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“I don’t believe in a redemption arc for Perez Hilton” : Perez Hilton in Conversation

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Perez Hilton is saying sorry.

17 years since the rise and fall of his controversial blog, this near-universally loathed gossipmonger turned businessman and doting father of three is now offering a heartfelt apology to those he believes he has hurt.

But are we ready to forgive him? And does he care if we don’t?

There was a time when this once significant contributor to the cultural conversation was everywhere, fanning the flames of celebrity discourse wherever he went. Some loved his ‘tell-all’ approach to celebrity gossip. Most despised his vitriolic take-down of those in the limelight. Everyone knew his name.

Perez Hilton, or Mario Armando Lavandeira Jr as he was known before taking on his infamous alter ego, helped to usher in a new age of celebrity gossip. In doing so he became one of the most hated men in the world. 

“Nobody was doing what I ended up doing,” Perez tells me at the beginning of our call, “the celebrity magazines back in 2004 would just use their websites as a landing page to get people to sign up for subscriptions to the print edition. They wouldn’t break news on their sites.” 

Perez revolutionised the model, creating a blog that allowed him to break news in real time. At the press of a button he could report the latest celebrity scandal, offer up his opinion on the most recent faux pas or fashion mishap.

The way he spoke about celebrities also differed from his contemporaries. He recalls a time when celebrity discourse centred around their relatability. Magazines like US Weekly, led by pioneering figures such as Bonnie Fuller, would post photos of celebrities taking out the trash. The overriding message was that these people were just like us.

“That never interested me,” Perez tells me.

Instead he drew from the British tabloid model, known for its bite.

“The British press can [be], and often is, extremely vicious,” he tells me, “I’m sure Meghan  Markle would agree. Or Caroline Flack.”

According to Perez’s vision, celebrities weren’t just like us. They were much worse.

And so whenever there was a celebrity slip-up or an infamous fall from grace, Perez was there, ready with a salacious headline and a scathing take.

It was this radical choice of content that made Perez a household name, at least among the celebrity obsessed. His notoriety skyrocketed in 2007, which he terms “the Year of the Girl Gone Wild.” The year of Brittney Spears’ breakdown, Lindsay Lohan and Paris Hilton’s very public court dramas, the release of Kim Kardashian’s sex tape, 2007 was a gossip’s dream. 

The chaos that ensued in Hollywood, paired with Perez’s biting commentary, was a winning combination. Perez made celebrity gossip enticing. And addictive.

“I pandered to people’s basest instincts, their DNA,” he tells me, “Most everybody I know, if they’re driving their car and they see a car crash, they’re going to slow down and look and see what happened. That’s just who we are as human beings. We’re curious people.”

In the heyday of his online empire, Perez controlled the narrative of Hollywood. The heroes and the villains, the victims and the vixens, the crazies and the Brittneys, he was ruthless. Nobody was left unscathed.

His early blog posts are difficult to read now. There’s a scathing post about Lily Allen that reads Lily Allen + Motherhood = Disaster!!!, accompanied by an image of the singer, cigarette in hand. Perez has drawn a coughing baby onto Allen’s stomach. In the final line, he asks “Can’t you stick to intoxication instead of moving on to procreation?” Jennifer Anniston is frequently referred to as “MANiston”, with cruel remarks about her appearance and relationship status. Amy Winehouse is a “crackhead” and a “wino”. Most of his targets were women.

Spears was a particular favourite. Unflattering paparazzi photos of the singer are plastered across the blog. One caption reads: “this mess is still in self-destruct mode.” Another shows an image of Heath Ledger, posted shortly after his death. The caption reads: “why couldn’t it be Brittney?”

In the wake of the #FreeBrittney movement and a re-evaluation of the way we treat those in the public eye, how does he feel about the words he wrote?

He pauses for a moment, before tentatively saying, “I think that is clearly lacking in compassion. At the time I was saying what a lot of people were thinking. That and many others were unnecessarily cruel and I was being purposefully hurtful. This is why I don’t believe in a redemption arc for Perez Hilton.”

