Undersexed, underpriced and over here. The Silver Ring Thing
is the latest import from the States, and I bet it isn’t
even really made of silver. I mean seriously a silver ring for a
tenner, hell I might abstain for a bargain like that. Well
probably not. It is easy to dismiss the much publicised campaign which the
gulf stream has just deposited on our shores, aiming to reduce
teenage pregnancy, STDs, oh and save young people’s souls.
It is classic bible belt evangelism, with a message and a product
which you can conveniently purchase. But if most people are not fooled, then what is the problem?
Last year a survey showed that teenagers who have taken such
pledges have the same rate of STD infection as the rest of the
population. A more recent study suggested that while such pledges
actually did delay intercourse (no bad thing I admit) when such
teenagers did have sex they were less likely to wear condoms. Such evidence does not matter to the Bush administration who
recently gave The Silver Ring Thing $700,000. Federal funding in
the US coupled by conservative teaching in religious schools,
which is an increasing problem over here, prevents children
learning the importance of practising safe sex. This is the
difficulty. I have no problem with someone who wants to promote
abstinence. It is a legitimate position which I happen to think
is futile. But I do object the refusal to teach teenagers how to
put a condom on properly and the claims that the only way to
avoid STDs is through abstinence. Will George Bush be willing to
personally look after the unwanted babies, and treat all the STDs
he has created? They claim showing a teenager a condom turns their mind to
sex, but showing most fourteen year olds a multi-plug has exactly
the same effect. We live in a sexually aware age, where the most
famous advert for abstinence dresses up in a sexualised version
of a school girl outfit (did you wear that to school?) and
invited us to “hit me baby one more time.” It
isn’t possible to avoid sex and people are going to have it.
Lots. So lets make sure they know why safe sex is important and
how to have it. Sell them a ring if you like, but also give them
a load of free condoms and then even I may help out.ARCHIVE: 4th week TT 2004 

Luna Caprese
4 North Parade
(01865) 554 812 I have always thought it one of the most elusive and charming
of mysteries that, for many people with no Italian blood
whatsoever, entering a gloriously Italian restaurant somehow
feels like coming home. Luna Caprese, despite being located on
foreign soil, is quite possibly the most glorious of them all.
Its owner, Luis Castro, has been serving the specialities of his
homeland with the same flair and dedication for 42 years.
Maritime murals and twinkling strings of lights festoon the
walls; the room seems to recall some forgotten Caprean grotto.
Yet, the homely edges of the place only serve to enhance its aura
of refinement – who could fail to be captivated by the party
menu which, due to a printing error, proposes ‘Salmonella
Luna Caprese’ in elegant script? The service is immaculate – Luis announces his specials
with an eloquence and dash which would have held the ancient
Roman senate rapt. He is no empty orator – the vision he
spread before our eyes was promptly incarnated in a succession of
exquisite dishes. I have always suspected meat to be most Italian
chefs’ Achilles heel, yet both the sirloin and the veal were
amazingly tender and seasoned with impressive restraint. Although
you could confidently choose any meat or fish dish, the steak
cooked in a creamy green pepper sauce and the decidedly sexy
seafood linguine get my especial vote. The strawberries smothered
in zabaglione which I had for dessert are summer itself distilled
in a bowl. Prices are fair without exception and are comparable
to those found at Oxford’s faintly generic French chain
restaurants. I don’t have the heart to devise a spurious criticism
which would lend my review the desirable air of objectivity
– and besides, any accusations of partiality might prove
lamentably well-founded. I left Luna Caprese having been treated,
as their guests invariably are, like a member of the family, and
