Thursday 25th September 2025
Blog Page 252

Plenmeller House

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Under the covers, inside the walls,
The wind shuffles in from the West,
Rabbits potter in the grass,
And the pheasants lay down to rest.


This is the country,
As it is in itself,
Its shares in green hills,
Space and air its wealth.


The pipes are ticking again,
As we clear away the debris,
Revealing the front door,
And its old, simple majesty.


The old cottage and the grand house,
Mixed, melded and clinging on,
Against the turning,
Against the winter’s song.


I have seen the fight,
The floor and the damp,
I have seen the darkness,
But I read by my bedside lamp.


Firelight leaps upon us,
Primordial and true,
It’s what we are,
Not humans blue.


Return to Plenmeller,
Where the sheep are safe,
And we the sheep follow the shepherd,
Where powerless are the governor and the wraith.

A Drink by Edward McLaren

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I rise from my screen and enter the horizontal darkness above its frame, itself over the river I do not see. Why is it that when I attempt to do serious work I am always accosted by something miraculous I wouldn’t see in leisure? Two adjacent torches in the distance, not glowering out of plastic but real fire, oppose each other in the night I am looking through. They are angled perfectly for me to see and be unable to discern whether they dwell in two windows of a cottage or in the hands of wanderers sisterly going their way along the hillside. 

Even when they remain in place I can’t be sure if when one dims slightly a fire is going out or one of the prospective figures has climbed up steps. If the steps are there, I cannot help but assume they are leading up to the brow of an ancient mound and perhaps to a temple there. This is how fairies worm into the world. They travel through the excess of a mind, from knowledge to projection, hill to square, and go unobserved until they are believed in. 

Suddenly I am imagining two girls climbing into a bed of grass, blue in blackness, as a coven of two. They have danced with fires a little in their time. But now is enough. They are already going down into the roots of birches by the moment I glance them. Their eyelids are overgrown in rich weeds. They are strange and apocalyptic although their sleep will certainly keep them safe. I relax my eyes and turn down to the screen. One light is left. Two have gone. It demands I read, and type, and contribute work. 

I have wasted a certain amount of my time and yet what was I doing before I did? Geese I am unable to see siren in the massive emptiness over my head. Umbrellas folded stand like hooded figures about the bank. Lights around me pulse like lighthouses at sea. I am working here. I am trying to work at five o’clock at night reviewing books, analysing Greek plays, in the middle of Winter. Perhaps I’ll order a drink. 

But before I stand I have the realisation that when I was dreaming, or whatever I was doing, the only lights that seemed around were the torches and screen. No lights, no lighthouses and no buzzing headlamps seemed to pulse behind me. I was caught up. Or rather, now, at my laptop, typing this, I have been caught. The beams in the distance were shimmers in the web that tightens presently as I struggle to leave. 

Is there any reason I am mesmerised more by my recollection than the event itself? Maybe this moment will also seem unimportant when it goes by and a more interesting thought supplants it. But that won’t alter the fact that, right now, I am aware of the felt significance of the present. It is no stretch at all for me to say that what I feel about this feeling, or remember about this particular memory, is instrumental like the fabric of the soul. 

That is perhaps the wrong word and yet it conjures up the transparent sheet that I am thinking about. The thing that lives in devices of consequence, and things with meanings, I know looks like that. A watery orb that sloshes with bubbles and bellies, and a topaz tone inflected with emerald. That is the being my looking back at my dream exposes it as. 

It is itself. It must be. It is the world and life, and because I myself am alive I cannot deny it, no matter if I later deny the form it appeared in. Even if I revoke the sludge, and do away with the lakemoss, and everything belonging to the black lagoon, it will linger like a ghost, the ghost of a ghost. It will be a fading image and an image. Polaroid, then vector. But each one on the same material before my eyes, conveying the same absolution independently. 

Yes, I will have a beer.

Puzzles Answers TT22 Week 5

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The answers to the week 5 edition of the Cherwell in TT22.

