PLAY THE MAN by James Mumford & Patrick Malone Broad St/Trinity College Wednesday 22 – Saturday 25 October Top Oxford drama is self-conscious, wary, defensive and probably insecure. Clever people stride carefully into the empty theatre and set about constructing art, watching the detail, treasuring a precious considered subtlety. They have generally acknowledged values: innovation, sensitivity, progressiveness, vigour. A Cuppers judge this year told the wide-eyed freshers, inverted commas gestured with her fingers, “We want to get away from, you know, the stereotypical ‘Oxford Shakesperean actor’ thing”. And the thesps do flee from it, spiking their hair, choosing challenging scripts, masturbating on the Playhouse stage. Modernist plays flood our studio theatres. They want tightly formed creations of intricate intimate quality, the hand of the thinking artist prominent at every stage. They seek freshness and grit, and, in general, glad I am of it. Play the Man is not typical Oxford drama. The whole production hinges on a sense of significance, of moment and importance, buzzing with zealous, religious fervour for the gravity and immensity of the story it has to tell – that behind the burning at the stake on Broad Street of the Protestant martyrs in 1555. It begins on the street itself, where the audience stands around the Actual Place of Burning Real People. Then after three minutes, despite all the hype, that’s it for Broad Street, and we trundle into Trinity’s Durham Quad, where the rest of the play takes place. The script, written by James Mumford and Patrick Malone, both students here, is for the most part like a Shakespeare history play without the poetry. The dialogue is uncomfortably inconsistent, leaping from authoritative antiquated rhetoric (“Look around, Sir, the Abbey tells its own story this evening”) to jarringly modern banter (“It’s a gamble they hope will pay off”). The action, similarly, cuts from Renaissance-style history (figures of importance pace around, wring their hands, recite long political speeches) to scenes of intimate human interest. Acting, consequently, tends to lack subtlety. But the writers have lent so much thought to the overall dramatic impact and structure of their play, to the significance of every event and the development of each character, that rough edges of psychology and language are smoothed over by sheer energy., momentum and ambition. Each awkward moment is saved by rushing into something else; missing delicacy in the acting is papered over with sudden and convincing emotional extremes. Ned Dalby, as Cranmer, is particularly commanding. The direction is exciting and the staging meticulous. Despite everything, they pull it off. Some top figures at OUDS will scorn this cod, hamming B-grade RSC, but those who temporarily relax their drive for art will genuinely enjoy the fruits of an exciting, worthwhile project.ARCHIVE: 1st Week MT2003 

THE OXFORD REVUE vs THE CAMBRIDGE FOOTLIGHTS Playhouse Tuesday 21 October Only
Is comedy the new Peruvian sloth manufacture? No. Is it the new masturbation? Unlikely. The Oxford Revue steer a mostly judicious course between two poles of comic crapness: vacant surrealism and trite ribaldry. As a result they are very rarely crap.
As director and co-writer Leander Deeny points out, like the stench of an embarrasing parent slowly going off in the fridge, the spectre of Monty Python remains, for both Revue and Footlights, hard to dispel. And, yes, it’s in evidence here. But The Oxford Revue have some nice, if contrived lines (guy with cold feet to fiancee: “What if we’re too hairy, and we shave, and we get stubbly, and I grow it back, and you don’t, and we stick together like velcro?”). They have some nice ideas (tearful son phones up dad for advice while adrift in the Pacific Ocean). And they have at least one great comic actor (Daniel Harkin, terrific as a useless boxer).
