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

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

Bipolar disorder
MANIC DEPRESSION, or bipolar disorder, is essentially a brain disfunction causing unusual shifts in a person’s mood and energy. These shifts are manifested in dramatic mood swings — from overly “high” or irritable to sad and hopeless, often with periods of normal mood in between. The periods of highs and lows are referred to as episodes of mania and depression.
Bipolar disorder tends to occur in the late teens and early twenties, with most sufferers having their first episode before the age of 30. About one in every hundred adults will suffer from manic depression at some point in their life.
Since Edgar Allen Poe wrote that genius and insanity were linked, many theorists have perceived a connection between bipolar disorder and creativity. Virginia Woolf, William Blake and Van Gogh are all believed to have suffered from bipolar disorder.
Each episode of mania or depression generally lasts several months. Anyone who has a manic episode is diagnosed as having bipolar disorder, although some people never suffer from symptoms of depression. Symptoms of mania, or a manic episode, include increased energy and rapid speech, reflecting thoughts that occur in quick succession. Elevation of mood is also often apparent, either appearing as cheerfulness or undue optimism, or in other cases as irritability. Socially inappropriate behaviour is another sign of a manic episode. Sufferers may demonstrate promiscuity or go on unrestrained spending sprees. In addition, a sufferer could have ideas of elevated status, for example, thinking he or she is a religious prophet. Insight is impaired, so that the patient may have no recognition of the fact that they are acting out of the ordinary.
When a sufferer is not in a manic phase they may suffer from depression, resulting in tiredness, ideas of guilt and low self-esteem, coupled even with suicidal thoughts. There can also be biological symptoms of reduced appetite and weight, early morning waking and reduced libido.
So what causes bipolar disorder? Scientists now agree that many factors act together to bring on the illness. Stressful events can be blamed, as can genetics and our childhood experiences. It is true that if someone in your family suffered with bipolar disorder then you are more likely to suffer with it than the general population, although the exact mode of inheritance is yet to be discovered. Other factors are also important, including personality type, significant life events and some kinds of physical illness.
Medications known as Mood Stabilisers are usually prescribed to help control bipolar disorder. However, as an addition to medication, psychosocial treatments are believed to have a positive effect, increasing mood stability. These include cognitive behavioral therapy, psychoeducation and family therapy. Who knows what Edgar Allen Poe would have thought?ARCHIVE: 0th week TT 2005

Miranda Kaufmann discovers that there is more to Morris Dancing in Oxford than just old bearded gentlemen with bells on
Instantly recognisable by their white outfits and strange accoutrements, all Morris dancing groups have their own identifying quirks.
“The Ancient Men” is a fairly appropriate moniker for the Oxford University Morris Men, reflecting the average age of participants. Some dancers are female, easily spotted by their lack of beards. Purple waistcoats and breeches are exclusive to the Maids of the Ducklington Morris.
In the unlikely event you spy a group of beardless Morris men, they may be the 18-30 group on a dancing weekend. If accompanied by a hobby-horse, they may be linked to Banbury (of nursery rhyme fame). You may also see props such as lobsters or sheeps’ skulls on sticks. No group is complete without a Fool. The leaders of the Morris dancers have suitably antique names, such as Squire and Bagman.
The Morris is an ancient tradition, possibly of “Moorish” origin. Dancers used to perform in black makeup. While we might find this politically incorrect, our Puritan forebears were more worried by the sacrilegeous implications: “They strike up the Devil’s dance withall: then martch this heathen company towards the church and churchyards, their pypers pyping, the drummers thundering, their stumpes dancing, their belles jyngling, their handkercheefes fluttering about their heads like madde men.” (Philip Stubbes ‘Anatomie of Abuses’ 1583) This was the sort of dancing that Cromwell did away with.