am determined to defend my new clan with Italian tenacity and
enthusiasm.ARCHIVE: 4th week TT 2004 

Raoul’s Bar
32 Walton St
01865 553 73 Raoul’s on Walton Street has an astounding selection of
cocktails. I have never been so spoilt for choice before, and
being my usual indecisive self I had to resort to asking the
barman for his recommendation. He displayed an impressive
knowledege of the list and proceeded to whip up a delicious
fruity concoction featuring raspberries and peaches – there
is something for everyone on this list. The cocktails range from
the classics to more eclectic house cocktails, as well as serving
a fine selction of wines and beers. Raoul’s itself has a
very intimate atmosphere, albeit slightly pretentious, but if you
can take this with a pinch of salt it’s worth a visit. On
the evening we went, it was full with a very laid-back and
relaxed crowd of people, making it a highly pleasant place to
drink. The background music is just right – not so loud that
you can’t hear yourself speak, but enough to provide an
excellent atmosphere and backdrop to the evening. The clientele are mainly early 20s to early 30s, ranging from
girlie nights-out to first dates, from after work drinks to a
late night cocktail, and Raoul’s seeems to cater for all
these occaions, moving seamlessly from early evening to late
night. Be warned though – due to its popularity, it becomes
quite packed later, which although adds to the ambience and
enhances the upbeat atmosphere, makes it quite hard to get a seat
– but in a way this is a testament to the popularity of
Raoul’s. The only drawback is the lack of natural light,
which is slightly diappointing on a summer’s evening. All in all, Raoul’s is fast becoming a well-known
established bar in Boho Jericho, and is definitely worth a visit,
for arguably the best cocktails in Oxford. Although quite pricy
at £5.50-ish a cocktail (plus Happy Hour prices earlier on) they
are fairly big and worth every penny; and once you have tasted
one of the delights on offer, you will want to return, both to
work your way through the menu and to enjoy the atmosphere in
Raoul’s.ARCHIVE: 4th week TT 2004 

You’re probably wondering why, in the month of May,
I’m talking to you about the sort of accessories you’d
normally associate with winter. Before you stop reading, let me
remind you that a) although you may have been lulled into a false
sense of security by the recent glimpses of sunshine, this is
Oxford not the Mediterranean, and rain/cold/greyness can strike
at any time; b) in the world of fashion, you need to think ahead. In the Autumn/Winter 2004 shows, designers provided us with
lots of treats in the accessories department and I think quite a
few of them could be put to good use right now. The key with
accessories is to be original so try to avoid buying from the
High Street chains. In Oxford this is no easy task, but there are
a few individual stores where you can find original pieces. Try,
for example, the newly opened Lolapoloza on Blue-Boar Street (see
below), or the Covered Market. Perhaps I’m preaching to the converted, this being the
kingdom of the Pashmina after all (see the pontifications of the
Lower Camera), but I still insist that scarves add that extra
touch to any outfit. I admit, Pashminas are the perfect
transition item when it’s too warm for a winter coat and too
cold to ditch any kind of cosy clothing, but girls, let’s
remember that there are other types of scarves! Be brave: try out the far more original and up-to-the-minute,
fifties-style silk chiffon scarves – they both complement
fashion’s current love for ladylike chic, and are
surprisingly warm too. If you want to be truly ahead, replace
your scarf with a cape, again another nifty between-seasons item
and one which featured heavily on the Autumn/Winter 2004
catwalks. Capes like Missoni’s rainbow striped version can
brighten up an otherwise plain outfit whereas neutral versions
like those shown at Celine and Helmut Lang are likely to become
staples in many a fashionista’s wardrobe. There’s no need to persuade you that belts look good in
any season but fashion designers’ current obsession with the