Most importantly, they have masses of bacchanalian energy, which when all else fails (as very occasionally in this production, it does), carries them through with aplomb. As a result they are the one thing that really matters: laugh out loud funny. Who cares if the sherpa is a bit gammy in his left leg in cold spells at the end of the month if he gets you to the top of the mountain? Still, the Revue could do with finding some new things to take the piss out of. Embarassing parents, homophobia, hermaphroditism – all wholesome stuff, but easy. And they make it look difficult. Perhaps the best emblem of this production is its (brilliant) prank of writing to the BBC with a set of intentionally crap sketches. The laughter here (like all the best laughter) is somewhat nervous. Look! They’re taking the piss out of student self referentiality! Ha ha ha (wait a minute, what about…?) Because what’s really holding these people back is the feeling that somewhere, at some point, they’ve sat back and self-conciously racked their brains over the need to produce something called comedeeeeee.ARCHIVE: 1st Week MT2003 

Charity by Sara Kreindler OFS Tuesday 21 –Saturday 25 October A Pembroke musical about financial crises? The irony got out of its seat and gave me a good slap round the face when I entered the theatre. Sara Kreindler, a loquacious Canadian studying at Pembroke, has written both the book and score for this show. Her talents composing are never thrown into question throughout the piece, but a plausible narrative unity is lacking here. The curtain opens on the meeting of a foreign aid charity. Its members are trying hopelessly to organise the most important event of the year, the Charity Ball. Conflict soon arises, as the committee splits into two, hurling abuse at each other through the camp medium of song. But ultimately, this is a story about that ol’ chestnut Love. More specifically, of Anita (Reina Hardy) and Ben (Richard Power). These two insecure, inexperienced souls refuse to admit their powerful attraction to one another, rendered paralysed by their shared fear of rejection. Anita worries that her strength and intelligence will alienate any man (how out-of-character for a girl to think that), whilst Ben contracts verbal dysentery when speaking to the opposite sex. Power plays Ben with an endearing humility and diffidence. Although his character is shy and unforthcoming, Power has a tremendous presence on stage, combining the naivety and ingenuousness of Jack Lemmon with the zeal and tenacity of a confident leading man. His voice is as strong as his acting, making him the highlight of this production. The relationship of Suzy and Trevor is explored, too. This is where my initial delight at the show turned to an uneasy dislike. Alice Shepherd, in the role of Suzy, lacked the necessary qualities to convince us of her character’s dissatisfaction with the sweet, but unexciting, Trevor. Suzy does not want her lover to be so thoughtful and caring. I began to cringe as Suzy launched into her lamenting “Why can’t you be wrong for me?” number; I’ve heard girls complain about guys being too sweet enough times without hearing it committed to music. Stop bloody complaining! Ahem. A bit about the staging. The OFS is set up in traverse, to accentuate the polarisation of the charity board: radicals against moderates, men against women. This opposition is achieved well, where many of the songs, whether politically- or ardently-driven, feature a tête-à-tête between man and woman. Christine Chung plays the femme fatale, Mavis, with seductive intensity that inveigles poor Trevor into her arms. And in ‘Farewell’, the intertwining of Anita and Ben’s vocals strongly suggests a gradual intimacy between the two. The music itself, however, is somewhat repetitious from song to song, with little stylistic variation. Vocally, the male leads outshone their female counterparts, most significantly, in their enunciation. Kreindler is very lyrically skilled, and the songs have a verbal playful quality. But on leaving the theatre, I was not sure what I had learnt from the show. Was the political element really necessary to drive the amorous plotline forward? Does charity really help us to change ourselves fundamentally? I was not convinced.ARCHIVE: 1st Week MT2003 