“I knew at the time what I was doing was wrong and I didn’t care. I did it anyway because I was being rewarded for bad behaviour. Like you see now with Jake Paul or Logan Paul. They’ve both been cancelled numerous times, but in 2021 Jake and Logan Paul are bigger than ever, making more money than ever, and being rewarded for their continuous bad behaviour. It’s as if I created the blueprint for the Paul brothers,” he says. 

Perez likens his obsessive reporting to an addiction, previously stating in an interview for BBC HARDtalk in November 2020, that “I was a full blown addict. And while my drug of choice was not drugs or alcohol, I was fully and severely addicted to attention.”

It’s an addiction his followers shared. “When Brittney Spears was at her wildest, people were glued to my website” he writes in his 2020 memoir. This was a two-way relationship. Perez Hilton didn’t exist in a vacuum. Even now, as I read his old posts, I can’t help but feel compelled by the narratives he constructs. There’s something very clickable about his portrayal of celebrities on the verge of a public breakdown.

Why does he think we found his content so irresistible?

“Because it makes your life seem wonderfully boring,” he tells me, “everybody’s life is messed up. Like I said, nobody is perfect. But when you are reading these wild, shocking stories, regardless of whatever drama you have, you might say…well, at least I’m not so and so or at least I’m not that person ….”

There’s a certain hypocrisy, Perez notes, in the way we respond to celebrity gossip.

“Let’s say there’s an Adele phone hack and photos or sex videos of her leaked. A lot, if not the majority, of people online are going to be looking it up to try to see that,” he tells me, “and even some of the people that might secretly look it up, publicly, they will criticise any outlet for publishing it and criticise any person for viewing that content.”

Perez reached a turning point in 2010 following an altercation with the manager of the Black Eyed Peas, Polo Molina. Molina punched Perez, after he used a homophobic slur against will.i.am. Documenting the incident in his memoir, Perez writes: “‘I need to make some changes,’ I said to myself. I really meant it.” After years of online cruelty, Perez’s reign of terror had finally come to an end.

It would be remiss to claim Perez has been incident-free in the years following. Though he maintains any mistakes he makes nowadays do not have the same malice behind them.

“Since 2010, I have made mistakes, but it’s never been my intention. My thought process has never been…I want to say something really bad about so and so. Or do something really terrible to get a reaction out of them or the public. Back to the addiction issue, it’s a constant struggle. I absolutely sometimes lapse back into old Perez. I should probably sit and think about things more often but this does not excuse my behaviour,” he tells me.

Speaking to Perez, the impression he gives is one of genuine repentance. He speaks openly about his past mistakes and takes accountability for them.

“I’m not trying to erase my past. I’m not pretending it didn’t happen. For me, I think that shows how awful I was back then. And that’s who I’m not anymore,” he says.

“I carry not just regret,” he tells me, “but also deep shame.”

He can understand why people find it difficult to believe his remorse, but this won’t stop him from apologising.

“That is one of the many things that I can and do to try and clean my karma of the past and of the present because I still make mistakes,” he tells me.

But what does this mean for the people he hurt? The irreparable damage he did?

“I don’t necessarily think that apologising is enough,” he says candidly.

“I will apologise sincerely if I believe I did something wrong and when I don’t, I won’t apologise for it. I’m not sorry for everything I did,” he continues.

What isn’t he sorry for?

“I’m not sorry for creating something out of nothing,” he replies, “Nothing was ever given to me.”

Perez also remains unrepentant for a recent TikTok scandal he’s been embroiled in. Perez was banned from the platform in December of last year, after a comment he left on a video TikTok star Charli D’Amelio had posted. In the video, D’Amelio, 15, is shown dancing in a bikini to a remix of Brockhampton’s Sugar. Perez met with backlash from D’Amelio’s extensive fanbase, after questioning whether the dance was appropriate, given the sexually explicit nature of the lyrics.

“I’m not sorry about that. At all,” he says when I bring the incident up, “because I was not slut shaming anybody. I was not body shaming anybody. I was not even trolling.”

“Me asking [if it was appropriate] is not inappropriate. Me asking that is not bullying. A year and a half later, I think perhaps what I should have done differently is directed that question at her parents, like ‘is it appropriate that her parents haven’t deleted this yet?’”, he says. 

D’Amelio’s fans retaliated. Some made videos attacking Perez. Perez’s provocative response to one such video, commenting “all these videos are getting me hard”, came under fire. The creator of the video was a minor.