Morris dancing was revived in the early 20th Century by the Tabs. Yes, it was our cousins in the Fens who are responsible for all this mirth. Joseph Needham, Squire of the Cambridge Morris, initiated the formation of the Morris Ring, the national federation of Morris dancers, in 1934. The commitment of these early enthusiasts is unquestionable. Walter Abson fell asleep in an initial meeting and awoke to find himself appointed Bagman. The onerous bag-dragging duties were presumably unlikely to be accepted while conscious.
On the weekend of 21-22 May, you could go along to Kidlington Lamb Ale, a revival of an age-old village festival. Here, in 1679, the custom was: “On Monday after Whitsun week there is a fat live lamb provided, and the maids of the town, having their thumbs tied behind them, run after it attended with music and a Morisco dance of men, where the rest of the day is spent in dancing, mirth and merry glee.” The glee was no doubt enhanced by copious consumption of Real Ale, still the Morris dancers’ favourite tipple. This year’s event will conclude with a barn dance.
If this sounds rather too lively, Morris dancers can be observed communing with nature at the annual Ducklington Fritillary. Here, the dancers adorn their sleeves with purple and yellow ribbons, the colours of a rare local flower, the snake’s head fritillary. If you can’t make it to Ducklington, the flower can also be found in the grounds of Madgalen College.
If, inspired by these traditions, you are keen to try Morris dancing for yourself, you could join one of twenty different groups found in Oxford and its environs. The Oxford University Morris Men practise weekly, as do the Rogue Morris, a women’s group.ARCHIVE: 0th week TT 2005

While desperately resisting the advances of blonde-loving South Americans, Louise Randall faces ?re and earthquake, as well as local culinary delicacies, in the village of Chol-Chol
It’s okay, thin women can be sensual too”. These were the somewhat unexpected words of comfort given to us by our headmaster as he told us of the dangers of Chilean men and wished us farewell. We then set off on our travels around South America during our summer holiday from the school in Chol-Chol where we were working as teachers.
By spending the last four months living and teaching in a tiny Mapuche Indian village in Southern Chile we honestly thought we had learnt all there was to be learnt about the average Latino man. Admittedly, it was our own fault that we looked ridiculous when we squirmed backwards out of our boss’ office after he had murmured “kiss me, kiss me” with characteristic charm, which we only realised later was a mispronounced attempt at “excuse me, excuse me”. But our cautious approach to Chilean men was not completely unfounded. Chile is the only country in the world where, after exchanging pleasantries with a local, I have been kissed on the cheek with tongues. It was most off-putting and certainly put a French twist into the average South American greeting. Fortunately, such acts of friendliness were exceptional and most of the time we were merely mildly bemused by the attention given to two blonde, pale skinned gringas. Never before have I had a 30ft articulated logging truck stop on an empty dirt track road in order to let me cross (serenaded by the toothy grins of the five men within), and when now I walk along Cornmarket, there’s still a part of me that misses the applause and cries of “I love you, baby”.
Hollywood has a lot to answer for in the colourful expression of Latino ‘machismo’ and we were occasionally offended until we realised that to call someone a “motherf**ker” has been misinterpreted by Chilean youths as an American flirtation technique, guaranteed to win the heart of any passing blonde. Nor is Hollywood blameless for the foreign perception of Western women as promiscuous, although when confusing the Chilean words for boyfriend and chicken and making the unfortunate announcement that “I have six boyfriends in England; I keep them in the garden”, I myself was also a poor ambassador for Western females.
However, nothing had quite prepared us for Victor. Travelling north along the 4300km coastline of Chile we spent three days winding our way through the fjords of Patagonia on a cargo boat, which unfortunately for us came complete with a red-blooded navigator who obviously hadn’t dropped his anchor for a while.
Kate and I felt ourselves to be equal to the challenge of evading Victor on the small boat. After all, as a teacher I was used to dictatorially controlling the classes of 50 seven year olds, even getting used to the fact that the younger classes were often still learning Spanish, and spoke indigenous Mapudungun as their first language. The only things that phased me were the pigs that continually ran through the classroom.
