Thursday 3rd July 2025
Blog Page 25

Student Spotlight: Oxford Kermit, social media sensation

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

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

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

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

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

Cherwell: What interests you about healthcare? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cherwell: He’s bigger than I thought!

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

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

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

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

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

Cherwell: What has the response been like?

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

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

Cherwell: Do you ever get any hate?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nguyen: Alright, okay. 

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

Kermit: No gowns. Just trench coat. 

Cherwell: Sub fusc for exams?

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

Cherwell: Favourite nightclub?

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

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

Kermit: Yay. Yes. 

Cherwell: What are your thoughts on trashing?

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

Cherwell: The Oxford Union?

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

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

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

Oxford Union votes against flying LGBTQ+ flag for Pride Month

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

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

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

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

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

Cherwell has approached the Oxford Union for comment.

Copies

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

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

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

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

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

love letter

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

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

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

missed understanding. leaving begets
impermissibility. you forgot

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Longest Goodbye

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The Longest Goodbye 

Oxford. A place where I travelled outward and inward—toward a version of myself I didn’t know was possible. The part I usually kept quiet finally had space to be. The part beneath everything else. The root. The quiet center. The truest me. 

That part was finally met with understanding—and maybe that’s what let me breathe differently. I became a self that no longer needed to make sense to the world I came from, the one that never rejected me back. Oxford became a home I hadn’t known I was missing—a place that understood me without asking. 

This story is also about someone I met in the stillness of that bloom—a final-year PhD student I crossed paths with while I was there for a summer course, both of us at the University. He became part of what changed everything. 

The day we met, I planned to leave for London with some peers that evening. I made time for him. We settled on four. When he asked where to go, I said I didn’t know—he was the local. He offered a walk through his college, St. Cross. Small, quiet. He hadn’t been back in a year. 

Four o’clock. I’ll come to Worcester, he said. That was where I stayed then. 

I left my room early, then paused to check the weather. Rain, starting at four. 

I asked if he’d brought an umbrella. No, he thought the weather was good. I told him it changed fast. I didn’t want to get soaked. He said we’d just get a little wet. 

Still, I turned back for the clear plastic umbrella the college left me. 

When I got to the gate, the rain had started. 

He was already there. 

I’m here, he texted. Against the wall, trying to stay dry. 

I opened the door halfway. The stone path was dark; the grass wet. But he wasn’t in view. Still in the doorway, I texted again: Where are you? 

Just walk out, and you’ll know.

The rain swept in—fast and sudden. The wind pushed it in sheets across the ground, meeting us with every step. It pressed us shoulder to shoulder, but not close enough to stay dry. My white shirt, soaked through, translucent. His sleeves stuck to his arms. 

The hard rain left behind a soft trace of closeness. Even now, the rain brings back memories of that first one—the one that left us happily soaked and softened something unspoken. 

We didn’t see each other again—just texts. A few days later, he asked if we could’ve been something, had I been starting school in Oxford that September instead. 

He said he felt something—strong and sudden—the first time he saw me. 

I didn’t know what to say. 

He said being with me felt natural. 

And I saw it too—in his smile, his laugh, the way he looked up from the table soccer at St. Cross, and at the golden retriever pendant tucked oddly among antiquities at the Ashmolean. A quiet happiness. Light, and understood. 

Yet I was guarded—not for lack of feeling, but because I didn’t believe things like that could be real. He never mentioned it again. 

But he never took it back. 

Some stories aren’t found in photographs, endings, or clarity. They live in the ache of what never formed—in the space before it could, in the timing that almost aligned, but didn’t. That’s why he lingered—not in my life, but in the memory of being fully understood by a place, and of being quietly witnessed within it. 

His presence felt like that too—quiet, steady, safe. A kind of comfort I had never named before. Subtle. Unexplainable. 

But I felt it—when he crossed the street in front of Christ Church, tired from lab work, walking toward me for what would be our second and last time seeing each other. 

We grabbed drinks and walked along the Oxford Canal to Port Meadow. 

It was my last day. Despite other commitments, we met again. 

Drinks before the last call. A final walk through Oxford. 

Talking until it was late. 

Then, he walked me back to Worcester—to where we first said hi, and now, bye. 

After that night, everything was different. 

Morning still came, no matter how I stretched the time.