Two-Speed Crossword
Medium Sudoku
Hard Sudoku
Pencil Puzzle

Booksmart and the art of growing up

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There’s a moment when Molly and Amy (Beanie Feldstein and Kaitlyn Dever), the independent, Ivy-League-bound protagonists of Olivia Wilde’s 2019 film Booksmart, give up and give in. Consequently, it’s the moment that I, sitting in a theater on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, my first year of university behind me, flew forward and thought the 2019 equivalent of ‘Is this fucking play about us?’. 

They’ve accidentally ingested drug-laced chocolate strawberries and begin to hallucinate themselves as dolls: their outfits are ridiculous, and their heads are heavier than their torsos – except of course for their chest which is twice as weighty as the rest of their shiny plastic bodies. The two girls, who have bumper stickers plastered with ‘Bernie 2016’, ‘Still a Nasty Woman’, and of course, ‘Bernie 2020’, catch a glimpse of their glamazonian features and are hooked. 

Amy, in the Mean Girls Halloween costume equivalent of Jessie’s outfit in Toy Story, philosophizes, ‘I know this is unrealistic and bad for women, but is it bad? Because I feel pretty good.’ It’s part of the movie’s quest to understand the struggle to become an adult today. We’re told to want it all, shown on social media that it’s possible, but commanded to stay relentlessly humble, even to hide our accomplishments. Amy and Molly and the rest of us live in the Duck Syndrome generation: as much as Amy proclaims to decry beauty standards, she can’t quite reject them. On the top, they float. They’re funny, brilliant, and having a good time, but the stress of perfection and the need to seem care-free and self assured is daunting. On their trip, they become living representations of the pain of looking at a photo of Emily Ratajkowski in a bikini on Instagram with the caption, ‘all bodies are beach bodies’. Sure they’re wonderful, but pretending that our insecurities are surmountable purely through the actions of the body positivity movement are ludicrous. 

Both girls are balls of nerves, and, Molly in particular, after learning that everyone is going to great colleges after high school – even after four years of seemingly lax behaviour, partying, and casual sex has a meltdown. To her ultimate horror, she learns that Annabelle ‘Triple-A’s social skills are matched only by her test taking abilities. Like Molly, she is off to Yale, and when they get there, she wants to pretend that the two don’t know each other. She learns that everyone she looks down on – slackers, heiresses, and athletes (including her Vice President, whose only role, she claims, is to plan parties) are off to incredible things. Molly spirals, the internal nosedive animated by the final bell and rave-like hallway antics of the beginning of summer vacation. If she isn’t better than everyone else academically, then what was the point of shipping herself off to social Siberia all those years ago?

When I sat down with my ludicrously large popcorn, I expected to settle down and view it with a newly earned jaded eye towards high school. There would be the ridiculous montage; the heroines would start by transforming themselves through sheer power of will but ultimately learn to accept themselves; the doll scene and Molly’s spiral of perfectionism reveal the movie to have a greater message about our culture and a much more realistic execution. By the end, their seemingly unconquerable love interests would be conquered (see the film’s spiritual ancestor, Superbad). 

To quote one of the most iconic scenes from HBO’s Euphoria, ‘Is this fucking play about us?’. I thought back to the nights I patted myself on the back for not going to the party, or when I went above and beyond on a presentation that simply didn’t matter, and at the end of it watched (happily, I feel the need to add) the girls who did both, who seemingly had it all, go to the same institutions I did. In contrast with movies I armed myself with throughout high school, Mean Girls (shown to us, incredibly, in middle school health class), Legally Blonde, and Clueless, Booksmart is about young women who have already succeeded but can’t quite shake their impostor syndrome. 