waist means that this accessory (a belt, not a waist) is assuming
more importance than ever before. There is a reason why Kylie has
decided to hang up her hotpants and don waist-enhancing corsets
and wide belts instead – they look good. A key trend at the
moment is to wear belts with long tops or summer dresses over
jeans. For colder days, simply replace the dress with a jumper a
la Matthew Williamson. Coin belts, the choice of Karl Lagerfield
at Chanel, or vintagelooking distressed leather versions, look
great slung casually low on the hips. You may think of gloves as more of a necessity than a fashion
item but things are about to change – many designers ranging
from Jasper Conran to Dolce and Gabbana featured gloves in their
recent shows. Suppress any images in your mind of granny’s
knitted mittens; we’re talking about tight, sleek gloves
made of the softest leather and oh-so-covetable. On the continent, the stylish people have been using the glove
as a key fashion accessory for some time now, creating
beautifully crafted versions in all the colours of the rainbow. Outside of London, the UK has been slow to pick up on this
trend but the aforementioned Lolapoloza shop in Oxford is one of
the places where you won’t be stumped for choice they are
shipping the Italian versions over here and I suggest you take a
peak before writing off the idea that gloves are a fashion item
you can get excited about.ARCHIVE: 4th week TT 2004 

Amélie Nothomb dresses entirely in black and gets up everyday
at four in the morning to drink vinegar and write novels. So goes
the hype. She is also France’s brightest literary star, the
bestseller in Paris and a gothic alternative to such books as
Three Blondes Go Dating from the depressing, fifthrate category
Chick Lit. Nothomb has tapped into a literary niche and very
comfortable it is too, I’m sure. Nothomb is the latest “enfant terrible”, according
to Ellemagazine, a literary sensation, with an “acidic yet
passionately romantic view of human nature”. You can’t
board the Paris Métro without encountering someone reading her
work. Her books, like their 5’2” creator, are tiny,
rarely more than a hundred and fifty pages long, which is ideal
for commuters. She has become part of pop culture in France, a
phenomenon with a cult following of fans, the Nothombophiles
– an intense group, who dress up as Amélie and write her
letters saying, “I am your double”, despite the
photographs, which show to the contrary they look nothing like
her. But mania is blind, a fascinating, crazed symptom of the
modern age. Publishing, like the record industry, is a
sensationalist business. From The Beatles to Harry Potter and
wizarding lunatics, fandom is part of our world. Nothomb is a perfect example of how popular culture and
publicity works. Firstly, she is a heroine, who has overcome a
stream of adolescent obstacles, from loneliness, to alcoholism,
though to anorexia. At the age of 17, she discovered writing and
Nietzsche, which apparently saved her. After reading the Twilight
of the Idols she was moved by the philosopher’s observation:
“In the school of war that is life, what doesn’t kill
you will make you stronger”. For the same reasons that
Michelle and Gareth won Pop Idol, Nothomb has made her name
– people love the David and Goliath storyline, in which the
weak, fat or stuttering individual conquers all. Secondly, she works hard. As well as the vinegar and early
morning starts, Nothomb has reeled off four books a year, since
the age of twenty and is currently working on her 51st novel. She
writes for ten hours a day, before going to her publisher’s
office and reading the crazed fan-mail, buzzing around on
approximately three hours sleep. In the Fame Academyof life, she
is the star pupil this week, with the limelight shining full beam
on her latest novel, her UK debut, The Book of Proper Names. The “slyly outrageous Nothomb both disturbs and
amuses” us in this coming-of-age fairy story that tells the
tale of “Plectrude”, who is born in a prison and goes
on to become a beautiful ballerina-cum-anorexic. In the end
Plectrude shoots her friend, Amélie Nothomb, in the head. This
meta-fiction/publicity stunt is in fact quite entertaining.