So, during the first few days of the boat trip we did well trying to escape the pursuit of the hapless Victor. We passed through channels edged by emerald mountains and snowcapped volcanoes; the starry night skies were unsurpassable. We slept on the floor, cooked on deck and spent the days watching dolphins jump and seeing sheep slaughtered.
We were eventually lured up to the bridge by the offer of steering our very own cargo boat, and just as we were distracted trying to avoid small islands, Victor whisked out the handcuffs and cuffed himself to Kate, much to her dismay. He was obviously convinced that this masculine demonstration of dominance was the way to the heart of this elusive blue-eyed waif, yet when the waif started playing dead-weight in protest, navigation became hazardous, and he reluctantly released her. It was us, not the sailors, who needed a glass of Chilean vino when we reached port.
It was with dismay, docking at the island of Chiloe, that we discovered the tipple tipico to be none other than licor de oro – fermented cows milk. With a spirit of enterprise that any student would be proud of, the locals made spirits out of absolutely anything, including seafood, yet it struck us that while knowledge is knowing how to make alcohol out of shrimps, perhaps wisdom is choosing not to. Thus, while undoubtedly tempted by the thought of a ‘Mussel Martini’, on this particular occasion we demurred.
As we travelled thousands of kilometres further north over the Chilean border we found the Latino men to be the same, the Spanish less riddled with slang, the cuisine equally inventive. And the two gringas? A little braver, so not only did we begin to think that spending 40p on a three course meal in a Bolivian greasy spoon was a wise idea, we also tucked into the Peruvian delicacy of roasted guinea pig, complete with paws and internal organs, with (relative) relish.
At length our holiday was over and we returned to our home town of Chol-Chol. We were greeted from the bus by three lone geese tied up in a sack bag by the roadside. They had holes in place of their heads, their bus-fare next to them, and were waiting for a ride into the local city of Temuco, where presumably a cooking pot awaited them. Transport is certainly a creative concept in Chile. We ourselves had learnt while travelling that hitchhiking on a tractor never was, and never will be, a good idea. It was impossible however to get bored of seeing whole families waiting by the roadside hoping to hitch a lift on a passing oxen-cart, normally already full with fresh fruit, vegetables and flowers being taken to market by colourful Mapuche women in full traditional dress.
Indigenous culture flavours every aspect of life in Chol-Chol, the heartland of the Mapuches, the indigenous people of Southern Chile. We saw much of the countryside as at the end of each week our rickety school minibus would run its journey deep into the heart of the Mapuche countryside, over dirt track roads, past traditional grass Ruka huts, far beyond the reach of electricity or running water, to drop the 160 boarders at their homes.
Upon our return to Chol-Chol though we found that teaching offered more challenges than the usual unruly swine. On 2 April, a devastating fire started at the ‘Escuela Anglicana William Wilson’, consuming the hundred year old wooden building, and destroying the entire boys’ boarding house on the first floor: the voluntary fire service was only fifteen metres across the road, yet that day they had run out of water. Everything was lost, yet thankfully all the children were safely evacuated, many into Kate’s care. Never has ‘Heads Shoulders Knees and Toes’ been sung with such urgency as to distract children whose school is burning down behind them.
Bizarrely, we were soon relieved at the school’s dramatic destruction. In mid-May Chol-Chol was woken by a factor six earthquake, whose epicentre was only 40km from the village.
The school had been one of the few two storey buildings in the village, and the hundred year old wooden frame shook when vehicles passed along the road below. It soon became apparent that, if the building were not destroyed by fire, it would surely have collapsed in the earthquake, with unthinkable consequences for the boys who lived there.