I had to leave while the city was still asleep. 

Even when the chapter closed, I left pages blank—waiting for silence to return as sound. 

I never said goodbye to Oxford. I couldn’t. It was a moment in time. A breath held between what was and what almost was. I kept it lit like a flame cupped in my hands—stinging every inch of my skin to keep it shielded from rain, from distance, from forgetting. 

And him—he became part of the way it felt to be in Oxford. Part of the way Oxford made me feel. Some things stay not because they last, but because they never finish becoming—in unanswered questions and lingering silences. 

What’s deeply loved stays layered in memory. How could it have ended, when I revisit it every day? When even distance and time couldn’t undo what it gave me? 

Now, when I look at stars, I think of that night—quiet streets, the hush before goodbye, the pause outside the astronomy building under the clearest sky. 

When it rains, I remember the kind that pressed soft and marked deep. 

When I taste a Long Island, it brings me back to the bar above the Covered Market—sitting across from him, the city hushed beneath us, the buzz around us fading into the rooftops that held our stillness. 

And then there’s Oxford itself. 

Not just a place—but a name that holds everything: 

The way I was. 

The way we were. 

The way we could have been. 

Sometimes, care outlives connection. 

Sometimes, love never calls itself by name. 

But it was there. 

Some part of it always will be. 

And maybe I still hold onto the possibilities—quiet in their stubbornness, loud in every intentional act of keeping Oxford close. 

Maybe Oxford hears it—the longing carried across the distance.

I applied to Oxford. And Oxford invited me to stay. 

The what-ifs still live somewhere in me. 

What if the streets remember? 

What if the gates of Worcester open again, at the right time? 

What if we return—not to what was, but to something that still wants to become? 

But even if I return alone, Oxford will still be there. 

And I will walk those paths as someone who once loved there. 

And in these unspoken moments—maybe the stars started to align. He once said he would’ve left Oxford by the time I could make it there. But change outwits even carefully drawn plans. And maybe I’m arriving sooner than his planned impossibilities ever allowed. 

And maybe—just maybe—possibilities grow quietly, unknowingly. Like the blooming magnolia outside his windows—the one he showed me in a photo this spring, a quiet gesture after time and silence, like the way it bloomed again. Rooted before they are seen. Soft before they are certain. Becoming something only time and season can draw into fullness—reaching upward, as though guided by memory. Waiting just beyond the glass, beside his desk. A presence not too close, not too far. Asking nothing. Staying—until he looks up, not seeking, but still finding what’s been there all along.

A homely solution to stress

Essay crisis, bad tutorial, no sleep. Everyone’s had a time when you’d really rather be anywhere than Oxford. The rigorous academic attention and miniature city size mean that Oxford can feel like a bubble which you would really prefer to just burst.

How can you deal with this? Let’s assume that going home is off the table – unmissable class the next day, extortionate train fares, or an overwhelming fatigue. What to do then? Seek solace in friends, walk bleary-eyed round University Parks, or get hammered at the club? All reasonable options. I propose a more modest solution: join your street’s WhatsApp chat. If this isn’t a possibility, get as close to this as you can.

I’ll explain. In the madness of the first lockdown, my residential street in Bristol decided it needed a way of keeping in touch and figuring out how to adapt to being shut indoors. Hence a WhatsApp chat was born. Aside from being one of the few concrete hangovers from the pandemic, it doesn’t seem very intrinsically interesting. And it isn’t. In fact, its brilliance lies in its unending surfeit of useless, prosaic, and oftentimes downright bizarre content.

Now I’m not really one to feel homesick: I’ve been back home once during my nearly two years of study, and that was to see a play. Oxford for me is a city of intensity, vibrance, and joy – I love being here. Even so, when the pressure gets too much, it’s easy to long for some tethering amidst the chaos. This is where the chat comes in. 

Opening it on any given day offers everything from thought-provoking questions about recommendations for a good plasterer, to tough issues such as a dad running out of baking paper for making his sourdough bread. Friendly neighbours desperately try to flog their unwanted gunk onto unsuspecting victims. “Bag of cat litter available outside Number 80!”; “Help yourself to these Christmas books!” (posted in summer); “IKEA boxes – bit of a repaint and they’ll be lovely” (said of some furniture that looks like it barely survived WW2).