Gigi, the wild rich girl who would be the villain in another version of this movie, just wants everyone else to have a good time. She defends Amy – who she barely knows – by screaming, ‘You do not speak to her that way. That is my best friend in the world.’ She’s not quite ‘popular’ (we, arguably live in a post-Popularity world), but she’s the life of the party, and to Molly’s horror, she receives acceptance to her ‘fifth choice’, Harvard (though the role of nepotism in that decision is left ambiguous). Both she and ‘Triple-A’ are social and academic successes, but while Gigi is ultimately too relaxed to seem to have any actual insecurities, though that could be due to her immense wealth (a flaw in the film due to its lack of deeper investigation), Annabelle reveals that she hates her reputation, mostly because the other girls so easily believe it. It’s a familiar message of women supporting women, but the reality of the environment (even amongst the hallucinations and fact that no school in America has that many ivy league acceptances), is what makes Booksmart special. Here, no one is as miraculously peppy as Elle Woods, ridiculously vapid as Cher Horowitz, or as hilariously naïve as Cady Heron (or as evil as Regina George for that matter). Booksmart is not populated by caricatures. It’s about high school, and the worst part about high school is the realization that there is no movie montage, that nothing will miraculously and permanently transform you overnight. 

By the time the girls graduate, they’ve given up believing that their classmates hate them, but more importantly they find themselves together – still best friends, still ambitious and imperfect and stressed. They just have a few new great stories under their belt. The ceremony itself is no exception: an American high school graduation is an SNL skit, not an 80s movie. It’s punctuated with impressive mispronunciation and meandering speeches about going out into the world (even as the likelihood that we move back in with our parents increases), topped off with a few solo cups of whatever’s lying around (usually spiked seltzer). If you’re lucky, you might get a few days by a frigid lake with a dozen of the same people you’ve hung out with every weekend since the age of six. Ferris Bueller doesn’t take you on a road trip around Chicago to the Art Institute; no one gets the fake ID of one Mr. ‘McLovin’ (the goal of a fake is after all, inconspicuousness), and there’s no grand romantic music montage to an iconic 80s power ballad. When I graduated from high school in June 2018, my friends and I had a movie marathon and then showed up to a boring party for a couple of hours before walking barefoot in Central Park till dawn. It was memorable, romantic, even, but when the sun rose over the East River the next morning, I found myself unchanged. For Booksmart to be an effective movie, the girls have to go on an emotional journey paralleling their physical one across Los Angeles, but they don’t suddenly become complete, and, relatively speaking, they are who they were the week before. They’re just slightly more ready to go off into the world. Like Molly and Amy, I still had my friends, easy camaraderie with most of the kids in my year, ambitions, and something to do the next year. And like Molly and Amy, I realized that was enough.  

Image Credit: Eirien / CC BY 2.0 via Flickr

In conversation with Francesca Tacchi

Any book that begins with the sentence “Every day is a good day to kill Nazis” is bound to catch my interest. Luckily for me, that’s just how Francesca Tacchi’s Let the Mountains Be My Grave, begins.

Tacchi (xe/xem/xir) is a neurodiverse, queer Italian author, also contributing to Transmogrify! (June 2023), a YA anthology where trans people claim the central stage in fantasy stories. I’m Tacchi’s friend, and I have been anxiously waiting for the book’s release since day one. I was not disappointed when I finally got my hands – or should I say mouse and keyboard, since I read it electronically? – on xir novella. So this review is not entirely unbiased, but I will, of course, do my best to give a fair review.

Let the Mountains Be My Grave is an antifascist, queer novella set in 1944 Italy, just after the Allied forces landed in Sicily. The title is a reference to a verse from the well-known partisan song, ‘Bella Ciao’. It’s a semi-historical book, filled with good humour, touches of Etruscan mythology, and some fantastical magic. 

Tacchi said that xir inspirations behind the novella were mainly drawn from the fact that in WWII media the partisans are rarely represented.

“This war is a Hollywood darling, but most movies are focused on the Allied intervention,” continued Tacchi. “Very little space is given to local resistance movements, even when they were pivotal in defeating the Nazis, as in the case of Italy.” 

The main character is Veleno, a 20-year-old partisan with his heart set on vengeance because the Nazis ruthlessly killed his uncle and father. Hailing from the small Abruzzese town of Cocullo, Veleno is armed with an unusual weapon: the healing magic of the Chthonic, pre-Italic deity named Angitia. Cocullo celebrates St Dominic, patron saint of protection against snakes, in its yearly Festa dei Serpari (Festival of the Snake-Catchers).