However, through the tumultuous events of the months you could always count on the Chilean male. It is a comforting fact, whether you like their style or not, that in the face of earthquake of fire, they never lose that sense of machismo.ARCHIVE: 0th week TT 2005

Driving on the left
IN VIOLENT feudal societies travelling on the left was a far better idea for the simple fact that riders on horseback carried swords on their left-hand side. For polite travellers this meant that by passing on the right their sword would not interfere with oncoming traffic. For early road ragers it meant that they could quickly take up their sword with their right hand, enabling them to strike out at would-be overtakers, regulate people pulling out in front of them, or merrily slash away at anyone coming in the opposite direction.
The switch to driving on the right seems to have been largely the fault of the French and the Americans, who began hauling luggage around using carts with horses in the 1700s. As your right-handed traveller needed to lash the beasts repeatedly to get to work on time it was necessary to sit on the left horse so that both were easily accessible with the whip. It then made more sense for the driver to locate himself nearer the middle of the road and so carts began to pass each other on the left.
With uncanny resemblance to his own political career, Napoleon ensured that the drift from left to right continued apace. Not only did he decree that everybody in France should travel on the right, he then proceeded to conquer most of Europe to encourage his continental neighbours to follow suit. Over a hundred years later, Hitler attempted to fill in the gaps that Napoleon had missed. When Hitler annexed Austria in 1938, he introduced driving on the right overnight. He seemed indifferent, or perhaps unaware, that most of the road signs were inevitably facing the wrong direction, and equally unconcerned that Austria’s trams continued to drive on the left for several weeks because they could not immediately be transferred.
It was the force of global industry that cemented the worldwide tendency for driving on the right. Henry Ford’s Model-T motor vehicle was the first in a long production line of cars designed with the steering wheel on the left. Exported all over the world, these vehicles made driving on the right the most sensible option for the 20th century nation.
Unless of course you were Britain, or a British colony. In a characteristic effort to stave off the rest of the world and global homogenisation, Britain boldly maintained its tradition of driving on the left. Napoleon had failed to conquer her. The growth of American industry would not influence her. Even the extreme ‘rightist’ policies of Hitler were defeated. During the invasion of Normandy in 1944, British military vehicles still drove on the left for a time causing numerous collisions with their American allies who were driving on the right. And so by the time Britain thought about switching over in the 1960s driving on the right was thoroughly un-British. Driving on the left appears to be here to stay.ARCHIVE: 0th week TT 2005

FINE ARTS student Roberta “Bobby” Coral first saw the symbol on the wall of a Rad Cam toilet. It was alongside the tracks of a downward juddering bandwagon of homage to Pete Doherty. Drawn in aggressive pencil, it was a gaunt black triangle, its sides two-thirds up punctured with what could have been angel wings, or horns on a Viking helmet. Above it in jagged letters: HEADLESS. All the more striking was the dirty pearl of blank wall around it, six inches wide. It seemed the symbol was universally understood, among those who autographed toilets, to be sacrosanct.
Bobby was eminently well-adjusted. If anything, that was her problem. It meant, as she knew, that she was rather supermarketbrand. Packaging like that of the market leader, only flimsier and in fewer colours. Hints of artificial sweeteners in that smile. But she did the job, with her shortcomings written plainly on the tin, and was not out to please an elite. So no ladders in her tights to lead you to snakes: the under-loved, the overindulged, the midnight quivers of a soul that needs always to be its own daydream. She was artless, no more, but no less. Not that she was wholly immune to itches for something more. She’d give herself an edge of walked through fire by charring her eyes with liner and mascara. Or stand in the Boots queue until it had tapered to only three deep, daring herself to go all the way with this blacking kit for her tresses currently reminiscent of weak tea.
But that day, in the Rad Cam cubicle, she felt no such itch. So she refused to spook out, even if it was so weird that no one dared write near it (What if she did, right now? What would happen?). She restrained the same impulse on seeing the symbol again the following week, this time in chalk on Longwall Street, a little way down from the long-running “FREEDOM: NOT YET OUT ON DVD”.