However, there is something about it which is intrinsically
French and impossible to read without imagining the ‘Môn
amour’ accent it was written in. Nothomb is part of the Zeitgeist, with her Tim Burton style
and dark, satirical wit – she belongs to the fashionable
genre of the obscure. Her personal history provides the ideal
backdrop for her surreal novels. She was born in 1967, in Kobe,
Japan and spent most of her childhood moving around Asia; she
never went to school, had no friends and taught herself Latin and
Greek. She claims she was an alcoholic by the age of three and an
anorexic by thirteen. All this strikes me as unreal, somehow
classically quirky, typically weird, the elaborate construction
of a marketing team. Parisian critics have described her as a
“Euro- Exotic cocktail”; however, she also moulds
herself to what she writes. The Book of Proper Names is more
interesting when you know that it was written at four in the
morning, by a weird little person dressed in a black, under the
influence of vinegar. However, Nothomb is not alone in her use of publicity magic;
the art of madness has been mastered by many aspiring artists
seeking fame. The Romantic poets cultivated a reputation of
living in a radical commune, smoking copious amounts of opium and
having casual sex, occasionally appearing at intellectual soirees
on the point of collapse. Byron, an unattractive, club-footed
little man who sat up all night eating biscuits and crying,
managed to spread the rumour that he was “mad, bad and
dangerous to know”. Staging publicity stunts is an old and
profitable trick of the art world, as Salvador Dali would know
only too well. So, why do we still fall for it – Amélie Nothomb: the
Parisian princess of darkness? Despite Nothomb’s miserable
history, her life is surely all parties, luxury apartments, fast
cars and stylists now? Do we seriously believe that a Goth can
remain truly Gothic after millionaire success? Surely a bit of
the gold would rub off on her personality. But this is part of
the attraction and fascination in our fameobsessed culture and we
buy into it all – even the idea of Nothomb floating around
in her Olympic pool wearing a black Victorian ‘bathing
costume’ and top hat.ARCHIVE: 4th week TT 2004 

Ten years after the legalisation of homosexuality, Lithuania
still rates among the least tolerant of it in Europe. According
to a survey by the European Values Study, Lithuanian attitudes to
homosexuals rank at around 2 on a scale of 10 of acceptance
– far below that of its Baltic neighbours and less than a
quarter of that for the region’s most liberal nation, the
Netherlands. According to the Lithuanian Gay League (LGL),
lawyers in UK, Canada, USA, France and Belgium have approached
both them and other authorities claiming that Lithuanian lesbians
and gays are seeking asylum on the grounds of sexual orientation
persecution. Undeterred, I set off to the capital touted as ‘the new
Prague’ in early autumn for a week in one of Europe’s
most charismatic countries. I chose to suffer for my miserly
morals by opting for a coach journey to get myself there in the
cheapest fashion, and found myself stuck between a surly Pole and
an unforgiving wall. Arriving fatigued but frolicsome in Vilnius
40 hours after leaving the UK, my initial impressions made it
worth it as I meandered through what claims to be the largest
‘Old Town’ in Europe on my way to my holiday abode.
Gazing at the jovial Lithuanians chatting away in Vilnius’
cobbled streets with the sun glistening over the city’s many
spires, it seems hard to believe that anti-queer sentiments could
exist in what seems to be such a harmonious city. The first stop on my reconnaissance mission of Vilnius is what
many gay Lithuanians view as their chief opposition – the
Catholic Church. Vilnius Cathedral originates from the 15th
century, the golden age of Lithuania under Grand Duke Vytautas,
when its empire extended almost to the Black Sea. Modified many
times since, it is now a gleaming white bastion of the Lithuanian
RC Church, visible across the city. The baroque cathedral sits in contrast to the nearby
masterpiece of St Anne’s Church. Built with over 33 types of
brick, it is a Gothic treasure with spires, arches and buttresses
galore. According to local historical sources, it impressed
Napoleon so much that he declared that he wanted to take it back
to Paris “in the palm of his hand”. The omnipresence of
this and so many other churches in Vilnius’ old town reminds
any visitor that Lithuania is strongly Catholic. Despite a papal
declaration that homosexuals ‘must be accepted with respect,
compassion, and sensitivity’, many view the Church’s
stance locally as apathetic with little effort made to tackle
local discrimination. The real culprit in many forms lies in the previous Soviet
rule. From the initial occupation in 1940, homosexual relations
were criminalised in a law. Article 122, which stated “Man
Lying With Man: Sexual relations between men… shall be
punishable by incarceration for a period of up to five
years,” was only repealed under international pressure in
1993. The fearsome relics of the Soviet era are still visible in
Vilnius, most notably in the former KGB building which has now
reopened as the Museum of Genocide Victims. This house of horrors
is a testament to the terrors of the Soviet reign; surviving
inmates act as tour guides through the grim cells. As you pass
from cell to cell you notice various spine-chilling details: the
straitjackets left on the hooks; the bloodstains on the walls;
the padded doors which muffled the prisoners’ screams. At
times these contained up to twenty people with barely room to
stand, but if this weren’t torture enough, inmates sat in
fear of the punishment cells. Talking to others earned oneself a