Tacchi’s interests in history and ancient Italic paganism, along with xir history and tradition, were among their other inspirations. Tacchi masterfully balanced realistic and fantastical elements well. I also liked xir fictional interpretation of the war as including these ancient gods, but the fate of the war ultimately being in human hands. 

The novella is pleasingly fast-paced and includes a set of diverse, lovable characters: Mosca, a Catholic; Irma, a Jew; and last, but certainly not least, Rame, a communist. These names have specific meanings in Italian; this is because the partisans in the novella take on new names when joining the resistance.

“They were…united by the hate toward fascism and the desire to finally see Italy freed from Nazi occupation,” wrote Tacchi in xir author note. “I wanted to portray this diversity in the main characters of this novella.”

As an Italian-American Jew, I was especially happy to see the inclusion of the Jewish character, Irma, an academic. Irma has powers from a pre-Italic god, Tinia, who Irma describes as ‘the Etruscan Zeus’. I also appreciated the inclusion of the Italian version of ‘Echad Mi Yodea‘ (‘Who Knows One’), a traditional Pesach song. The lyrics demonstrate themes of freedom and resistance, which I thought pairs well with the novella’s own themes.

My Jewish brain also brought special attention to one bit of dialogue where Rame asks Irma how her relationship with Tinia goes with being Jewish. He assumes that Jews are forced into monotheism. She responds to Rame with grace. She explains that she personally believes in henotheism or monolatry, meaning that she believes in one god, but doesn’t deny the existence of other gods. She also explains that her standpoint isn’t one accepted by all Jews, a very important note for her to make. I think the author handled this tough topic best xe could by avoiding a generalisation of Jewish belief. Even between me and my two other Jewish friends, we disagreed on a general Jewish belief on Irma’s stance within the novel which goes to prove my point!

Aside from the Jewish representation, I also enjoyed Tacchi’s criticisms of American foreign policy across the globe. As was the author’s intention, Let the Mountains Be My Grave does not glorify the Allies’ involvement in liberating Italy from the Nazis.

Veleno feels that the Allies have no business being in Italy, and their assistance is likely rooted in self-interest rather than a genuine desire to help. He is concerned about the Americans potentially annexing the Italian peninsula: “What if they [the Americans] won’t leave, after the war is won? I’m not so sure I’d like to see Italy being liberated from the fascists just to step into the shadow of one of the Allies.” 

Although I’m half American, my Italian half catches Tacchi’s critique. After the war, the US began to station a large number of its forces throughout Europe. There are currently seven US bases in Italy, one of which is situated near my mother’s home town of Aviano.

On a very different note, the novel is unabashedly queer. “The choice of including queer people in my novella was quite simple, as I’m queer myself and always hungry for more representation [within the fantasy genre,]” said Tacchi. Xe also wanted to show that the most broken and messy of people deserve love. Xe hopes that queer readers will feel validated when reading this relationship.

While I enjoyed all of these aspects of the novella, I do have a few criticisms. My major one would be that some of the writing could be termed awkward. Although I enjoy belittling fascists any day, repeatedly calling Stormtroopers ‘Nazi pigs’ was a bit tiresome. There were also some strange descriptions, especially when it came to characters and people. I won’t be too critical about the issue of awkward writing because English is Tacchi’s second language, and xir writing really improves as you get further through the novella. 

These tendencies were balanced by some beautiful writing, however. There is some rather beautiful prose, not only about Veleno and Rame’s love for one another, but also about depression, memory, justice, and the general human condition.

Lastly, I enjoyed the importance of song and music throughout the novella, the lyrics of which are included in their original language. In xir author note, Tacchi said that xe wanted to do this because the songs are symbols which are deeply rooted in Italy’s cultural history. Xe felt that translating them in-text would have, in a sense, warped these songs.

“I really wanted to include songs and music first and foremost because songs are an important symbol of Italian resistance,” said Tacchi. “Songs are powerful in conveying a message, and also to more viscerally represent a people. Folk songs…are very common in Italy and traditional music plays such a big role in our culture.”