Then there are moments of real danger: “Has anyone had their milk bottle box opened and a massive slug of milk drunk out of their bottle?” After a lengthy back-and-forth between some of the local sages, it’s eventually decided that, contrary to the views of many, this abhorrent act of theft can in fact be attributed to the foxes. Someone else has their car stolen from in front of their drive – receiving many, many commiserations from neighbours who no doubt felt relieved they were not the unlucky victim.

One unexpected question is what you do if you find a dead fox in the back of your garden. Well for some the answer is clear: compost it of course! “We compost foxes too! … Other foxes beware!” Followed by, six minutes later: “I should make it clear that we have not harmed any foxes. We don’t kill to compost!” Given the scourge of these milk-stealing animals, though, it’s hard to be sure…

Looking at the chat is restorative in a number of ways. The surreal humour or absence of self-awareness on display never fails to bring out a smile. But it is the confrontation with a steady stream of technical and mind-numbingly boring questions that is the real antidote to academic worries. For those of us lucky enough not to have to think about such things for a couple more years, seeing people debating the relative merits of an LG or Bosch dishwasher really drives home the joys of a college-owned (and cleaned) kitchen. Whilst you stress over finishing a problem sheet on time, there are others in the world fretting equally about which delivery van company they ought to hire. Considering how much time some people can think about whether to get rid of a few yoga mats makes taking a slightly longer break from study seem eminently justifiable.

This isn’t in any sense to affirm the righteous dignity of the scholar over others. Quite the opposite: you come to realise that you are just one person amongst billions getting along with those tasks set in front of you. It’s an essay now; soon enough it will be fixing the bathroom light.

Ancient Echoes, Modern Forms: Cheung Yee and contemporaries exhibition at the Ashmolean Review

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Upon entering the Ashmolean Museum’s Reforming Abstraction exhibition, visitors are immediately struck by the diversity and energy of the works on display. 2D artworks line both the left and right walls, their vivid colours and dynamic shapes standing out against the gallery’s plain backdrop. The exhibition presents a wide range of media – from sculptures and woodcraft to experimental prints – highlighting the bold innovations of Asian artists during the late 1900s, with a particular focus on the Hong Kong sculptor, Cheung Yee. 

Cheung Yee was a visionary who helped redefine the boundaries of Hong Kong art. At a time when Western modernism was beginning to influence the local scene, Yee carved a unique path, merging traditional East Asian iconography and folklore with contemporary forms like abstract expressionism. Rather than copying Western styles, he reinterpreted them through the lens of his own cultural heritage. As a significant figure in this creative shift, Yee also co-founded the influential Circle Art Group and was an inspiration to many young artists seeking a break from innovation. 

One of the most compelling pieces in the exhibition is Cheung’s Spirit (1977)( as shown in the picture above), a striking example of his innovative ‘cast paper’ technique – a method that combines printmaking and sculpture. The process begins by carving reliefs into wooden blocks to form lead moulds, which are then filled with paper pulp and reinforced with glass fibre to give strength and texture. Once dry, the piece is painted in a monotone colour; in the case of Spirit, a bold, saturated, red. This colour was carefully chosen – red holds deep significance in East Asian culture, symbolising good fortune, joy, and celebration, often used in festivals such as Lunar New Year and weddings. 

At first glance, Spirit may appear abstract and ambiguous. But upon closer inspection, the piece reveals its depth – its concave shapes, curved lines and textured surface evoke the shell of a tortoise, a recurring motif in Cheung’s work. This is not just decorative – during the Shang Dynasty (c.1600 BC-1046 BC), tortoise shells were used with animal bones for divination practices and inscriptions. The spindle-shaped holes of this piece are a reflection of the Shang Dynasty practice of engraving and heating oracle bones to create fissels, which were seen as messages from the divine. In this way, Spirit stands as a perfect encapsulation of Cheung Yee’s artistic mission: to blend contemporary techniques with traditional symbolism in a way that is both timeless and new. 

Also featured in the exhibition is Chinese artist Liu Kuo-sung, another pioneering figure in East Asian art. One example is his vibrant work The Sun. In this piece, the sun sits at the top centre of the composition, surrounded by a deep crimson red sky that gradually softens into orange as it moves downward. In the foreground, green hues suggest landmasses and oceans, anchoring the piece with a sense of earthly presence. This part of the painting was created using Liu’s innovative technique of stripping away paper fibres and ink blotching, giving it a textured, organic feel.