stay in the isolation cell, where you would be stripped and left
in the dark with a mere hole in the floor as a latrine; not
talking to the guards would leave you blindfolded and beaten at
random in a padded cell. Back in the colourful streets of the Old Town, however, one is
far removed from these horrific scenes. Terrace cafés and craft
markets are found lining the quaint streets, and there is more
than enough to occupy oneself with here as you explore the myriad
nooks and crannies of the capital. Whether buying the spiced
local gingerbread or scouting for the region’s best amber,
it’s hard to resist picking something up. Lithuanians are
well-known in the region for their cheerful nature, and tend to
be happy to chatter away to you in the scraps they know of your
own tongue. Entering Vilnius’ only gay club that evening, the
atmosphere is so different. The dubiously named ‘Men’s
Factory’ is the only hideaway for Vilnius’ queers where
they can meet other men in total safety – gay-bashing around
the city is not uncommon. Located in the rear entrance of a
disused warehouse, its events are only publicised within groups
such as LGL. Steel bars cover the entry and you have to knock to
enter through a turnstile. What lies within is a polarised sphere
of an intense and repressed gay society. The dance-floor plays
the stereotypical techno for embracing scantilyclad lesbians, but
from here branch off a number of rooms lined with cushions and TV
screens showing gay porn. The club has been created with sex in
mind, when much of the gay public just wants safety and equality.
After a drink, I head out again into Vilnius’ cold air,
waiting for a time when queers can meet the straight society in
the middle and gay Lithuanians can finally air their pride.ARCHIVE: 4th week TT 2004 

Like reading Vogue? Shop for clothes at GAP and Next although
you’d prefer to wear Karen Millen outfits? Sounds like
massive desire suppression to me. Fortunately, Bicester Village
might offer you a good outlet. A factory designer outlet in fact. What you find in Bicester Village is a cluster of 80 designer
shops including Karen Millen, Max Mara and Bally selling last
year’s fashion. And because it’s last year’s,
it’s reduced by up to 60 percent. My favourite trophy was a
Max Mara needle-striped navy suit for £250. That’s a lot of
money, but it’s only about half as much as a comparable suit
would have cost me in London. A trip to Bicester Village is easy to fit into a busy
student’s schedule. It’s only 30 minutes away from
Oxford by coach, with departures roughly every 30 minutes from
Gloucester Green. Conveniently enough, it’s open 7 days a
week: weekdays and Sundays from 10am to 6pm, Saturdays and Bank
Holidays from 10am to 7pm. After all that shopping, you may feel you’ve saved enough
money to treat yourself to a good Italian meal at
Carluccio’s, or you might prefer a snack at Prêt à Manger. In case it all sounds too good, a word of caution. You cannot
find decent GAP jeans anywhere in Bicester, or a couple of Next
tops to go with them. If you are looking for clothes that simply
keep your body warm, stay in Oxford. Bicester Village is more for
those who treat fashion as the art of aesthetic self-expression
without expressing the constraints of a student budget.ARCHIVE: 4th week TT 2004 

We are forever told, through government initiatives, race
equality organisations and indeed much mainstream liberal media,
that an acceptance of ethnic and cultural diversity is the
foundation of a tolerant and modern British society. However,
there remains, and perhaps there always will, a deep-rooted
distrust of ‘foreign’ influences in social
organisations and foundations. To some extent this must, of
course, be blamed upon archaic notions of superiority in civil
vocations but this is often accompanied by a fear that our own
citizens are unable to reach the skill required; the nagging
question of why do we need foreign nurses and teachers? Many a
debate could indeed ensue from such points but there is a simple
question that is rarely asked in such national institutions as
the NHS and state school system: is cultural and national
diversity a benefit in itself? Although there are many examples of foreign citizens in
British institutions there are few instances of British citizens
in foreign institutions in the UK. Founded in the early 1970s
while enthusiasm for the maturing European Union was at its peak,
however, was a series of schools across the continent that
fostered precisely this situation. Often associated with major
science research centres that required multi-national staff these
schools provided education for their children with the explicit
aim of both maintaining independent national identity while at
the same time experimenting with cultural fusion from an early
age. Having left a traditional prep school aged eight, I was
unprepared for this novel institution. At such an age we are
supposed to be receptive spongelike figures, ready to absorb
whatever is thrown at us, but I was already baffled. Separated in
language sections that we would stay in for the rest of our
school careers there was no option of changing classes and in
fact I was to stay in the same class with several friends for
eleven years. Large English, French and German sections dominated
the year group while smaller Italian and Dutch sections also
existed and the children in these ‘sections’ were
taught everything in their native languages alongside a second
language of their choice. Now obviously such a culturally diverse and unique education
clearly bred a generation of liberal Europhiles, multi-national
but lacking in distinct roots who would sooner jet off and work
in Swiss banks than study for a job in the NHS. Bollocks it did.
