy of language in yet another Rooney masterpiece

Peter Chen
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Review of ‘Intermezzo’: Chess, law, and the philosophy of language in yet another Rooney masterpiece

I thought it perplexing that critics felt Intermezzo similar to other works by writer Sally Rooney. Certainly, it shares some familiar ingredients: it’s set (mostly) in Dublin, explores personal relationships, and the characters seem to have perpetually miserable lives. Yet the resemblance stops there. Rooney’s new book is a bold exploration of love and grief, and an exposition of how not all of life’s problems can be solved by logic and intelligence.

The epigraph of Intermezzo is taken from Part II of Ludwig Wittgenstein’s Philosophical Investigations: Aber fühlst du nicht jetzt den Kummer? (Aber spielst du nicht jetzt Schach?) (But don’t you feel grief now? (But aren’t you now playing chess?)) The (nonsensical) question is posed in the context of ‘language games,’ a central tenet in Wittgenstein’s philosophy in which he rejects a general definition of language or words and adopts instead the ‘meaning as use’ concept. In this view, words (or sentences) do not have set definitions; their meaning depends instead on how they are used. 

Take the word ‘game’ (spiele). What’s a game? The problem isn’t that the reader cannot conjure one singular definition of ‘game’; rather, the meaning of the word changes depending on the context in which it is used. Wimbledon is no hide-and-seek, say. Above, Wittgenstein discusses grief as a pattern (Muster) that weaves through life: though the statement “I do feel grief now” is logically permissible, such a response fails to capture the atemporal and personal nature of grief. 

Indeed, much like grief, philosophy and logic are deeply woven into the fabric of Intermezzo. Peter and Ivan Koubek are brothers. Peter is a successful barrister and Ivan is a chess prodigy. In typical Rooney fashion, the story revolves around love in its various instantiations: the Koubek brothers’ love for their late father, Ivan’s love for an older woman, and Peter’s love for his former partner – who is unable to have sex due to a recent accident – and his current, more youthful companion. 

The central struggle is one between the brothers. They deeply resent each other, despite sharing many similarities: Ivan and Peter are both highly intelligent, and they both have careers that use logic to solve complex problems. They are also both entangled in complicated age-gap relationships. The law, of course, is a much more social profession than chess, and the shared dating dilemma seems to alienate rather than unite the pair. 

Take the following exchange. At dinner, Ivan calls Peter brave for speaking in court every day. In response, Peter says: “Not if you were good at it. No. It’s easy to do things you’re already good at, that’s not courageous. … We’re being hard on ourselves in a way, … because both our lives involve some voluntary exposure to what other people might call defeat. Which I think requires a certain degree of courage. Even if just psychologically.”

To which Ivan responds: “I don’t know. I don’t think I cope with it all too well. It bothers me a lot to lose.” Peter replies: “It bothers me a lot too.”

In many ways, both characters embody their professions. Peter is cool, calm and composed, adept in social situations and difficult conversations. Yet like the law, when faced with a moral dilemma and unorthodox arrangement he suffers a complete meltdown. Ivan is nervous, reflective and deeply kind; bashful as a bishop, yet he is unafraid to trade and make sacrifices for the people he loves.

By setting grief beside logic, and chess beside law, Rooney exposes the limits of systems that promise order while life remains defiantly unruly. The Koubek brothers’ problems are never solved by the cold elegance of an opening or an overlooked precedent; instead, they are revealed, move by messy move, as an attempt to translate private anguish into language that others might understand.

That effort, Rooney suggests, is the real game. One without clear rules, clocks or victors. When the novel closes, nothing has been solved, yet something has shifted: grief is acknowledged, love is embraced, and the silence between two men sounds a little less deafening. If earlier Rooney books questioned whether intimacy could survive economics, Intermezzo asks whether it can survive logic itself. The answer is qualified but hopeful, delivered in prose that slips between clinical precision and romantic ache.

So yes, the novel still roams Dublin streets and features fearful millennials in messy relationships. But to dismiss it as more of the same is to miss the daring way Rooney turns a philosophical foil into a fierce tale of love and loss. Readers willing to sit with ambiguity – who can bear, for a while, to feel grief now – will find in Intermezzo the author’s most incisive and, paradoxically, consoling work to date.