The Garden Party by Vaclav Havel BT EARLY Tuesday 21 –Saturday 25 October Written in an unstable political climate by the now-President of the Czech Republic, Vaclav Havel, The Garden Party is a play written by a young man with ferocious talent. Director Tom Gatti’s production is both entertaining and timely, getting electric performances from the cast and making the most of the play’s rich symbolism. In our age of corporate officespeak, where one thinks outside the box, empowers the consumer and squares the circle, the prescience of The Garden Party (written in 1963) makes for a great hour and a half at the BT. We see young Hugo Plantek (Beau Hopkins), solitaire chess aficionado, being sent off by his bourgeois parents to the titular garden party of the Liquidation Office. Once there, he takes naturally to the buzzwords and newspeak of central government, and talks his way to the top, over the heads of charismatic smooth-talker Maxy Falk (played by the director) and the President of the Inauguration Office, who ends up half-naked crouching down looking up at the exultant Hugo on his side of the desk. Written around the time that Beckett’s best work was behind him, and Stoppard’s best lay ahead, Havel’s play belongs to the continental Absurdist tradition. Unlike some modern productions of the best of that tradition, Gatti’s production never flags under the potential tedium of constant wordplay. This is very much a play about words, about the power that command over words can have in fuelling a passage to further power, and of the emptiness of words used without substance, but the play is never too clever for its own good. Nonsense phrases are delivered with such terrific conviction (above all by the mesmerising Falk), that we only realise the ludicrousness of such phrases as “catch a rabbit and you have it” and “without the warp, you will never bury the wolf” a couple of beats after we take them in. From the folksy psuedo-wisdom of Hugo’s self-affirmingly middle-class parents to Hugo’s later brilliant engineering of the Liquidation of the Inauguration Office, words exercise a strong hold over all characters, even though they may well be utterly meaningless. The play never loses “the human touch” (in the phraseology of Maxy Falk) for all its witty dialogues, and its presentation of the play’s interpersonal relationships are involving and even warm. We witness love blossom, like the proverbial moss, between two bureaucrats before their dedication to their task gets the better of them. And we wish the best for Hugo as he falls into a completely different world, one which he blags his way to the top of, before the play reaches its almost inevitable conclusion. Forty years on, The Garden Party has not suffered from the passage of time; rather it is reinvented through its evocation of New Labour and contemporary managerial nonsense. Though we are a considerable distance from Communist Czechoslovakia (two concepts which are both seemingly long gone), the power of buzzwords and arbitrary institutional logic still hold sway over the modern world. Gatti, his cast and crew have brought the criminally over-looked work of Havel to Oxford, in a production that speaks clearly to us while faithful to Havel’s original concerns.ARCHIVE: 1st Week MT2003 

Panic Room Odeon George St. Friday 17 – Thursday 23 October It’s always worth watching the opening credit sequence in a David Fincher film. Unlike most directors, he understands the subliminal artistic potential of these initial moments. Just think of the superbly jittery start to Se7en. Panic Room’s credits similarly function as the movie’s overture: a montage of New York skyscrapers recalls the beginning of Clare Dolan or, more recently, Vanilla Sky (the close-up of the modern cityscape’s concrete bastions as ironic short hand for human insecurity); the names of the cast and crew slide in huge letters over these grey surfaces, foreshadowing the rigid contours of the panic room around which Fincher’s camera later circles. The tone is tight, clinical, as such paving a perfect path for the movie. But it’s precisely this cold discipline which ultimately lets the film down. Because Panic Room is really nothing more than a brutally efficient genre piece, admittedly with much fun to be had along the way. It retains the self-conscious playfulness of previous effort The Game – it’s unmistakably a Fincher film. We’ve relocated from Tyler Durden’s squat in Fight Club, from the dingy tenements of Se7en, to an enormous uptown brownstone; but the atmosphere remains just as dark and claustrophobic – if not more so, given the static location. The camera prowls through rooms, glides round corners and, in one neat move, plunges down a stairwell. I especially enjoyed the burglars’ initial break-in, as the lens squeezes through a keyhole and burrows through walls, giving visual voice to the breach of Meg’s (Jodie Foster) home. As always, Fincher makes his camera speak. References to other films abound. Meg and Sarah (Kristen Stewart) form a strikingly androgynous pair, calling to mind the shaven-headed Ripley and her charge Newt from Aliens (Fincher’s big-screen debut being Alien3). It’s difficult, too, not to remember Agent Starling’s nervous, sinewy determination in The Silence of the Lambs. When