By her third encounter with it, her unease refused for a moment to get back in its kennel and howled clumsily through her veins instead. At The Sackler Library, a librarian whose stare at rest could disinfect a public toilet had told Bobby that ‘Aztec Premonitions of Modern Art’ was “naturally” on the shelf. Bobby searched for twenty minutes in vain. Then, at that point where it should have been according to its shelfmark, she noticed a tiny jaundiced tongue protruding from between two books. She prised them apart and pulled out a crumbling flake of card. There, drawn in ink that had purpled in antiquity like a bruise, was the Headless symbol. Paling, she took it downstairs to the librarian. “Book wasn’t there,” she told her. “But this was.” The librarian arranged her face into what she hoped was the highest madness antidote known to man. “So it was.”
None of which prepared Bobby for the fourth time. Late for her tute with Dr Pynchette, she puffed up a blaze of rickety momentum across Pembroke, at last knocking on his door and flurrying in without waiting for his customary “Entertain me”. The curtains were drawn, drowsing the incoming sun so that it curled up at the feet of his bookshelves like an old cat lapping plaintively at dust. Amid this light someone was standing – but it wasn’t Dr Pynchette.
Beside his desk, a woman upheld five feet, two inches of what they might tout as ‘Laura Ashley does Sexual Awakening’. She had her fingertips up on its oak, as though to takes its pulse. At Bobby’s entrance, she tightened with all the special force of a small woman and hissed: “Yes?” Bobby: “Dr Pynchette?” “He’s on leave. His students should have been told. Perhaps there hasn’t been time.” On leave? So abruptly? Bobby frowned: “Is it to do with the book he’s writing? Marginalia?”
The woman edged around the desk and folded into its chair. She murmured, “I’m not sure what it’s to do with. As you can see, his phone was off the hook. I’m his sister.” It took a while for Bobby to process each of these sentences, like digits punched rapidly into a telephone. She moved forward into the smell of fried eggs that always hung over his desk like a builder’s daydream. The phone was still off the hook – his sister had touched nothing, as though this were his last fragile sandcastle.
Bobby said, “He’s AWOL?” His sister flinched. “I,” she muttered darkly, “have three children, flowerbeds the dog waters and a suburban Jacuzzi of fellowship it sadly doesn’t. You know when I really wake up each morning? Raising the garage door. Shrieks like Bambi’s hit the blender and spits rust at me. That will always be so because I will never get round to fixing it. Yes, I have my frustrations too. Ray’s the only one who feels he can just disappear and come back if life rubs him the right way.”
“He’s done this before?” His sister shrugged. “I was six the first time. We were in a Bristol supermarket: Ray, me, our mother. I leant closer to a fridge, my breath clouding the glass and his reflection. When it faded, he was gone. He’d followed the sound of a city seagull down the aisle and out the door. He called us later from a record shop to play some jazz down the line…”
Bobby wasn’t listening. She was standing tremulously, having just had the breath whipped out from under her like a tablecloth in a show of tricks at a village fete. On a pad next to the phone, under the logo of the coffee-shop whose waitress he’d bullied it from and a feverish scrawl of ‘LOITERER’, was the Headless symbol.ARCHIVE: 0th week TT 2005

Papal elections can take weeks and picking a successor to John Paul II was surely no mean feat. But despite the rapid elevation of Josef Cardinal Ratzinger to the Papacy took me, and many of my Catholic friends, by surprise. I have (rather depressingly) never seen my boyfriend so happy, and I can guess from one of my good friend’s proud ownership of a Cardinal Ratzinger fan club mug (“putting the smackdown on heresy since 1981”) that he’s pretty chuffed.
My non-Catholic friends were generally less thrilled with the decision of the College of Cardinals to make the Prefect of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith the next Pope, although I do not suppose any of them were planning an instant conversion should their candidate of choice have come out top. “The world’s gone mad” one of them plaintively whimpered at me. Perhaps to him it has, but then he is an Anglican because he cherishes his right to “believe strongly in not very much at all”. So I don’t think he was going to be particularly overjoyed with whatever selection the Cardinals made.