Review: Oxford Opera Society enters the bullring for Bizet’s ‘Carmen’

Eleanor Hamilton Clark and Francois Cloete
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Review: Oxford Opera Society enters the bullring for Bizet’s ‘Carmen’

If you recall Pixar’s UP, a comedy where an old man balloons with his dog to South America, a funny moment appears in Carl’s morning routine: the agonizingly slow stairlift in his house. What makes this scene funny is the tune we hear, all its tension, frustration, and sauciness – and that tune comes from Carmen. 

Set in southern Spain, the opera follows a Gitano woman, Carmen (Milete Gillow), and her complex relationships with two men, the soldier Don José (Robin Whitehouse) and Escamillo (David Biccaregui) the bullfighter. Unable to handle Carmen’s rejection, Don José murders her at the very end, just before Escamillo enters the bullring. The Oxford Opera Society’s Friday night performance of the opera in the Sheldonian gave us an entertaining performance, looking past a few musical and logistical issues, but their faithful approach to Carmen’s problematic stereotypes raised questions about producers’ responsibilities today.

There were certainly many laudable moments; one of our personal favourites was the incorporation of dance into a number of scenes. Elizabeth Lee, Lilly Law, and Rosie East delighted us with graceful twists and turns in nostalgic ‘character dance’ skirts, reminiscent of primary school ballet. The fight scene between Don José and Escamillo was also enjoyable, with impressively slick flips and glanced blows.

The soloists certainly had their moments too. Act 1’s ‘Habanera’ was particularly captivating, as Carmen taunted infatuated soldiers with vocal portamento and her commanding stage presence. In Act 3, we heard Michaëla (Lucy Elston) pleading with her aria ‘Je dis que rien’, accompanied beautifully by Tommaso Rusconi on horn. Carmen’s hit tunes drew generous applause between numbers.

Although peppered by scintillating musical talent, the opera did leave much to be desired. Starting with some practical issues, the orchestra seemed thin on the ground for string players, blasted out by trombones in the ‘Overture’. At times the players seemed completely lost, such as during the tra-la-la flute number, or the offstage brass in the finale (half a beat behind). Our stellar singers were missing some key structural support from the orchestra, dragged along by rather pompous conducting. Carmen may be an opéra comique, but its passionate arias may have benefited from a little more flexibility.

Staging and lighting choices were equally confusing. A multipurpose minimalist set was awkwardly moved around for each new scene, with a couple of screws going missing in the process. Lighting was stark and abrupt – who wants mustard yellow for a love scene? 

To be fair, a seventeenth-century theatre is no ideal substitute for a modern opera house, with all its technical riggings. And don’t get us wrong: we were definitely entertained. Some of the production’s best moments came from its ingenious use of props to focus on key moments. The addition of tequila shots during the party scene was a modernising and fun addition. Carmen’s impressive castanet skills while she flirted with Don José helped draw us into the scene’s sexual tension.

But overall, the heart of Carmen seemed to have been missed. Carmen’s journey from commanding and powerful to objectified, used, and ultimately murdered, could have been a perfect platform to address issues of sexualisation and violence against women. Instead of critically engaging with the opera’s bullring of nineteenth century attitudes, Oxford Opera Society preferred to recreate them.

Take the production’s costuming, for example. Carmen’s transitions from yellow to red foreshadow the act of her murder and remind the audience of the violence to be committed against her. Carmen’s sexual liberation is her undoing, prophesied by fortune cards, and we are left with the message that unruly femininity kills. Compare this with Michaëla in her old-fashioned blue dress: Michaëla is the ‘ideal’ domestic feminine, the ‘right’ woman for Don José as she pleads him to return home in Act 3, but José is led astray by the unruly Carmen. The duality between the two women, at least in this production, seemed to align the audience with Michaëla, and condemn the dangers of women’s freedom and empowerment that Carmen represented.

Opera is a product of its time. Bizet’s Carmen reflects a misogynist, racist Third Republic France fantasising over Spanish and Gitano women whilst condemning resistance to the status quo. Why should today’s productions toe the line? Carrie Cracknell at the Met, or Johan Inger at the English National Ballet have reimagined Carmen in innovative and empowering ways, profiling the story’s darker themes. Perhaps the Oxford Opera Society should reconsider their fidelity to the score and embrace the task of interpretation in our uncertain times. Only then might they more earnestly enter the bullring of Carmen. 