initially looking round the property, Sarah trundles over its floorboards on a scooter, echoing Danny’s tricycle-powered exploration of the empty hotel in The Shining. There’s even a dash of Home Alone in the mix. Still, I doubt whether, without the constant sawing of cellos in the background, my palms would have got quite so sweaty. The first half hour is slow; the narrative lurches from one set piece to another. You get the feeling that Fincher, like the burglars, spent much of the shoot rubbing his chin and wondering what to do next. Nor does David Koepp’s lame script help, with its incoherent blend of comedy and horror. It does manage, however, some effectively knowing lines. “It’s a very emotional property,” the estate agent says to Meg. How right he is. It’s ironic, then, that, although edgy, the film itself is never “emotional”. We don’t get to know any of the characters, least of all Meg and her daughter: one’s claustrophobic, the other diabetic; that’s it. Consequently, it’s left to the visuals, soundtrack and intrinsic panic-factor of the set scenes to get us going; at no point do we really care about the characters themselves. I’m sure it’s possible to dredge up some thematic content to Panic Room – mother/daughter relationships, voyeurism (CCTV cameras feature prominently), the invasion of privacy. But in the end it amounts to little more than high-grade multiplex fodder. The difference, merely, is that it’s Fincher who’s feeding us.ARCHIVE: 1st Week MT2003 

If you’d been born in France in the late 1700’s, would you have stood up to be counted in the French Revolution? Back then, that was the norm. Nineteenth Century Russian and French novels endlessly depicted revolutions led by students. But, today, people seem to think students are mainly obsessed with stirring up apathy. What’s happened? Could it be that today’s students are already the establishment figures with the very views which, in the Old Days, students used to oppose? Some say so, but I think that’s tosh. What about the 1969 Riots at Columbia University in New York when the student body overthrew and occupied the buildings? Or the Anti-Apartheid movement which helped free Nelson Mandela from prison? Or Tiananmen Square in 1989, when hundreds of students rebelled and many were killed. Each time, their voices were heard. Each time, they made a difference. Dear reader, radicalism is a state of mind! It’s a choice! It takes strong beliefs and the guts and energy to do something about them. But many of the Big Issues aren’t there any more, or seem to have been fixed. The Vietnam War ended a quarter of a century ago. Nelson Mandela met the Queen – no doubt the high point of his life. And China is creeping towards democracy. So, what’s there to fight for? Alert! Alert! That’s the danger. Things go wrong when we’re not watching. What about the rise of racism? Or Government’s willingness to trade your freedom in the name of other outcomes like reducing crime, or just “for your own good?” Where does the reach of the State end, if no-one’s saying “stop right there!” Some say the dominant forces on campus are anarchists, pot-heads, or just kids having a laugh. Yet those involved in student government generally come from the opposite end of the spectrum. They’re often future lawyers, politicians, and bankers. But, guess what? They always HAVE been! It doesn’t stop you sticking up for a better world. A passion and vision are a world apart from the cold, calculating, focus-group, statistic riddled politicking. If we don’t get more of the first, you can bet your bottom dollar we’ll get more of the second. It’s also about reclaiming the meaning of “Common Sense” – a political term ever since Thomas Paine wrote his pamphlet and started the American Revolution. Today “common-sense” solutions proposed by the government are often the opposite. If we – you and I – had a conversation and looked at what affects your life; I expect we’d come up with some uncommon common sense solutions. Solutions so right they demand your attention. Have you the courage to stare back and say “Yes, I’ll see this through because it’s right.” Common sense solutions make sense way beyond politics: like prescribing hard drugs to people who are already registered addicts and treat their addiction instead of criminalising it. Like giving 16 year olds the vote, because they pay tax to a Government they can’t elect. Like not making it a bankruptcy issue to go to college. Like remembering that Government is there to SERVE the public, not RULE it. So, don’t look at the railways and see only the delay. Don’t think of healthcare and see only the waiting lists. Don’t be a teacher who looks at your students and sees only hassle, a meagre pay-check and performance indicators. Looking beyond the problem is the only