In many ways the sectarian system of language groups caused
strife and for my first years there all my friends were in the
English section. However, this is only partially true: none of my
friends were ‘English’, none had two British parents
and it was this type of set-up that the school thrived on. In individual families there was cultural diversity and I was
soon friends with people from over twenty countries without even
leaving my own classroom. And there was certainly no lack of
national pride or spirit. World Cups and European Championships
(the killer) would regularly degenerate into slanging matches
while lessons were often cancelled depending on the nationality
of the teacher and whether their team was playing. All the usual stereotypes and associated judgements existed
too: special directions were pinned to doors at parents’
meetings ready for the arrival of the Italian parents, always
half an hour late; rules had to govern German mothers who would
park across three spaces in the car park (saving them for
friends) ignoring the beach towel jibes from others; and Dutch
students always knew the best people to get dope from (often
their dad). These widespread national rivalries had the effect,
however, of resigning us all to the fact that we were different
and would always be so while at the same time forcing us to
accept it and indeed enjoy it. Visits to friends’ houses
were like trips abroad: one friend had no English food in the
house and only German TV, a little bit of Hamburg we used to call
his home, and an Italian I knew had cured hams and sausages
hanging above the dining- room table and even vines in the
garden. What these schools display so eloquently is that a fusion of
nationalities and culture need not destroy individual
nationalities or cultures, and that actually people can gain and
grow from interaction with their fellows without loosing their
own identity. Frightened of foreign influences, people are losing a crucial
opportunity to absorb and adapt; a necessary step in even basic
evolution. Such a display of weakness shows a lack national
pride, not a defence of it, by fearing the effects of foreign
cultures individuals stall a natural process, not of destruction,
but fusion.ARCHIVE: 4th week TT 2004 

Racism is a word that gets bandied about a lot nowadays. And
with good reason. It seems as though, despite years of PR about
being PC, most cultures are just as insular and isolated as
they’ve always been. Since the EU and the opening up of
borders to diverse cultures and peoples there has been a
significant amount of emigration and immigration. But this has not led to a merging of differences, a fusion of
mixed races, religions, ideas and identities. We have not all
joined together in the proverbial melting pot. At first sight
this is a bad thing. Networks of Europeans come to England, to
live by the language, suffer the climate, prosper (hopefully) by
the economy. But, mostly, they continue to live and work within
the same groups that they came over with, a reassuring stability,
perhaps, in a new and perplexing life. For it is always easier
for true natives to experience the excitement of other cultures
on their home turf. The English can enjoy the delights of Indian, Chinese, French,
Italian, Spanish cuisine on a daily basis, not several metres
from their front doors. But if they chose to take this further
and actually emigrate (a popular phenomenon of late) they too
tend to flock together, finding refuge in the ex-pat community,
fish and chips and Radio Four. True, we all love to experience other cultures, sometimes even
immerse ourselves in them completely, but, after all that, we
will still yearn for things that remind us of home, little
touchstones that reassure and comfort, things that tell us we
belong. Travelling has to be one of the most stimulating experiences
in life, new sites, new foods, new languages, new lives. But,
oddly enough, at the same time as expanding one’s world view
it can also shrink it, bring one’s own cultural identity
more sharply into focus. It’s an incredible thing that when you are halfway across
the world and you suddenly hear your native tongue spoken in your
native accent. Instantly a bond appears. ‘Are you
English?’ You enquire excitedly. ‘Yes’, they
answer, ‘I’m f r o m Derbyshire.’ ‘Oh!’