Tailoring expectations: Couture culture shocks

Emma Heagney
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Tailoring expectations: Couture culture shocks

Academia has a historic relationship with fashion, both officially and unofficially. The former manifests itself in Oxford’s sub fusc – mounting costs and pressure of tradition aside, it’s at least somewhat reassuring for us to be equally as pretentious as each other.

Unofficially, however, the class disparities reveal themselves. Sure, going to a college-wide formal dinner in freshers’ week sounds great, but no one warns you about the dress code, the faux-pas you commit through a lack of cultural capital. In the same way, the visual language through which aristocratic fashion is expressed is unintelligible to me. The intricate differences between white and black tie, appropriate horse-riding wear, the luxurious yet mysterious brands embraced by those with money. This wasn’t my world.

Alternative subcultures certainly exist at Oxford – I’ve been seen a fair few times at Intrusion, Oxford’s goth club night. Yet, the dominant discourse around fashion remains steeped in tradition, like most facets of Oxford life. The degree to which certain styles are socially acceptable is in complete contrast to what I’m used to. Back home, casually wearing a suit is more than enough to earn you the title of ‘neek’, and your collection of Nike tracksuits is a status symbol of much higher value. Swap Saltburn for Top Boy, Adidas Sambas for Shoe Zone. Going to university subverted my stylistic sensibilities and demeaned my sense of self-worth – the culture of my family, friends, and peers is actively devalued, labelled ‘chavvy’ before anything else.

These tastes have trickled down to the general student population in Oxford, and even to the teen TikTokers who romanticise the University (just wait until they find out about the weekly essay grind). The intellectualism associated with the ‘dark academia’ aesthetic is watered down and diluted into neatly divided visual categories, even identities – yet in the appearance of academic discipline is all that counts. What matters is if you look like someone who would read, who would study at a prestigious university, who would speak several languages, and so on. Think dark brown colour palettes, pleated suit trousers, too much plaid, satchel bags, heeled loafers, and the cosmetic use of glasses. Although related, this look is distinct from early 2010s ‘preppy’, an ideal of the all-American adolescent, not pretending to harbour intellectual merit. Academia is now an accessory. Yet, even this emulation of the upper and middle classes is a far cry from anything I had encountered back home, where the same style would probably just indicate that you were coming home from sixth form.

The vacation periods at Oxford are very long. Every time I return either to the city or the ever beautiful Croydon, it feels as though I must readjust myself again and again, especially in my fashion choices. Some solace is achieved in carving out your niche – finding your friends, the societies you want to join, the events you want to attend. Yet, systemic problems and social disparities dating back to the foundations of both Oxford and Cambridge seep into the everyday workings of student life.

Student Spotlight: Oxford Kermit, social media sensation

Peter Chen
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Student Spotlight: Oxford Kermit, social media sensation

Meet the Oxford Kermit – Healthcare policy researcher by day, trenchcoat frog by night.

You must be living under a lily pad if you have not heard of – or seen on your Instagram feed – the infamous Oxford Kermit. Having amassed close to 10,000 followers in less than six months, the Kermit has conquered the hearts and minds of Oxford students and tourists alike. Known for his whimsical collaboration with colleges and departments of the University, one such post of the Kermit in iconic locations around Oxford generated over 40,000 likes and 200 comments.

Cherwell sits down with the creator behind the internet phenomenon – Josh Nguyen – for a chat over drinks at the Handlebar Café on St Michael’s Street. Frequented by hacks and Brasenose second years alike, the coffee shop was busy on a warm and sunny Monday morning. Striding in his iconic trench coat, the amphibian orders a Good Morning Smoothie – “this is probably the best smoothie I’ve ever had” – and I ask for an oat latte before we get chatting. These are edited excerpts from our conversation.

Cherwell: To get us started, why don’t you tell us a little bit about your background?

Nguyen: Sure. My name is Josh Nguyen, I am currently pursuing a MSc in Applied Digital Health at Wolfson College. I’m from Iowa originally, and I studied biology at Yale for undergrad. After that, I moved to New York for a bit and worked in consulting in the healthcare industry. As soon as I started there, I was like, let me go back to school, and then came here. I don’t think consulting was for me.

Cherwell: What interests you about healthcare? 