way we’ll find visionary solutions. You’re a student. Use the space to be radical. Expand your mind. Demand to talk about society’s problems. If you’re happy with the status quo, that’s great! The status quo has rarely been better. But even then, it’s worth defending. And if we take it all for granted, we lose it to political managers who’ve forgotten how to lead, because they haven’t needed to, because we haven’t demanded leadership from them. “It is necessary only for the good man to do nothing for evil to triumph,” said Edmund Burke 200 years ago. It is true today. So get up and do something. DO SOMETHING. There are no impossible problems, if you and I demand the right to find the solutions.ARCHIVE: 1st Week MT2003 

Rohan Unni, Rob Stone, and Tim Vogel get their wits tickled by the Chuckle Brothers Much like Marmite, the Brothers Chuckle are entertainers you either love or loathe. They played the Oxford Apollo with their sell-out success Raiders of the Lost Bark to high critical acclaim. They boast celebrity fans including Elton John, Stephen Gately, and Right Said Fred’s Richard Fairbrass. They have extraordinary mullets. Like battered Mars Bars, foreign football managers, and a hatred of the French, the Chuckle Brothers are a national heritage of which we are all proud. Christened in Rotherham as Paul and Bartholemew Elliot, their father was a “famous” comedian, Gene Patton, who toured the country with a dynamic and irrepressible charm resonant only of the true greats – Bernard Manning, or indeed John Inmnan. Their whirlwind success began with the dizzy heights of Butlins as performing Redcoats, and they went on to win the auspicious New Faces award in 1973. From then on the roller coaster of stardom rocketed ahead, seldom inducing any impromptu vomiting. And in 1987 the awe-inspiring Chucklevision was born, the brainchild of two unassuming geniuses. Accompanied by their two elder brothers – “the Patton Brothers” – we met them in their dressing room, whilst they were rigorously warming each other up for their performance. The age and wisdom in the contours of Paul and Barry’s faces hit you instantly. One wonders how such giants of comedy have triumphed for so long, as their humble and reticent demeanour stands opposite to their on-screen personalities. The Brothers are nonetheless welcoming, and we happily discuss their smash-hit tour. It soon becomes apparent that the chaos and high drama that characterises Chucklevision is absent in the brothers off-screen. Barry (the smaller one) is the more garrulous of the two, whilst Paul is happy to sit quietly and let his brother speak for him, chipping in every now and then. Watching their show afterwards, The Chuckles were right to point out the substantial presence of adults in the audience. The brothers are clearly beloved of all walks of society, and their unique physical humour had the twentysomethings in the crowd moist with pleasure. Despite the impact of Chucklevision, fortune has not always grinned on Paul and Barry. Their hit television quiz To Me…To You was pulled after three years at the top, the mention of which instantly incites an embittered reaction from the pair. Apparently the new grand fromage at the Beeb did not see the show fitting in with his own vision of the channel. Thousands of angry fans of all ages (see above) vociferously complained about this travesty but, as Paul fumes, “once someone has made a decision like that, they cannot go back on it without looking like an absolute arse”. Within ten minutes the Chuckles start to relax, and their ejaculations flow more freely. Barry admits to his devotion to Rotherham United, and Paul casually nurses his ever-decreasing mullet. They reveal their intimate relationship to “Jonathan Ross, a great friend of ours”. However, upon being asked about the current state of British comedy, they were quick to pooh-pooh “the long-haired gippo” Ross. “He can often be funny,” Barry grudgingly concedes, “but he has a tendency to rant about nothing”. Interesting point, Barry. But are there any other comedians you admire? “I do quite like that Lee Evans, for his visual humour. He has a very versatile body.” The Chuckles are evidently fans of visual, rather than observational, humour, as exemplified in their own comedy. “I don’t find a lot of comedy today funny, it’s just observation.” Good observation. On speaking to a number of Chuckle enthusiasts after the show, mixed reactions were uncovered. Mike Estill, aged 5, thought it was “really good fun, I loved the music and dancing”. Joe Sayers, aged 7, thought “the voices were wicked, and it was well colourful”. Lisa-Marie Stafford from Summertown, aged 6, found “the driving narrative thread through the performance effectively incoherent”. Nonetheless, having spoken with the