Rather than depicting a landscape from the traditional bird’s-eye perspective common in Chinese painting, The Sun invites the viewer to gaze upwards from Earth into the vast cosmos. This shift in viewpoint-looking from the ground toward the infinite sky-marks a powerful departure from traditional perspective. By showing both the Earth and the surrounding universe, the piece resonates with the Chinese philosophy of the unity of ‘sky-heaven and humanity’, which suggests a deep connection between humanity and the cosmos.

Overall, the exhibition showcases the revolutionary work of Cheung Yee and his contemporaries, all of whom played key roles in redefining East Asian art through their avant-garde approaches. Cheung Yee, in particular, masterfully blends Western modernist techniques with traditional East Asian spirituality and folklore. His work challenges the conventions of ink-on-paper painting while remaining deeply rooted in the cultural heritage of Hong Kong.

Twelve points to politics: Eurovision is more than it seems

It’s a little over a week until the Grand Final of the Eurovision Song Contest, held this year in Basel, Switzerland. I don’t know about you, but I can almost smell the latex and hairspray. For many, Eurovision is an annual ritual of humiliation whereby families gather round the television on a Saturday night to scorn the nations of Europe for their questionable performances and voting patterns. For others, Eurovision is a progressive celebration of different cultures which promotes inclusivity, fosters diversity, and allows countries as small as San Marino to share the stage with musical powerhouses like the United Kingdom.

Beyond acting as a song contest, Eurovision has also become a symbol of queer culture, the Wadstock of the European world. In 2014, Austrian drag queen Conchita Wurst won the contest, and ten years later, Switzerland’s Nemo became Eurovision’s first non-binary winner. Aside from the artists, merely enjoying Eurovision has become shorthand for being gay. Telling people that I enjoy the contest feels like coming out all over again. By the same token, seeing my boyfriend squirm when I force him to watch Moldova’s entry in 2011 feels like an advert for conversion therapy.

All these interpretations are fundamentally reductive. Eurovision is far from an event that’s onenight-only. In fact, ‘Eurovision season’ begins several months prior to the show in September, as national broadcasters choose who they wish to represent them on an international stage. For some nations, Eurovision is the largest platform they get to show themselves off. Countries like Georgia, Armenia, and Azerbaijan value Eurovision as an opportunity to showcase their unique and diverse cultures to an audience who otherwise wouldn’t be able to spell ‘Azerbaijan’ if you put a gun to their head. As such, Eurovision is not just a song contest which forces a captive audience to consume three hours of kitsch Euro-slop, but rather a platform for artists and delegations to show off their country in front of as many as 200 million viewers.

A European platform

Here in the UK, we like to mock Eurovision artists from their questionable fashion right up to their even more questionable vocals. Across Europe, however, Eurovision is a treasured institution. Last year, 96% of television viewers in Iceland tuned in to watch the Money, money, money contest. Other high viewing shares were reported in Sweden (87%), Norway (86%), Croatia (73%), and Lithuania (70%). By contrast, the viewing share last year for the UK was just 47%. It goes without mentioning that the reach of Eurovision exceeds household viewing – pubs, bars, and JCRs all take part in the fun too. Last year, I fondly remember ordering a pint of Orchard Pig at St Hilda’s as a Slovenian woman sang a song called ‘Veronika’ in the background: a night to remember (if only I could).

Despite such watch parties, though, Eurovision is not as salient on this side of the Channel. One reason for this apathetic attitude towards the contest is the legacy of our commentating tradition. Prior to Graham Norton, the main commentator for the BBC’s coverage of Eurovision was Terry Wogan, whose dry and sardonic humour meant that the contest wasn’t held in great regard during the late 90s and early 2000s. Furthermore, successive victories in the early 2000s by Eastern Bloc countries led to a sentiment that Western countries were being deliberately sidelined by voters. Notoriously, Wogan claimed that the UK’s dreaded nul points in 2003 was due to “post-Iraq backlash”. Regardless of whether it’s Iraq in 2003 or Brexit in 2016, it seems that UK viewers and commentators will go to no end in blaming external factors for dreadful finishes in the contest.