For days now I have been listening to various commentators extolling the virtues of various African and South American Cardinals and I think they have somewhat missed the point. If anyone imagined that a Pope from the developing world would suddenly decide to alter centuries of church teaching (on abortion, contraception and the ordination of women) they were bound to be disappointed. The Church in Africa is more strict on Catholic doctrine than in the materialist West, and its representatives would argue that the answer to human suffering on earthis not to forsake moral truth because it seems expedient to do so and difficult not to.
Besides, there is a limit to what any Pope could feasibly do. Not only are all Popes bound to the teaching of their predecessor, they are also bound to unalterable Church doctrine. That does not mean that there can be no debate or developments of any kind. Indeed, Cardinal Ratzinger was one of the key supporters of the Second Vatican Council, which shaped the Church into the institution that young Catholics have grown up with. The Church is not without problems: falling vocations to religious life in the West and worrying instances of abuse must and, doubtless will be, tackled firmly. No Supreme Pontiff fears a challenge but the job is unpredictable. He will have to address these issues but we should not attempt to anticipate the methods of Benedict XVI too hastily.
On Monday before the Cardinals began their conclave Ratzinger gave a homily warning against the dangers of a “dictatorship of relativism”. If the Church failed to uphold the belief in moral absolutes then it would cease to be the one true Catholic Church in which all Catholics declare their belief. This Pope knows as well as the last one the potential dangers of secular culture and extreme political ideology. As John Paul II was struggling under communist oppression in Poland, Benedict XVI was shocked to see it sweeping in its intellectual form through German universities, having already lived through the horror of Nazi rule. As a man aware of the nature of modern society, he will fight for the purity of truth, even though it may not always be a popular move.
As Benedict VXI promises in his first sermon as Pope to work to unite all Catholics, a BBC commentator is telling me that he has, in the past, referred to other religions as “deficient”. Well, I don’t have to struggle very hard to contain my surprise on that count. In calling myself a Catholic, I assert the belief that it is the one true faith, as with followers of most religions. It might sound arrogant to those of a secular persuasion but it is not unusual. That does not mean that I and other Catholics don’t like people of other faiths, or that I don’t respect their right to hold their beliefs, I just don’t share them. Despite holding such views Benedict XVI has been encouraging dialogue with other religions and will doubtless continue to do so.
There is reason to believe that the new Pope is not entirely as he has been portrayed. A theologian to John Paul II’s philosopher, his job as a latter day chief inquisitor didn’t give the public much opportunity to catch a glimpse of his warm and fluffy side. Stamping out heresy within the Church isn’t always a popularity-winning exercise.
However, it might be worth considering the name he has chosen for himself. To those who were expecting ‘John Paul III’ and more of the same, the choice of Benedict is an interesting shift. Perhaps Cardinal Ratzinger was considering the heroic efforts of the last Pope Benedict who struggled in vain to discourage the outbreak of war in 1914. Or perhaps he was moved by the legacy of St Benedict, founder of Western monasticism in the sixth century, a holy man dedicated to peace. We might all be in for a surprise. Those expecting a war on heresy could instead be confronted with a call for peace through unity in truth.
ARCHIVE: 0th week TT 2005

Mary Lee Costa examines how the times have changed in the state of musical theatre
With two recent productions of Tennessee Williams’ plays, Arthur Miller’s The Crucible, and lesser-known works such as the The Laramie Project making it onto the Oxford stage, it seems our interest in the work of American playwrights is growing. Judging by the widespread grief of the British public following Arthur Miller’s death, we still take a lively interest in writers from across the herring pond.
America’s most talked-about theatrical contribution has long been in the category of musical theatre. Both the Broadway and West End programmes suggest that the popularity of the musical remains unabated, and there is no shortage of big names eager to tackle them. Having recently returned from his round-the-world motorcycle tour, Ewan McGregor will assume the role of Sky Masterson in Guys and Dolls this May. Last year, Oxford itself saw a revival of this acclaimed musical. However, many of the hit songs from Guys and Dolls, such as Luck Be A Lady, no longer enjoy such a high status. They are rarely still thought of as free-standing pieces of music.