To conclude, I would strongly recommend reading Tacchi’s novella. I think the subject of Nazis, and fascism—and even more importantly, resistance to those ideologies—is becoming increasingly important with the resurgence of the far right across the globe. Furthermore, positive fictional queer relationships such as the one in Let the Mountains Be My Grave, are really needed because romantic relationships between men in fiction tend to end in tragedy. I genuinely look forward to Tacchi’s future releases, and I am excited to see how xe develops as a writer.

Image credit: Mia Carnevale (artwork), dave ring (cover design).

Cherwell end of year soirée: Lineup announcement

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In celebration of another year of Cherwell with 15 successful print editions and hundreds of stories, we’re excited to invite you to join us at FREUD on Thursday, 16 June at 8pm for drinks, dancing, and good vibes. We will also be (belatedly) celebrating 100 years of Cherwell!

We are delighted to announce our lineup for the event. The acts performing at the soirée are:

  • Rusty Kate: Oxford’s most scandalous drag queen and Cherwell‘s resident Dragony Aunt will be lighting the soirée up with an outlandish set of music and comedy.
  • Who Killed Tommy?: Off the back of performing at balls and WADSTOCK, Who Killed Tommy? is university’s newest and most exciting student band.
  • Fenella Gent & Jazz Quartet: What would an evening at FREUD even be without some jazz? Fenella Gent & Jazz Quartet will be providing it all at the soirée.

Come for a free drink, live music, and FREUD’s sparkly atmosphere. Dress code is Cocktail, and doors open at 8pm! We can’t wait to see you all there!!!

TICKETS HERE!!!!!!

Music beyond the M6

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In a recent interview with the Sunday Times, musician Sam Fender discussed the importance of singing in a Geordie accent for his latest album Seventeen Going Under. Whilst working upon his debut Hypersonic Missiles, Fender had felt the obligation to soften his voice and dialect, a response to mainstream industry standards. For his most recent work, however, he realised that the beauty of the Geordie accent should be embraced in his music, considering it to be “one of the most melodic accents in the English language.” Seventeen Going Under itself is a homage to Fender’s roots, a Springsteen-esque depiction of life growing up in North Shields. The authenticity of singing in his own voice echoes across the subjects of his songs, from the disappointment of first love to the government’s neglect of the working class.

Northern identity has long been entwined with music. Most famously (and inescapably), bands such as The Beatles, Oasis and the Arctic Monkeys have played an integral role in elevating the fame of places such as Liverpool, Manchester, and Sheffield respectively. Yet the culture of music runs much deeper, ingrained into the daily life and spirit of these cities. A long list of those who left their mark on the musical landscape feels slightly excessive, though it ranges from the melancholic sounds of the Smiths and Joy Division to the height of the ‘Madchester’ scene, made iconic in the hands of the Happy Mondays and the Stone Roses.

For decades, music has shaped the community. Cultural movements have stemmed from songs alone. Northern Soul of the 60s swept across unassuming towns and cities, renowned particularly in venues such as Wigan Casino. Beginning as a love of soul music and dance, it soon manifested in recognisable mod fashion and culture. The aforementioned ‘Madchester’ scene, tied to the Second Summer of Love movement, became infamous during the 1980s and early 90s. A hedonistic lifestyle, fuelled by rave music (and MDMA,) hit the city of Manchester and held little back. It witnessed the soaring rise and fall of establishments such as the tumultuous Haçienda, synonymous with adolescence for many who grew up during the 90s.

These past communities linger still. Walk through the Northern Quarter on a sunny day and find yourself amongst many-a middle aged men who are crowned with mod-style haircuts and dressed exclusively in Fred Perry. Wander outside the cultural staple Afflecks Palace, underneath the ‘AND ON THE SIXTH DAY GOD CREATED MANchester’ sign, and you may very well find a horde of awkward pre-pubescent teens dressed in parka coats, despite the fact it is nearly twenty degrees. We have all been there – it is a rite of passage.

There is a loving and humorous obstinance amongst fellow northerners to loudly proclaim our cultural supremacy when it comes to music. I would like to address the elephant in the room – we do know that music exists past the M6. Sort of.