Valued at £7.6 billion in 2023, the UK music industry does not need Eurovision to prove its worth. As embarrassing as Jemini’s performance of ‘Cry Baby’ was in 2003, it didn’t have major repercussions on the UK’s international image. Even Jemini eventually profited from the ordeal, performing at a John Lewis in 2023 when Liverpool hosted the event (très chic). While larger countries usually dominate World Cups and Olympics, even the likes of Malta and Luxembourg get in the limelight at Eurovision. Every broadcaster is subject to the same rules: one act; three minutes; five partially-clothed dancers.

Juries and anti-intellectualism

What do the Brexit referendum, Donald Trump’s first election victory, and Eurovision 2023 all have in common? Apart from acting as evidence that people should never be allowed to vote on anything ever, all three events have epitomised a narrative that socalled ‘experts’ are wrong. In the Brexit referendum, economists warned about the financial ramifications of leaving the EU; in both the 2016 and 2024 US elections, it was a desire to ‘drain the swamp’ which propelled Trump to victory; and in Eurovision, there has been backlash towards the juries as ‘music experts’ which epitomises this anti-intellectualist trend.

In 2023, backlash was especially pronounced following Sweden’s victory at the contest. Despite Finland topping the public vote in eighteen different countries, accruing 376 televotes, it was Sweden’s Loreen which triumphed overall owing to a large jury score. Though discrepancies between jury and televote scores aren’t new, they have only been clearly visible to non-Eurovision geeks since 2016, when results ceased being combined into one overall ranking. For televote winner Finland to have an 133-point-lead with the public, and yet still miss out on the trophy, was a very public display of jury/televote misalignment.

The 50/50 jury/televote system began in 2009 following successive victories by Eastern Bloc countries in the early 2000s. As Yugoslavia and the Soviet Union splintered into several countries, Eastern Europe began to achieve a monopoly in the televoting system of the early 2000s. Estonia, Latvia, Ukraine, Serbia, and Russia are all Eastern European countries which won for the first time in this era. Though neighbourly voting is not unique to Eastern Europe, with Scandinavian countries also exchanging high points, the arrival of many Eastern European nations in the 2000s made their regional alliances particularly influential in shaping the leaderboard. Notably, in 2007, not a single Western European country finished on the left-hand side of the scoreboard, nevermind placing in the top 10.

This ‘bloc voting’ concerned executives at the EBU who sought to improve the quality of music at the contest and to curtail the Eastern European dominance. The result was the introduction of ‘juries’. Each jury would consist of a panel of five ‘music experts’ whose ranking of the performances would constitute 50% of a country’s overall voting result. T hough this was controversial right from the outset, there was a general acceptance that the introduction of juries would, and did, improve the overall quality of entries in the contest.

Recently, the debate has become more heated. The last time that the juries and televote agreed on the winner of a contest was in 2017, when Salvador Sobral topped both scorecards for Portugal. The last time a televote winner won the overall contest was in 2022, with Ukraine’s Kalush Orchestra propelling them to victory in a Eurovision season defined by the Russian invasion of Ukraine. In 2023 and 2024, however, it has been the jury winner who has triumphed over the televote favourites. As such, resentment towards the juries is understandable. The jury/televote debate is, however, more complex than this. What qualifies as a ‘music expert’ to the EBU is ambiguous and has therefore been the source of confusion. For instance, a member of the Swedish jury in 2013 was a 40-yearold backing singer called Monika. Monika may know how to hold a note; but should this ability give her the same voting power as hundreds of thousands of Swedish televoters? Thus far, the jury is out.

Regardless of where a particular audience member stands on this debate, though, its very nature acts as a microcosm for anti-intellectualism and indeed populist discourse which questions the notion that expertise and experience should qualify individuals to hold positions of power. It’s a trope that has been particularly common in recent election cycles. For Eurofans, though, it’s been in our conversations for a while. Often, the discourses that the contest generates are replicated on a grander and more potent scale.