Nguyen: I think I’ve always been interested in medicine, I suppose, and helping people in that sort of manner. I grew up not really, I guess, having access to health care. I grew up in a low-income family, so we didn’t have health insurance. I think having that sort of lack is what got me interested in the first place. So, you know, when I went to college, I thought I wanted to pursue medicine. Still, I’m thinking about it, but kind of more on the edge about it. But I think patient care is so important.

Cherwell: Why are you interested now in exploring health policy rather than immediately going to medical school?

Nguyen: I think throughout college, I got really interested in LGBTQ+ health and realised how critical understanding politics is for providing greater health outcomes for them. It was something that I never really got to examine in my classes. So I started doing internships— for example I got to work under a senator, and got to see how legislation has a role to play in healthcare. That’s what got me interested. 

Also coming here – in my digital health class, I got to learn a lot about how policies can impact digital health and innovation, how we can reach people, and that got me interested. So it’s something that I definitely want to explore more of before maybe going to medical school or maybe pursuing something else.

Cherwell: You said you are from Des Moines, Iowa. What was that like growing up there? I imagine there weren’t that many Asians there. 

Nguyen: No. There were hardly any Asian people. I think in my class there were a total of three out of a hundred. It was definitely difficult. I’m Korean and Vietnamese, so the nearest Korean town or Vietnamese town was in Chicago. It was a seven hour drive and we would make an annual trip there. I would just be so excited. It was definitely difficult, feeling a bit more isolated because of my racial identity.

But getting to move to Yale afterwards was so eye opening because it was the first time in my life where I was suddenly surrounded by more Asian people and all this diversity. And then especially New York afterwards, it was just so amazing. I remember when I first got to Yale, I was crying so much. Everything was so overwhelming and so different from Iowa. Now I’m more acclimated. And I love Iowa. The people are so kind. There’s that phrase, Midwest nice. It’s something I carry with me. I hope people think that I’m Midwest nice. They’re so friendly, so amazing.

Cherwell: Let’s talk about the Kermit. Did you bring him today?

Nguyen: I did! I always carry him around with me just in case, and I put him in this black bag.

Cherwell: He’s bigger than I thought!

Nguyen: He’s bigger? Most people say he’s smaller than they imagined.

Cherwell: So how did you come up with the idea of like the Oxford Kermit?

Nguyen: I think prior to coming to Oxford, I just knew I wanted some fun way to document my year here. I thought “what’s a fun, interesting, cute way to do this”? I thought it’d be fun to take pictures of some sort of doll or something like that, so let me go on Etsy and see what’s out there.

I saw this Kermit dressed in a trench coat, and I was like, this is so Oxford. That’s exactly what I had in mind in terms of the image of an Oxford person. And then when I got the doll, I was like, wow, he’s so cute.

Then when I came to Oxford, I immediately started documenting my time here. I think deep down I knew that I wanted it to not really be a personal thing. I wanted to share it with people, and I did want to go out there and have people see it.

Cherwell: What has the response been like?

Nguyen: It’s been crazy. So much bigger than I anticipated. In my head I thought Oxford was going to be a more serious place, and I didn’t know if people were going to really receive it that well. But immediately as I started, it kind of just grew exponentially right away. 

And as I kept doing it, it just blew up more and more. I got collabs with Oxford University and all of a sudden, I got thousands of followers and I was like, dang! This is amazing. That catalysed all the collaborations afterwards. The first college collab I did was with St. Catz, and then I just went on and on afterwards. And then now there’s departments, and student clubs. 

Cherwell: Do you ever get any hate?

Nguyen: I think I recently saw on Oxfess that “I wanna drag Kermit to the Ninth Circle of Hell.” And I’m like, what the? Like, honestly, that made me laugh because I’m just like, how can you have hatred towards a doll? It’s kind of funny, honestly. Overwhelmingly, the comments and what people say to me are just so positive.

Cherwell: Why do you think it resonated so much with all students?

Nguyen: I actually get this question quite a lot. I think for the deeper, more human content that’s on there. I think people resonate with that because it takes more complex feelings and expresses them through something familiar and cute. It makes it more digestible in that way. I think for the funny, more light-hearted content, people like it because it gives them a refreshing break from their studies, from the intensity of [university].

I think it also just reminds people of how beautiful Oxford is and what else is out there, minus all the stress. Oxford has so much to explore, and I think it reminds them of that. I think it’s a nice way to escape.

Cherwell: You’re finishing your course soon, so what’s next for you and what’s next for the Kermit? 