Certain stereotypes do exist around northern life and people. This happens much less frequently today, but there is an uncomfortable truth in admitting that the stereotypes do still exist (personally, it does not go unnoticed that most ‘northern’ accents in popular culture are used to represent those less intelligent or uneducated.)  In the past, northern cities and towns were left neglected and underfunded by government policies, governments far out of reach with the reality of living in industrial working-class England. Amongst the effects of these policies, arose the image of northern people being sufficiently ‘un-cultured.’ Though, one must ask, whose cultural expectations were they being measured against? And so, it is with a kind of belligerence that an alternative culture was created. A culture that would always belong to the northern identity, obstinately clung to for generations to come. A reminder of the richness that we are capable of, a cultural trove that binds the community.

As a music-lover, I admit that most of the time I scandalously branch out of the northern circle. However, in a recent bout of slight homesickness, (I’m currently in a different country to home) I found myself scrolling through the depths of Spotify to find some small comfort. Stumbling upon the band Elbow, I queued their albums and set out for a quiet stroll across the foreign city that has become a makeshift home for the last few months. Surrounded by crowds of French people in 26-degree heat, I found myself humming along to ‘Jesus is a Rochdale girl.’ There is a delicate nature to most of their songs, still entirely rooted in the place where they have grown up. Their lyrics really are a kind of poetry (please do try ‘Switching Off’ if interested,) but it is made all the more piercing by Guy Garvey’s voice, gently unassuming in a soft Manchester accent. It made me think of Fender’s interview, and how at the end of the day we owe it to ourselves to hear the beauty in the voices that remind us of home.

Image credit: Highways Agency / CC BY 2.0 via Wikimedia Commons

Scenes with Girls: In conversation with Love Song Productions

Love Song Productions is staging Scenes with Girls at the Old Fire Station from 13-14th June. We spoke to director Katie Kirkpatrick and assistant director Lydia Free about the upcoming show.

Could you summarise what Scenes with Girls is about and why you chose to stage this play?

Katie: Scenes with Girls is primarily about experiences of friendship, sex and dating as a young woman today. It’s about two girls called Tosh and Lou, intensely close best friends, and what happens when their relationship reaches a boiling point. But it’s also really fun, a dive into these girls’ little universe full of in-jokes and chaos. 

I’ve wanted to stage it for a while, after being obsessed with the script on a first read last summer. The dialogue is simultaneously so realistic and so weird and the characters and themes felt like they would really ring true to a student audience.

The Cherwell Stage team this term are trying to demystify Oxford drama. Could you tell us a bit about your experience, and any advice you might have for those wanting to start out?

Katie: My first experience of drama here was Cuppers, the freshers’ drama competition, which was unfortunately over Zoom in my first year. My friend and I wrote a play about isolating uni students murdering one of their housemates, which went down about as well with our [housemates] as you’d expect. I took on a few marketing and press roles, then at the start of my second year co-founded Love Song, our student production company that has since produced 3 shows at the BT. My advice to those starting out would be to try out some different roles: it’s an easier way in, you learn useful skills and might discover a new talent. I got to uni wanting to direct, but I’ve had a lot of fun with producing and marketing. If you find you’re not getting the roles you apply for, or not seeing the kind of shows you’d like to be involved in, absolutely do it yourself. It can seem daunting but everyone is happy to help and starting a production company gives you such valuable experience.

Lydia: In my experience, OUDS can be a very intense environment to navigate, which is strange given that it’s just a uni society. I’ve found that the best thing to do is get involved in fun projects and do drama purely for the enjoyment. Apply for and partake in as many different projects as you want to take on, and try lots of different roles both on stage and off. I think, ultimately, the most valuable part of Oxford drama is the number of people you can meet and really bond with over a few weeks. So I just go into projects with the hope of meeting some new friends and throwing around some silly creative ideas, and try not to take anything too seriously.

Any fun rehearsal stories?