“I don’t regret that either. A, I didn’t know that girl was a minor. B, that person had made multiple videos attacking me. So instead of responding with hate, I responded in a dumb, shocking way. I thought it was better than saying something negative to this person who had made so many videos hardcore attacking me.”

I can understand the sentiment, though I question whether it’s ever wise to cause such outrage for the sake of it.

“I have nothing to lose or nothing to win,” he tells me, “In the minds of people, they view me a certain way, that’s how they will always see me and, like I said, I still make mistakes. Everybody makes mistakes.”

But isn’t the usual response to at least feign some sense of shame in the face of cancellation?

“Here’s what makes me different,” he interrupts, “Most celebrities that are getting hate will ignore it. I always engage. If you go to my Twitter today, and you scroll down, and yesterday as well, you’ll see I retweet the hate. I was doing the same thing on TikTok. I engage because I know that doing that will get even more attention.”

So he’s fine playing the villain in the eyes of his critics? 

His response is characteristically provocative. “I never said I was fine with it, but I will continue to play that part until I don’t have to anymore. I don’t have ‘FU’ (“Fuck You”) money in the bank.”

Perez is committed to staying in vogue. And, for the large part, he has. While many of the names associated with him have faded into obscurity, his has endured. This is, he claims, due to his self-professed “unhealthy work ethic”. Recalling an earlier comment about the Paul brothers, I can’t help but feel as though there might be something else at play. Perez has gone to lengths to apologise for his past; the question of forgiveness is another matter.

“I don’t even need to be forgiven because I still have a career, and I’m still making money, and I’m still chatting with you right now,” he tells me, “Whether people like it or not, Perez is forever. I’m not going anywhere.”

To be forgiven is to be forgotten. Perez isn’t ready to let that happen. And, with our commitment to cancelling him, our collective outrage at every scandal he embroils himself in, and our morbid curiosity to see what comes next, neither, perhaps, are we.

Image Credit: Harry Kidd

Perez’s line of CBD gummies are available at MyTrue10.com.

Puzzles Solutions HT22 Week 0

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La Vie en Rose: New year, many me(s)

A couple days ago I went to see a Baudelaire exhibition, and as I meandered through colourful rooms full of poems about flowers and beautiful glass-eyed girls, to rooms displaying portraits of skeletons and poems about the inevitability of rotting in hell, I couldn’t help but notice a dichotomy. Now, this isn’t an essay for my French degree (don’t worry!), but rather a realisation I have had about myself. In fact, not just myself, but a select group of people. 

My whole childhood I was mesmerised by the rather magical prospect of reinvention. Every single summer I decided that they wouldn’t know what hit them and I would be a changed human. One summer it meant that after having decided that I needed a new, cool-girl laugh, I spent the next few months plaguing my friends’, teachers’ and family’s ears with a rather strange and unpleasant throaty cackle; another such renewal manifested itself in Year 7, with permanently worn galaxy leggings and fishnet gloves. I think the teachers must have thought I was just slightly odd and let me do me. They had less sympathy for cap-wearing Ron. My case was met with more pity, rightfully. (As much as I would like to say that I don’t claim her, the fishnetted galaxy girl is definitely buried deep inside and still a big part of who I am today). I know that I am not the only one with this desire to romanticise the everyday. And I think, to some degree, it’s this escapism that makes life worth living. Us Baudelairean existentialists (the select group I mentioned earlier) can’t just commit to one person, it would be too boring. Let’s move away from self-monogamy and accept our multi-sidedness.  

We’ve just entered the New Year, a wonderful period of wishful thinking, where determined self-delusion is not only expected, but compulsory. However, when writing my own riveting resolutions manifesto, I realised that the goals were all over the place, and that some completely contradicted each other. Some I wrote on days where I was feeling very much like the wrongly done main character and they went a little like “to put myself first and be more selfish”. On other days, such as when my best friend spent all morning looking for her lost earphones, (that could have been mine for all we know, even though mine are different colour and definitely on that bus I rushed out of last week), I wrote: “don’t be so selfish, be a nicer person”. And at the end of this exhibition was a quote by Baudelaire referring to “l’homo duplex”, the dual man. He says that we are composed of two different selves. And that’s exactly it. (But I actually think it’s more than two for me – rather 10). So how do I go about New Me-ing all of these Maddys? 