Nguyen: That’s something I’ve been thinking about a lot. For me, personally, it’s still kind of up in the air. I really have learned to love the UK as I’ve stayed here more and I do think that I wanna stay here longer. So I’m gonna try for that. My original plan was just to go back to the US, either New York or DC, but I don’t know. I think with this whole Kermit thing, I’ve realized how much I like social media, and that’s something I wanna pursue, and I’d love to pursue that in London. 

As for what’s gonna be next for Kermit, that’s also something I’ve been thinking about a lot. I don’t know, is my answer. I think I would like it to keep going but I’m not sure exactly how that would work. Maybe I can hand it over to someone, but I’m open to ideas.

Cherwell: I’m now going to ask you some controversial Oxford questions, and we can get the Kermit’s take on them?

Nguyen: Alright, okay. 

Cherwell: First question, gown or no gown at formal?

Kermit: No gowns. Just trench coat. 

Cherwell: Sub fusc for exams?

Kermit: Absolutely not. To be honest, I’m gonna show up in my sweatpants or something that I’m comfy in. I already studied so hard, why are you asking me to put on an entire sub fusc? This is gonna stress me out even more. So absolutely not.

Cherwell: Favourite nightclub?

Kermit: Oh, I’ll have to say Plush. They’re really nice. I mean I obviously don’t really like any of them but Plush is the best in my opinion.

Cherwell: Rowers. Yay or nay? Would you date a rower?

Kermit: Yay. Yes. 

Cherwell: What are your thoughts on trashing?

Kermit: I think there’s a better way to go about it. Let’s make it more environmentally friendly and still do that tradition. Maybe not confetti but something else. Like flower petals maybe.

Cherwell: The Oxford Union?

Kermit: I think sometimes they serve and sometimes they don’t. I think sometimes they have iconic people like Julia Fox. But I think the membership fee is too high. Let’s discount that and it’s a yay from me.

Cherwell: Do you think we should remove the Cecil Rhodes statue? 

Kermit: Let’s remove it and replace it with a statue of Kermit.

Oxford Union votes against flying LGBTQ+ flag for Pride Month

Noah Robson
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Oxford Union votes against flying LGBTQ+ flag for Pride Month

The Oxford Union has rejected a proposal to fly an LGBTQ+ flag for Pride Month every year. President Anita Okunde had put forward the Standing Order change but the Standing Committee – made up entirely of students – voted 7-4 against the move.

During a meeting today (5th May), the motion was tabled which would have required the President to fly the pride flag “throughout June every year”. It would have given the President the discretion to waive the requirement “in the event of the death of The Sovereign, or at such other time when public buildings fly their flags at half mast”.

Opponents of the move made clear that whilst they supported the inclusion of the LGBTQ+ community, they were concerned about the precedent that might be set. In particular, there were suggestions that passing such a motion could open up a “Pandora’s Box” of demands for other flags to be flown.

After a discussion over the potential change, a secret ballot was held in accordance with the Society’s rules. This then took place, with four members voting in support of the motion, and seven voting against (along with one spoiled ballot), meaning it failed to pass.

There was confusion over the history of the Standing Order’s place in the rules, with a suggestion that it had previously been included but had been “accidentally” removed. Despite this, the Committee voted against the reintroduction of the rule, with opponents claiming it would make “no substantive difference,” given that the President could unilaterally choose to wave the LGBTQ+ flag regardless of the vote’s outcome.

Cherwell has approached the Oxford Union for comment.

Copies

Yasmin Beed
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Copies

in the bookstore
sit a stack of two 
illustrated editions,
nestled together.

we had trekked, a year
or two ago, around
every shop in London
to track them down.

and here they are,
not one but
two.
identical sisters.

I stand staring 
in the cold.
they rest, watching,
warm through the window.
I should buy you a copy

but I don’t.
I want them,
long after I leave,
to remain together.

love letter

Keng Yu Lai
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love letter

there is no space for the sentimental – the
past a suitcase never to be unlocked.

when it clicks shut is out of your control,
you packed the important things

only to lose them. you cannot live two
lives;  irreconcilable words, memories that

missed understanding. leaving begets
impermissibility. you forgot

a stamp can’t be used again,
only kept or discarded.

