Image Description: A high heel stepping on a disco ball
Hello and welcome to Nia and Anna’s bid for next year’s top 40 BNOC list. This week was tough. We agonised over what to name this, our weekly round of nonsense (tragically rejecting ‘Two Girls, One Column’). We sent networking emails to people who would spit at us in the street. We launched ourselves into gonzo journalism, a genre we are well suited to as we are ourselves cunts. Having worked ourselves to the point of minor bother, we are now happy to present our intensive investigations into various Oxford scenes.
Our week started off as all good weeks do: working at the Mansfield Ball, which included being accused of stealing people’s silent disco headphones (yes, you caught me, I was jealous of how cool you looked singing Maroon 5’s Payphone to no music) and being stared at in utter dismayed disgust at having the audacity to check someone’s ticket. A short shift and a couple of failed collections later, we were ready to spend our weekend socialising – or at least, hiding in the corner with our feet turned inwards and our fringes over our eyes.
We started our research on Oxford’s political scene at the great, iconic bastion of Oxford debate; one often criticised for its saturation with the nation’s elites, the OULC (Oxford University Labour Club). The room was decked out in Ed Balls decor; a man who, given the time he spent at Oxford setting up his own elite dining society, was a natural choice for the Labour club’s favourite man of the people. Upon entry, the speakers in the welcome drinks were blasting ‘Common People’ – a song which is meaningful to many members, who could relate to it because they too study sculpture. As we ourselves spend our time studying the linguistic turn and Plato’s Republic, we can always respect anything without direct practical use. After having a bit of fun the Labour club way – dancing and drinking Stella with the label facing outwards – we make the oft-travelled journey from Labour Club to the Union (and quickly realise that the Labour club wasn’t so bad). To be fair to the Labour club, at least they have a basic respect for human rights and dignity – tune in next week for our encounter at the Conservative Association’s weekly Port and Policy, if we aren’t too scared of lawyer fathers.
Upon entering the Union, we realise that we missed the message in the group chat telling everyone to come in beige chinos. Still, the night isn’t lost – they reassure us with the message that drinks only cost £2.50, which is a relief for an audience who just barely scraped together £300 to attend this great institution. We are told about this term’s lineup; you can alternate your celebrations of Indian and Pakistani independence with an appearance by Capital FM’s Roman Kemp. We are also told that the monarchy will be debated, exciting news for royal correspondents, who might actually find something to do with their time aside from the important business of discussing whether Kate inherited her tights from Diana. They also tell us about their upcoming ‘how to get involved in the Union’ event, which we are sure will include helpful advice on how to be born wealthy and make attending private school on a bursary sound like a burden.
” A short shift and a couple of failed collections later, we were ready to spend our weekend socialising – or at least, hiding in the corner with our feet turned inwards and our fringes over our eyes.”
The Union’s debate of the week was ‘This house believes Stormzy is more relevant than Boris’. For now, let’s set aside the worries we had going in, like ‘how do you define relevance?’, and ‘houses don’t believe they’re inanimate objects’?! The Union affectionately refers to the PM as ‘Boris’, as if he were their port-filled uncle they see every other Christmas, gifting them a shotgun and the fruitless promise to take them out on a hunting trip, much like the experience of his own children. The speeches were largely thoughtful, thought-provoking, and thought-based. There were, however, a few ‘points of interest’. The first speaker argued that Stormzy was relevant to more people than Johnson, stating eloquently that Stormzy had appeal in marginalised communities. She went on to claim that her mum writes fan mail to Dave. Her mum put her head in her hands, hiding her grin. She had successfully convinced her 20 year old daughter that the Dave that keeps popping up on her phone is ‘Dave’, not just a Dave. Things took a turn for the worse when she tried to end her case that Stormzy was managing to tackle elitism in politics on a triumphant note – by using a Winston Churchill quote, whom we can’t imagine is Stormzy’s idea of a voice for the disenfranchised.
Though the Union’s choice to invite a criminality professor and gang expert to criticise grime was an interesting choice, to say the least, both made compelling cases, and are worth watching when they’re uploaded.
Another speaker outlines the sheer extent of Stormzy’s influence and praises his success. A boy stands up hand raised, ready to launch into a stream of prissy piss. The speaker turns: ‘You’re not Kanye West, sit down’. He blushingly lowers himself, like he’d received a stern talking to from his nanny after misjudging what should have been one of his safer danger wanks given the many many flights of stairs between him and her. The debate was then opened to speakers from the floor – the floodgates opened and the raw sewage gushed out. A claim is thrown into the room that ‘we can all name works by Rembrandt- can’t we? A game of Tory never have I ever had commenced; instead of hiding that we hadn’t taken coke or had anal sex, we tried to hide our poor knowledge of art history. With a Union term card in hand and a weakened sense of self-confidence, we headed home.
“…they reassure us with the message that drinks only cost £2.50, which is a relief for an audience who just barely scraped together £300 to attend this great institution.”
Still to come was Wadstock, which was like its namesake but with less drugs, less sex and less rock n’ roll. If you remember it, you probably were there, but you also probably had a nice time. People took strategic wee breaks as the bands alternated between originals and covers. As midnight approached we were reminded this was not supposed to be fun, but instead a Bear Grylls-esque challenge, only instead of drinking your own piss you’re expected to consume caffeine, coke, or both dissolved in the sweat that drops into your mouth from the Plush ceiling. This was the pres for the great Oxford tradition when every 1st of May the whole of Oxford reduces themselves to the thirteen year old at a sleepover who asks into the darkness every ten minutes if anyone else is asleep yet. For those who don’t know, May Day consists of being awake for longer than usual. It’s as good as it sounds.
If you’re wondering why we celebrate May Day, for the Romans it was to honour the Roman goddess of flowers, for Christians it was the Virgin Mary, and for modern Oxford students, if Cherwell had their way, it’s to crowd outside Magdalen hoping for a glimpse of University sweetheart Daniel Dipper. We were flagging and the plush ceiling called so that was our next destination while we waited for 6am. We left Plush with blistered feet and soggy hair and made our way to the bridge. Struck by delirium we listened to the voice of god echoing from Magdalen tower.
Thus ends our tales. See you next week readers, we hope you both have a good one.
Image Credit: cottonbro via Pexels
.jpg){kind=link}