substantial student contingent in the audience – of which Oriel provided a worryingly high proportion – the Chuckles’ claims of adult adoration were confirmed. Mr I. Barlow (New College) leader of the Chuckle Undergraduate Movement (CUM), defended the often risqué elements of the Chuckles. “Marlowe, Van Gogh, the Chuckle Brothers – geniuses who weren’t appreciated in their own time”. This is certainly a contentious comment, and perhaps not wholly founded. But, as Paul was swift to mention, “we’ve been going strong for thirty years. That’s no one-hit wonder, staying power is everything”. But despite such disappointments, the Chuckle aspirations of world domination are not rooted only in television. Barry, again, revealed the highly confidential information concerning their planned occupation of the Christmas number one slot. He says “If Bob the Builder, or Phil Collins can make it, we must have a good chance”. We were then graced with a short rendition of their latent vocal talents of the all-time classic, “Glad All Over” – soon to be in petrol stations everywhere. As the Chuckles finished their warming-up exercise, consisting of each shouting “To me…to you” louder than the other so as to really psyche themselves up, our impressions had been modified. Our typical scepticism had been vanquished by their professionalism and total commitment to their individual genre of physical comedy. “We are the only ones in our field who perform at such a consistently high level,” boasted Paul, fighting Barry for the soapbox. “In all our years of experience, comedians fall by the wayside without any public recognition. Barry and I, on the other hand, are loved by all ages, not because we exploit our sex appeal, but because we remain true to our comedic roots. And that’s the secret to our enduring success.” Touché, Brothers Chuckle, touché.ARCHIVE: 1st Week MT2003 

Silaja Suntharalingam and Christopher Whalen meet the man behind Oxford’s bid to become the 2008 European Capital of Culture “I’ve never had an aspiration to strive for second best. I believe in going to win and I believe in trying to be best.” Were we listening in on grand plans of world domination or the aspirations of the next Olympic gold medallist? No, this was simply PR babble from our man from the council, Joe Simpson. Oxford’s coordinator of the bid to become European Capital of Culture 2008 shared his vision with Cherwell. “It’s about putting invention and innovation centre stage,” says Simpson who sees the strength of Oxford’s bid as coming from its people, rather than its architecture. He says the city inspires “every generation that comes through the place to make a difference.” Unlike the offers required to get into the prestigious university, 3Bs are good enough for Simpson – Books, Business and Bioscience. The bid will focus on Oxford’s cultural lead in these three spheres. “Find me a Booker Prize shortlist that doesn’t have an Oxford author on it. Compare this with south Tyneside: its Catherine Cookson country. That’s the one literary talent that south Tyneside has produced.” He goes on, “If, forty years ago, you said that this university would be at the centre of business creativity, people would have laughed at you.” Now the joke is on the cynics. In terms of bioscience, Simpson points out that the University has nurtured “thirty millionaires courtesy of the spin-offs in science” – a vast improvement on the situation twenty years ago. This is why “Oxford is a jewel that is worth celebrating.” Simpson sees this accolade as a recognition of existing cultural prowess, rather than an excuse for “ghastly” urban regeneration, such as that promised by rival bidder Newcastle-Gateshead. On this criterion alone, he believes Oxford can swipe the prize from under the noses of other competitors. Speaking of this opposition, he says, “Consider it from the position of the consumer: what would you like to do? Would you like to go and see something that is excellent, or would you like to see something that is a bit third-rate? Imagine the first people you are going to tell this decision to. I just find it unbelievable that Blair would say to Chirac, ‘It’s Bradford”. Not happy to sit back and let the dreaming spires alone wow the judges, Mr Simpson hopes to use the lead up to the bid to add a fresh slant to the city’s existing culture. Simpson cited the example of the Saïd Business School – where he chose to launch the bid – to explain his philosophy. He hopes to make Oxford reassess its “not always inclusive environment”, symbolised by its introspective quadrangles, towards a more all-embracing, outward-looking atmosphere such as that conveyed by the Saïd’s glass frontage. Whilst Britain’s cynical media would argue that Oxford will never escape its enclosed world of fantasy, Mr Simpson