Review: Medieval Mystery Play Cycle – ‘Comedy, choirs and inflatable hammers’

Rhys Ponsford
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Review: Medieval Mystery Play Cycle – ‘Comedy, choirs and inflatable hammers’

I wasn’t sure what to expect from a Medieval mystery play cycle. What I was not anticipating was Lucifer recast as a finance bro ‘fired’ from Heaven (now a corporate office setting), shepherds from the Nativity prancing through a graveyard while singing in 16th-century French, and a comedy about four incompetent soldiers and the crucifixion of Christ. Oh, and Lucifer was howling in Middle English.

These surreal and wonderful plays were performed in a mixture of languages including contemporary and Middle English, Medieval German, and even Middle Dutch across 13 short shows. It was all set against the backdrop of St Edmund Hall’s medieval architecture, offering a brief but tantalising window into the world of medieval theatre.

Perhaps what took me most off guard was just how funny it was. Jim Harris, the effortless dead-pan deliverer of one-liners in rhyme, remarked in his introduction (preceded by an actual trumpet fanfare): “You’re going to be here for hours”. Yet this elicited not groans but laughter. There was a sense of festivity in the air from the very beginning. Talking to Cherwell, the Heads of Performance, Antonia Anstatt and Sarah Ware, said this is what they were hoping for. “The levity [of these shows] is an important thing, especially if you’re sitting in a marathon” of plays, said Sarah. Antonia also mentioned that the Play Cycle immediately dispels the myth we have of “the Middle Ages as a period when people took everything really seriously.” Instead, she said we “have actually really funny plays about women being martyred or [about] the crucifixion … it gives us a new idea of the Middle Ages, and how they approached these biblical texts. And like Sarah said… they also wanted to have fun … on these carnival-like days.” Indeed, Sarah herself had remarked how “medieval mystery plays were very much the everyday person’s most easy access to the world of biblical narrative. These [plays] were how people accessed the Bible – in addition to attending church, if they could.”

One highlight was the charged rendition of The Martyrdom of the Three Holy Virgins, done in a blend of Latin and Present-Day English that flowed relatively seamlessly into one another. It featured the brutal martyrdoms of three women who refused arranged marriage and pagan customs. The Latin was performed with vigour, declared in distinctly Italian tones that, while perhaps not historically accurate, were nonetheless suitably emotive for the narrative. There were impassioned performances from all of the martyrs – Loveday Liu, Abigail Pole, and Laura Laubeas. Liu was especially striking, defiantly staring down the figure of Emperor Diocletian (Jialin Li) as she decried her unwanted wedding. The aesthetic was partly modernised, the ‘guards’ becoming fascistic police officers that dragged the martyrs offstage in a way hauntingly reminiscent of the arrests of contemporary protesters.

Perhaps the strangest play was The York Crucifixion, translated into Modern English but retaining its original Middle English rhythms. The crucifixion is hardly an event I’d consider ripe comedic material, let alone in a medieval context. Nonetheless, the absurdity was heightened in this modern interpretation. From nailing Christ to the Cross with inflatable hammers, to saying Jesus had saved them time when “he himself laid him down”, these Three (in this case four) Stooge-esque soldiers are almost endearing in characterisation, until you remember they are condemning Jesus to an agonising death. The physical comedy juxtaposed to Jesus’ stoic proclamations is another reminder of the bleak sense of humour that was more normalised in medieval theatre than one would typically imagine.

The most amusing play, though, was the final one in the rotation, The Last Judgement – labelled “good old-fashioned eschatological fun” in the extended programme. It certainly fulfils its promise. The Angel Gabe (Alice Watkinson), a guitar-wielding herald of the end of the days, chirpily introduces the play with “Wow! Judgement Day! You guys excited?”. Indeed, though adapted by Ruby Whitehouse from the Middle English The Last Judgement, the play has more in common with the irreverence of Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman’s Good Omens than the doom, fire, and brimstone of the Book of Revelations. At one point, a jubilant and smarmy Jesus (Alicia Camacho Fielding) skips airily about with those souls destined for heaven, while the others are dragged off to hell by a leather-jacketed Satan. Naturally, Satan, played by Daniel Pereira, is accompanied by his very own hype squad. Who knew the end of the world could be so much fun?

The days of free Medieval Mystery performances stretching across an entire city centre may have faded. But in a large audience including students, faculty, Oxford residents, and others besides, we all were united in this brief resurrection of lost ages and medieval worlds. Before us, the medieval and the modern were fused, as dead tongues were brought back to life.

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