Katie: I particularly enjoyed a character-based rehearsal that started off as a chat about backstories and ended up with us deciding each character’s astrological chart, MBTI type, and Enneagram type, and me sending the cast articles on platonic life partners and compulsory heterosexuality. We love a bit of research…

Lydia: We played a game called Essence, where a person will think of someone in the cast or crew and everyone asks questions like, “If they were a holiday destination, what would they be?” (deducing their ‘essence’). When Ellie [Tutt, co-AD] was thinking of someone, I asked them, “what type of lighting fixture would they be?” and Ellie said, “a floor lamp”. Both Katie and Millie [Deere, actor] immediately went “JAMES”. You had to be there. But the fact that James Newbery’s essence is exemplified by a floor lamp sends me.

Could you describe the show in three words?

Katie: ‘Ribs’ by Lorde. 

Lydia: Pink-tinged anarchy.

What’s your favourite line from the show?

Katie: It’s a toss-up between “Do you ever think maybe if she’d just kissed a few more people we would never have had to worry about this stuff?” and “Can you just hair up, pull on your joggers, and dig in to us”.

Lydia: “I’m a piece of bread / and I look down at him hard at work….”

You’re casting one of the parts in this play by vote – how did that idea come about?

Katie: Yes! The fourth character in the script is just called ‘A Boy’ and only has one line, so properly auditioning for it felt like it would be a bit silly. Instead we wanted to find something fun to do, and since the characters poke fun at modern dating rituals, having it voted on by swiping on Tinder profiles felt like it would work! It’s been really fun to put together.

Lydia: Good marketing.

What can we expect from Love Song in the future?

Katie: It’s hard to say at the moment as I’m off on my year abroad come September but we’d love to go to [Edinburgh] Fringe next year for sure. And just keep putting on good, fun shows!

Finally, in one word, why should people come and see the show?

Katie: Confetti.

Lydia: Women.                                                                                                           

Scenes With Girls runs at the Old Fire Station from 13th-14th June. Tickets can be bought here.

Photography by Coco Cottam.

Lincoln’s Tortilla the Tortoise munches to victory at packed-out Corpus fair

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Over £7000 was raised for the DEC Ukraine Humanitarian Appeal at Corpus Christi’s Tortoise Fair at the end of May. Running and munching their way to victory in the races were Lincoln’s tortoise, Tortilla, and Balliol’s human tortoise, Gabriel le Dain.

After a Covid-induced hiatus, the Tortoise Fair was back bigger and better than ever this year. More than 1500 people flocked to Merton St on Sunday 29 May to attend it. While the highlight of the day was undoubtedly the inter-college tortoise race, live music performances from the likes of DJ Daniel Dipper and all-star band the Poet Laureates also graced the sold-out event.

There was a BBQ, ice-cream and other food stalls, as well as a range of activities and entertainment, including face painting, glitter tattoos and sponging the JCR committee.

One Corpus Christi student highlighted the relaxed atmosphere of the day, noting that the college had been decorated with paintings of tortoises by Corpus Christi students, and praising the range and quality of the food and entertainment offered.

The main event took place at 3pm. The tortoises were placed in the centre of a circle of lettuce, with the aim to make their way out of this vegetable racetrack. Attendees watched in suspense as the various colleges’ Tortoise Keepers set their tortoises off. Some members of the crowd even took to standing on chairs to get a better look at the race, with one spectator expressing surprise at how dramatic the race was. Tension built as old and young tortoises faced off, some moving surprisingly quickly and others looking to recover from slow starts.

Scooping victory was Lincoln’s Tortilla. He’s a new addition to the college, joining just before the pandemic, but at the youthful age of 10, it’s no surprise that he was among the more sprightly competitors.

Matt Foster, Tortoise Keeper at Lincoln, told us that while Tortilla may be ten years old, he “has the maturity of a toddler” and is a “certified ladies’ man”. On winning the race, Tortilla basked in his triumph, running over to various people and happily taking selfies with adoring fans. As Foster put it: “Some might say he really came out of his shell!”

The pair celebrated with a pint and a head of lettuce.

The human tortoise race had been similarly hotly contested. Competitors ran between lines of lettuce leaves, eating as quickly as they could, before making their way to the main attraction: a half-head of lettuce. First to the centre and to a crunchy victory was Balliol’s Gabriel Le Dain.