sees it as a simple process based around the question of access. By starting a “park and glide” system using the city’s waterways, he seeks to capitalize on the hitherto under-developed east and west sides beyond the tourist trapping trinity of the High Street, St Aldate’s and Broad Street. In theory, his vision for the city is rather attractive. In practice, the plans do not hold much water. The “dirty back yard” of the west side beyond the station could, apparently, with sensitive treatment become the “jewel” of the city. With these plans, Simpson would seem to be contradicting his own views, suggesting that instead of celebrating and enhancing the already well developed cultural centre of the city, tourists should instead be ferried towards its periphery. Will the appeal of a poor imitation mini-Venice stay afloat? In many ways, development of the east and west sides is the only way in which Oxford can progress culturally without opposition. Yet after his first-hand experience with the doomed Millennium project, Mr Simpson stresses that Oxford will not be putting all its jewels in one casket with this bid. “What we are talking about are some new uses and enhancements for the buildings. This is a project which is predicated around celebrating creativity, not celebrating building construction.” Improving the access to and use of the existing architectural gems would be greeted with open arms by both locals and tourists. Yet his vague unwillingness to discuss specific strategies suggests that these aspirations will merely remain a twinkling in Mr Simpson’s eye. “Imagine”, “Inspire” and “Innovate”: not the names of Calvin Klein’s latest range of fragrances, but the hollow keywords around which the bid is focused. Grounding these vague ideas in reality before they float past the dreaming spires themselves will be Simpson’s hardest task. If Oxford is marketed with these household labels, the city’s magical mystique, which Simpson hopes to capture, will be dispelled. It seems that Simpson’s imagination may have taken a step too far when he dreamily invited us to “Come and join us on the journey!” It would have been as hard for us to leave our cosy tearooms as it will be for Oxford to change its deep-rooted outlooks. If Simpson’s hot air balloon ever gets off the ground, it will only too soon be burst by Oxford’s stubborn spires. ARCHIVE: 1st Week MT2003

James Kettle’s imaginary friends “Scaramouche, scaramouche, can you do the fandango” are words we don’t hear enough of in this fair city. Everyone’s looking for the next big thing to fill that special slot. This week Imaginary Friends brings you an exclusive interview with the best new band in Oxford. Move over NME, we’re really excited! There’s a brand new sound coming up off the streets. The hard-hit, ugly streets of urban desolation. The streets where the poor are crying in needle-ridden pits of despair. The streets where people just can’t take it anymore. Holywell Street, for example. This is the sound of Oxford. This is the sound of Felchspoon. Lead singer Gerald Niggaz is straight outta Winchester. He don’t make onstage announcements, cos it aint real. And cos he has a high voice. He is the mind behind Felchspoon – the genius, the philosopher. “I thought of the name,” he explains. “What are any of us except felch on a spoon?” I don’t know. Pubes? “The pubes are the music, man.” Felchspoon were formed out of red-hot rage. Niggaz tells the story. “One day my scout just didn’t come. There were tissues stuck to my wall and everything. I thought, ‘I’m mad as hell, and I can’t take it anymore!’” He planned a musical revolution. First to be recruited was guitarist Dr X. Dr X was born in St Albans. In his own words, “four chords is fascism.” Next to join was Martin Violence on the bass. He is a bit dangerous, and went to state school. Drummer Nick is a bit more reticent, and divides his time between Felchspoon and working on the college Ball Committee. The musical vision is uncompromising, says Niggaz. “We write all our own songs. We’re heavily inspired by The Jam. We’re very inspired by In The City. Well, we’re very inspired by the riff to In The City.” Songs on the Felchspoon playlist currently include “Formal Hall No!”, “(I Don’t Want To Pay My) Battels” and “I Haven’t Got a Laptop”. The gigs are going down a storm. The band’s debut performance (behind the pool-table in Trinity JCR) was cut short amidst angry scenes. “They couldn’t take the truth, and they were annoyed we interrupted a Spanish League game on the telly,” says Niggaz. “Real Zaragoza, man. They are our enemies.” Later gigs included an OUSU Battle of the Bands qualifier (retired hurt) and a residency at the Morecambe Conservative Club. “My dad is the Social Secretary,” explains Dr X. “We can drink two pints each a