Money, money, money

Though the EBU does not make any money from organising Eurovision, the contest is nevertheless a substantial revenue stream. Ticket-sales, sponsorships, and adverts all offset the costs of running the contest and, as such, the EBU tries to incentivise certain countries to keep participating in order to reduce the losses they would otherwise face. Sites like The Conversation have suggested that Israel’s continued participation in the contest, despite the war with Hamas, is driven not only by a desire to retain their participation fee but also by the influence of Eurovision’s main sponsor, Moroccanoil, an Israeli cosmetics company that could pull its support if Israel withdrew. Their continued involvement with Eurovision following the Israel-Hamas war has increased tensions in recent contests, which has rubbed off on how the contest is perceived. One Oxford student told me the contest is “dystopian”. Another told me the EBU has “incomprehensible ways of policing which political statements are allowed, and who can share them”. For the fans, the continued participation of Israel is a question of morality. For the EBU, though, it may be one of finances.

In the past, some host cities have profited from the increased revenue streams brought by Eurovision. In 2023, for instance, Liverpool generated an extra £20 million after hosting the contest in 2023. However, organising Eurovision can also be a financial burden. Copenhagen lost big in 2014 after its organisers baffling decided to construct a new arena in a disused shipyard, only for it to literally never be used again.

Beyond budgets, hosting Eurovision can also be considered controversial as countries use the opportunity to polish their image in much the same way that they do so on stage. Azerbaijan was accused held a contest known for its queer following whilst maintaining a crackdown on queer communities, and also evicted local families to build its 2011 venue. More recently, the 2024 edition held in Malmö was remarkably tense owing to the large Muslim population of the city protesting Israel’s participation, with death threats allegedly levelled towards Israel’s representative, Eden Golan. Eurovision can thus act not just as a microcosm, but indeed as a melting pot of anxiety and conflict. Far from its origins as a festival designed to promote peaceful coexistence following WWII, critics argue that modern-day Eurovision is more divisive and violent than ever.

Twelve points to politics!

Eurovision is embroiled in geopolitics and queer politics alike. Though Eurofans like me do enjoy the contest for its own sake – and believe me, nothing makes me happier than when someone gets my reference when I say that an outfit is ‘giving Barbara Dex’ – an awareness of the contest can often offer more insight into the complexities of geopolitics, self-determination, and performativity than several feature-length op-eds in the New York Times or Atlantic. Eurovision is a microcosm as well as a melting pot; an escape from conflict as well as an arena for it to play out on stage. Political whilst professing to be anything but, Eurovision is an event that’s full of contradictions. That’s what makes it so fun to watch. Next time someone loudly boasts that Eurovision ‘is just political’, whether this be a family member or fellow college bar goer, nod your head in agreement. However, although such statements are intended to lessen the value of the contest, it really just makes Eurovision all the more fascinating to follow.

VE Day celebrations to take place across Oxfordshire

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Street parties are being planned across Oxfordshire as part of a national programme of events to mark the 80th anniversary of Victory in Europe (VE) Day on Thursday 8th May.

Celebrating 80 years of peace, Oxford City Council have encouraged residents to host street parties by waiving the road closure charge typically in place for hosting such small community events. Various historical displays and tributes have been planned, including a nationwide ‘Great British Food Festival’ on Bank Holiday Monday (5th May).

On VE Day itself, the Council have announced that the Union flag will be flown over both the Town Hall and Carfax Tower. At the latter, a bell-ringing ceremony will take place at 6.30pm, with a beacon being lit at Blenheim Palace later that evening.

Elsewhere in the city centre, on Saturday 10th May there will be a performance from the Bicester Military Wives Choir at lunchtime, on St Michael’s Street and at the Covered Market.

At the Soldiers of Oxfordshire Museum, in Woodstock, an exhibition dedicated to telling the story of the final stages of the Second World War has opened, on display until November. It particularly focuses on the experiences of soldiers local to the area, such as women working for MI5 at Blenheim Palace, who recount their memories of “people dancing in line from St Giles to Carfax”.

Lord Mayor of Oxford, Councillor Mike Rowley said the anniversary was an “important opportunity” to remember the sacrifices of those involved in the war effort, and “to honour the bravery and sacrifice of the wartime generation”.

He continued: “VE Day is a defining moment in our history, and this may be one of the last opportunities we have to thank the surviving veterans, so we should celebrate them in style.

“Gathering with our neighbours and local communities to share food, drink and stories will always be a very special thing to do. By waiving the road closure charge for small street parties, we want to make it as easy as possible for people to take part.”