Cherwell spoke to Gabriel Le Dain, whose official title is JCR Comrade Tortoise, on his experience as champion of this year’s race. He recalled his path to success in the September JCR elections: “To prove myself worthy of Tortoisehood I had to eat a head of lettuce at the hustings to demonstrate my prowess”.

While he admitted that he “hadn’t practised lettuce-eating recently”, he did reveal his secret to success: pre-race preparation. He remembered being sent lettuce seeds by his aunt last summer in order to “get a head start”, following this up with the advice that “what matters is embracing the mindset of being a tortoise”.

Image Credit: Maeve Ewings

In Defence of James Corden

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I fear this may not be a popular article, but here goes. Such is the scale of the bitterness of the internet and media against James Corden, that a naïve observer might wonder just how many ungodly atrocities the London-born comedian had committed in order to emerge as such a beacon of revulsion and loathing. Upon the announcement this month of his departure from a very successful stint as host of the US talk show ‘The Late Late Show,’ congratulations were sparsely hidden amid a slew of derogatory remarks, ‘praise the lords’, and Brits encouraging America to ‘keep him.’ The internet has long campaigned against Corden, including a petition to ban him from appearing in the film adaptation of ‘Wicked,’ attracting 60,000 signatures. Social media is equally spiteful; Twitter user DirtbikeCollins goes as far as to say he has ‘all the appeal of a dog fart in a pub.’ Bold.

So what crimes has Corden committed since he crossed the pond to foster this level of hate? Well, on the surface, his stint in the US has been stunningly successful. Corden refined the format and scope of his show, adopting a more British layout, and very energetic interview style. He refined the art of the US talk show to suit his own brand of entertainment, and found himself able to attract a quality of guests more commonly routed to the bigger late-night slots. But, like Jimmy Fallon, it is his shift of focus to features and games tailor-made for the internet that has brought him the most success. It is easy to forget that for a time, a few years back, the ‘Carpool Karaoke’ series of videos was perhaps the biggest thing on the internet; the edition with Adele as guest has amassed over 250 million views on YouTube. The success of the format was driven not just by the presence of big stars but the personality, energy, and amiability of Corden, which allowed the stars to express themselves in ways most talk shows struggle to achieve.

So where did it go so wrong? Well, there is no disputing his most incredible talent of worming his way into just about every corner of popular culture. His forays into musical theatre and film draw particular attention. On the face of it again, he has been very successful, winning Olivier and Tony awards for his role in the straight play ‘One man, Two Guv’nors’, and a Golden Globe nomination for his role in musical film ‘The Prom’. But his involvement in 2019’s unintentional horror movie ‘Cats’ was beyond a low point and has, more than anything, earned him a reputation as a cheap fallback option for directors looking to bolster the number of celebrities in a picture.

But perhaps part of the deeper problem is Corden’s style of comedy. He has become a sort of ‘comedic Coldplay’; a figure who everyone loves to hate in spite of continued popularity and success. Corden’s brand of humour can often be low brow, based on his general air of silliness, extraversion, and preparedness to embarrass himself in front of his audience. The inflated version of ourselves we present to others on the internet wants to believe we are above that – that we have a more mature and refined taste in entertainment than the Corden-consuming masses. Comparable perhaps is the continued success of the even lower-brow sitcom ‘Mrs Brown’s Boys’, which attracts more hate than a Tory boy in Wadham, yet continues to draw massive viewing figures. Though we deny it, most of us are not above silliness and wacky humour and old Irish women saying ‘Feck!’ every 5 seconds. Nor are we above a middle-aged cockney man masquerading as Cinderella in traffic on a crosswalk. Perhaps we should stop pretending we are for the sake of massaging our internet egos.

Corden is certainly a victim of the cynicism of the uptight modern media consumer, fighting an unending battle against the armchair cynics and cultured critics. But he is effortlessly entertaining and an excellent Maître D of late-night TV, and that surely should count for something. I hope, on his inevitable return to the UK, we drop the pessimism and enjoy the energy and fun that Corden brings. 

Image credit: iDominick / CC BY-SA 2.0 via Wikimedia Commons