The American musical theatre of the 1920s and 1930s was strewn with music by some of the twentieth century’s greatest composers, such as Cole Porter, the Gershwin Brothers and Jerome Kern. At the time, it provided the popular music of its day, and many of the songs from this period have remained beloved favourites after the shows they were written for have been long forgotten. Hits such as Someone to Watch Over Me, Tea for Two and New York, New York still reach a wide audience today, while the musicals they featured in, such as On the Town, are almost entirely forgotten. Only a lucky few musicals of this era survive in performance.
The songs from this pre-war period were usually considered far more important than the actual dialogue. This is aptly demonstrated by the fact that many of those that proved popular were used in a host of different plays. Such was their appeal that they were eventually recycled into fresh plots for Hollywood stars such as Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers.
In recent years, Broadway has featured less comic and more dramatic new musicals, such as The Scarlet Pimpernel alongside those with operatic scores, such as The Life. However, modern Broadway’s innate conservativism means that such innovations remain the exception, rather than the norm. For the most part songs tend to be remembered only as part of the musical itself, without being strong enough to stand alone.
Few modern Broadway musicals have achieved long-lasting fame of the classic American plays. By the very nature of their performance, with the necessary presence of music and often dance, musicals do not have the same ability to survive as straight plays. The majority of Broadway musicals that are wellknown remain so because they have been adapted to film, as in the cases of The Sound of Music and My Fair Lady. It remains to be seen whether the wave of star-studded West End musicals will be enough to reverse this disappointing trend.ARCHIVE: 0th week TT 2005

Charles Kennedy says he is an idealist, but does his foreign policy tally with this? There is no doubt that opposition to Iraq gave the Liberal Democrats credibility and support, particularly among students, yet that strength of purpose is now missing. Surely Iraq gave Kennedy a unique mandate to attack the Prime Minister on trust, and the ability to expose his failings as a leader out of touch with his nation? Yet today there is a deafening silence. The Liberal Democrats’ greatest weapon is impotent, Iraq has been reduced to background noise. Where did it all go wrong, or are we waiting for something that was unlikely to happen?
More than any other group, the Liberal Democrat war stance enticed students to the third party. Kennedy quotes Gladstone while arguing that his political creed is based upon “having faith in people and what they can achieve”, yet it is hardly images of the Grand Old Man which come to mind when one considers the Liberal Democrat electorate, particularly the support among the youngest statistical bracket of the population, 18-24 year olds. However, Liberal Democrat support among this demographic may well prove to be an irrelevance in the coming General Election. On 12 April Sarah Teather was already bemoaning recent opinion polls which showed that 42% of young people had already decided not to vote, while MORI has predicted that the turnout among young people may be as low 23%, compared to a 54% average.
If the 18-24 year olds voted in numbers close to that of the ‘grey vote’ so crucial to the Conservatives, the Liberal Democrats would be in a stronger position to claim ‘second party’ status. While accepting that there is what he terms a “disillusionment with the formal political process” among young people, Kennedy cites growing incidences of political activism, particularly on single issues, as an example of continued interest in politics as a means of expression. “Political parties face a real challenge in making policies which are relevant to young people,” he argues. “Disillusionment is rooted in young people feeling that their views are not heard and not taken account of.”
The Liberal Democrats have been at great pains to attract young voters, and have launched a Manifesto for Young People containing popular policies such as opposition to top-up fees. There are a broad range of factors which influence Liberal Democrat popularity among the young: an impression of youth within the party hierarchy; a perceived separation from dirty front-line politics; a commitment to lowering the voting age to sixteen; a popular leader. Foreign policy is an area where the Liberal Democrats have recently found strong support among students. While many political commentators and statisticians believe opposition to the Iraq War may not prove to be a big vote-winner, the Liberal Democrat position reflected the view of a majority of young people.