You e x c l a i m . You’ve never been to D e r b y s h i r
e, you have no intention of ever going there, but this is a bond
between you both. Out there in the big wide world, among people who sometimes
seem so different from you they could be from another planet,
these tiny things feel important. Most English – reserved at
best, and bloody unfriendly at worst – who won’t talk
to their fellow inhabitants in a lift unless under duress, will
spend hours in intensely irrelevant exchanges when encountering a
fellow ex-pat abroad. We travel to see other things, know other countries, this is
wonderful and exciting and stimulating. And, after a time away,
in a country where you don’t understand the jokes,
don’t quite get the cultural references and can’t get
hold of Marmite or Marmalade for love nor money, a little piece
of home can seem like an oasis in a desert, or a good cup of tea
on a cold, drizzly winter’s day. We use our cultures to connect to each other, find reference
points that we can share, reassure ourselves that we are
understood, we are not alone. Whenever I met an English person in America I just used to
talk about English TV. After six months of weird American cable
drivel I delighted in recalling old episodes of Faulty Towers and
Blackadder. I am about as unpatriotic a person as one could hope to find.
I despise our weather, am embarrassed by our politics and bored
by our food. I love to travel to other countries and love to
experience other cultures. Yet I am not, and perhaps sadly never could be, completely at
home in them. England is home to me, and long after I’ve
left (for I’ll emigrate as fast as I can get a job and a
visa) it will still be a part of me. I’ve been raised in
England, steeped in its way of life for so long that my identity
is obviously inextricably fused with my culture. There is no
escape. This is why it takes generations of living in a country other
than your own before you can reasonably feel part of that
country’s culture, before you can reasonably call yourself a
native. And what does it matter? The beauty of this world is its
diversity. I love that I can experience different, strange, weird
and wonderful things wherever I go. It would be a sad day when we all dropped our cultural
identities in favour of some kind of fused oneness. We must keep
our differences, celebrate them, and take oppourtunity to
experience as much of other people as possible.ARCHIVE: 4th week TT 2004 

Nowadays, the innocent appreciation of the breast is a limited practice at best, excluded from popular culture and forcefully confined to pervy Scouse readers of Viz and a regiment of cropped-haired women belonging to a certain all-female college. Think about it: the emergence of feminism has made people feel guilty about the merits of the mammary. Even your average Essex girl in her white-stilletoed glory feels the burden.
When accosted by the geezer-like cadences of “phwoar, look at them knockers” at the The Slug and Something-or-other pub, the Essex girl obligingly talks of objectification and sexism, despite the attention she gets from her 32DD jugs.
Appreciating a breast’s circularity, its noble roundness, its pink, brown and olive warmthis invariably perversion to most people. Should we call the great breastobserver, the artist Poussin, a pervert? Should the genius of Virgil, who said, “can heavenly breasts such stormy passions feels”, be accused of voyeurism?
In such an unjust world, figures like Jordan a.k.a. Katie Price only do the breast greater wrongs, with their own travestied aesthetic. Her long awaited autobiography Being Jordan is not a glimpse into the real identity behind Jordan, but a biased history of her failed performances. Anyone who was lucky enough to hear Jordan reading extracts from the book on Radio 1 will know that not only did she have no clue what was in the book, but when she came to read it aloud it contained some tricky words far beyond her comprehension.
It is not unusual these days to intellectualise an odd phenomenon (Big Brother, Pop Idol, etc.) but let’s be honest, the only reason Jordan exists is because of her mammoth breasts and unnatural propensity to shed clothes in jungles. To be fair, one would find more interest in the medical records of a septuagenarian trying to rid himself of his leathery man-breasts than in this botched clap-trap; Jordan is the mere embodiment of plebeian culture obsessed with Footballer’s Wives, Heat and blondness, a cultural booby-trap, period. Now, back to the innocence of breasts.ARCHIVE: 4th week TT 2004