night for free. It is a war,” he adds helpfully. Big plans are afoot for the festival season. Felchspoon plan to be the first band to play live in a punt. “The electrics are a problem,” says Niggaz. “We will of course only be using renewable sources of energy. Like turds, perhaps. Or cycling.” Do you get much interest from groupies? Gerald Niggaz is determined to stick to his principles. “Sex is a tool. As indeed am I,” he tells us. “Anyway, Martin Violence is a bit shy. I’m not though. I could have loads of girls if I could be bothered. But I have two essays a week sometimes, and I have to think about the music.” The record labels have been a bit slow in rushing to sign Felchspoon. However, it looks as though debut single “Cash My Own Allowance (Bitch)” may soon be issued on indie imprint Vole Records. “Vole are really good,” explains Niggaz. “They offer a very good rate of royalty, and full artistic independence and stuff. The only downside is that we to have push the holes in all the records ourselves, using a tiny and special pin.” The Spoon – they keep it real.ARCHIVE: 1st Week MT2003 

Hertford record large victory over Lincoln in coppers first round
There is something peaceful about cricket. The game leaves one predisposed to thought, to introspection. As I rushed to Lincoln’s ground, late and hung over, I reflected on my need for a soothing game, a gentle afternoon in the sun, lulled by the sound of willow and leather, accompanied by the tranquil chanting of the birds. My wish was not to be fulfilled.
This match, played under a sky that was brooding and malevolent, painted perhaps by Turner in one of his darker moments, was an important contest, for the winner would move into the second round of the Cuppers competition. The pitch, slick from the previous nights rain, looked ominous for batsmen and fielders, the ball skidding wickedly off the surface and picking up speed as it bounced. Hertford took to the crease first. A gritty, Boycott–esque seventeen from reliable opener Chico Fernandez ensured that the Lincoln bowlers did not make the most of the favourable conditions.
This innings was a tale of two batsmen, however, who, like the Colossus of Rhodes, towered over the game, casting their shadows firmly upon it. First was Amit Upadhyay, who seemed to pick holes in the Lincoln outfield at will. His elegant stroke–play contained every conceivable weapon. He played with power and guile, the bat appearing almost malleable in his hands as he guided the ball around the ground.
Accompanying him was the Hertford captain, Robbie Walker, whose performance was more brutal but equally effective. He struck the ball with ferocity, tearing into the Lincoln attack with relish. His favoured shot, a vicious flick of the wrists off the pads, proved fruitful on numerous occasions.
With Walker and Upadhyay scoring 89 and 109 respectively, with the former not out, Hertford completed their allotted forty overs with a commanding 245–3. Although they would not have admitted it, they must have allowed themselves indulgent thoughts of an easy victory. These thoughts can only have been reaffirmed when Hertford took their first wicket of the day within the first four overs of Lincoln’s innings. They were not to have it all their own way though, and Lincoln’s number three batsman, Pranay Sanklecha, proved a doughty opponent.
He began circumspectly, prodding tentatively at the few balls he faced. Having played himself in, however, he began to turn what had been a one–sided game into a real contest. When Sanklecha set out to hit, his timing was impeccable. He took risks, frequently sending the ball soaring into the black clouds, but the Hertford fielders failed to capitalize on the opportunities presented.
As he hit boundary after boundary, his fellow batsman, Douglas, gathered confidence, and by the time the latter was removed after offering an easy catch to a grateful and relieved fielder, they had cultivated a useful partnership of 42.
With his accomplice now seated in the pavilion, Sanklecha took it upon himself to pull Lincoln back into the match. He became yet more audacious in his shot–making – reckless, some might say – but his power often helped him to safety. Indeed, a mighty six from his bat cleared the ground, smashing the greenhouse of a nearby resident. The furious homeowner remonstrated with the players, demanding that the game be abandoned, but the two captains refused to bow to the pressure. Thus we continued apace.
When Sanklecha was eventually dismissed for a flamboyant 58, his fury and disappointment was evident, though the manner of his departure from the game was perhaps easily foreseeable, as one of the many high balls that flew from his bat was taken athletically by Hertford fielder, Christian Bailey.ARCHIVE: 1st Week MT2003