“To say that young people are not interested in politics is to ignore the growing rise of political activism – mostly involving young people – that characterises modern society,” argues Kennedy, contesting the impression of political disillusionment among the young. This political activism has been particularly noticeable in ‘single issue’ disputes, such as top-up fees and Iraq. “People want politicians to believe in something,” he said. The Liberal Democrats are fortunate enough, or perhaps wise enough, to believe in something which enthuses ‘the young’ to political activism, but their Iraq policy looks increasingly like a tactical decision.
Central to opposition to the war in Iraq has been a rejection of US foreign policy principles. Clinton has been replaced by Bush and Rumsfeld, two men unlikely to enthuse the left-leaning youth of modern Britain. “The threats identified by the United States cannot be ignored,” he argues. “Although the approach of the United States and Europeans may differ, the goals of extending democracy, freedom and human rights, and extending stability and security beyond our borders, are goals that we share.” This is rather standard fare, but surely we have to make a choice? Not so, according to Kennedy. “It is my view that it is not a question of choice, but one of balance. Working together the United States and Europe can achieve much more than they can in isolation. It is in the interest of Britain to build a Europe that is constructively Atlanticist.” This, it seems to me, could have come from any leader of the three main political parties. Like Michael Howard and Tony Blair, he would not appreciate the label, but has Charles Kennedy too been drawn into the politics of fear?
Perhaps we can find a real foreign policy difference when examining Europe, yet when asked about the accession of Turkey to the EU, he found himself quoting the Labour Foreign Secretary: “The admission of Turkey will be a strategic decision of historic importance. The Foreign Secretary himself spoke of Turkey forming a bridge between Islam and the West.” Once more, the reactionary would be disappointed. Similarly, when talking about French attitudes to European governance he merely states, “The French political establishment has to realise that enlargement of the Union means that their traditional approach to European negotiation can no longer be sustained.”
However, should we really be surprised by Kennedy’s distinctly cautious approach? There is nothing wrong with his views: they are those of a man who wishes to be taken seriously as Prime Minister, and furthermore they chime in with broad, Liberal principles. His statement that “the opening of accession negotiations with Turkey is the surest way to maintain the momentum already evident in that country towards reform” is very much consistent with Liberal Democrat views on the war in Iraq.
Therefore, one is left with the rather odd realisation that perhaps opposition to Iraq was a flash in the pan for the Liberal Democrat party. Of course for many it was a matter of conscience and an admirable decision, but it seems also to have been an understandable tactical decision. Therefore those who look to the Liberal Democrats for similar guidance in the future might be disappointed, and those who saw this decision as indicative of the general principles of the party have been led up the garden path. Such a hypothesis might well be met with outrage by Liberal Democrats, but it needn’t be seen as a criticism. After all, politics is a game. Perhaps the relative reluctance of Kennedy and Sir Menzies Campbell, his foreign affairs spokesman, to stand up in Parliament or outside and really make a stand, observed by Matthew Parris inThe Times on 16 April is not, as he argues, a crisis of “leadership and direction”, but merely a reluctance to expose themselves in the future.
Parris intelligently asks what Gladstone would have made of such reluctance, and we can be sure that he would not have acted as Kennedy has done. Gladstone, a man of principle to the point of obstruction, took Turkish atrocities in the Balkans so much to heart that he campaigned constantly against Disraeli on the issue. Of course, things have changed since Gladstone’s long, impassioned tirades against evil in the world, but in light of such a comparison it might seem odd for Kennedy to have cited Gladstone at the beginning of our interview. If he wants to emulate the Grand Old Man, and convince young voters of his strong intentions and beliefs, now would be a good time to expose Blair on Iraq. The Liberal Democrat opposition to war uniquely allows him this honour.ARCHIVE: 0th week TT 2005