Glow-ups are always fun. And here in Paris, it’s easy (as long as you make sure your BFF who is also in Paris is on board, or reinventing your name at the bar and lying about being Russian can all go very South very quickly.) But this year I would like it to go beyond the various alcohol-induced “Calypso”s and “Natalya”s. If I am going to do this properly, I have to commit to all of the various real me’s. And you to all of your various and wonderful yous. So, I’ve identified a few me’s that seem to be more prominent at the minute: 

  • Me with my French Friends here: a Jane Birkin wannabe with a conveniently sexy (and thus slightly exaggerated) English accent.
  • Me with my actual Friends: a loud, ridiculous and overly-confident boisterous selfish delight.
  • Drunk me: an insufferable paraplegic. 
  • Me with my Family: an insufferable slob.
  • Me with strangers: an overly apologetic, mumbling wreck.
  • Me with the studious anti-alcohol anti-drugs housemates I live with: an intellectual who, like them, lives in the library and is opposed to heavy drinking and drugs (“I know right, it’s just so unnecessary”)

Now it is just a matter of bettering each and every one of them, with equal care and dedication. The fundamental trick for this to work is to make sure none of these various groups of people meet/interact with each other. It’s got to be within a controlled environment (It would be extremely awkward if your drunk self told the fit stranger at the club that you’re a Calvin Klein model and then it turns out he’s good friends with someone you know who later informed him that this is, in fact, not true. Not that I would know, but hypothetically speaking I can imagine that would be a little embarrassing).  

I am aware this is all veering towards the ludicrous, but – all jokes aside –  coming to Paris made me fixate on this New Me concept and I tried and aborted certain Maddys along the way. I’ve come to the conclusion that it doesn’t work if you espouse a self that isn’t really you. Why invent a new one when there are already so many brilliant ‘you’s’ to choose from. There is a fine line between the adulting task of networking, and just being a big one-woman show with ten different parts and thirty different wigs. But can I be blamed? It’s hard enough being alone with my ADHD/OCD mind, I need my many selves to spice things up in there. This is really not about being fake. There’s nothing fake in accepting your duality. I was talking to my friend who agrees that there is already a detach from one’s “real” self, especially in another country because of the language barrier. You’re a slightly altered being when in a new lexical world. 

A psychological analysis may well conclude that this stems from a place of deep-set insecurity and some form of unresolved past trauma, sure. My personal anthem Bittersweet Symphony states “I’m a million different people from one day to the next” – so I will carry on bettering the various different me’s in unison. But my favourite me is one I’ve not yet mentioned: the me of early childhood who had no conception of (and therefore cared not for) who she was and was everyone and everything just as and when she pleased. 

Image Credit: Kevinbism / Pizabay

Douze Points: Defying the odds, Eurovision’s biggest disappointments

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According to the famous ABBA song, the winner takes it all. Yet as the undoubtedly most famous act to have won Eurovision, it’s no wonder they’d sing about winning. Whilst the Eurovision Song Contest has its fair share of incredible winners, many of the competing songs seem destined to be forgotten once the credits start rolling. But what about, specifically, those songs that were expected to do something special and then didn’t? Here are some of the songs that for one reason or another didn’t have that special moment on the big night.

A special mention needs to be given to all those acts who didn’t even make it to the Eurovision stage, especially those in 2021. Unfortunately we will never know if they were destined for musical greatness, or if audiences at home would have been leaving to put the kettle on. 

Whilst for most casual fans of the contest Eurovision is merely a three-hour affair, those who are more invested will follow it for weeks and even months; watching national selections and pre-contest parties. Because of this there is usually a pretty good indication of who will do well before rehearsals even begin. And in 2017 the favourite going into the contest was Italy, represented by Francesco Gabbani with the song ‘Occidentali’s Karma’ (Westerner’s Karma).

It’s easy to understand Italy’s popularity in this contest and why it was expected by many to do well. The song itself was a criticism of materialist lifestyle and the attempted westernisation of aspects of other cultures, with references to Buddhism in the song’s chorus. The staging as well was simple and effective, whilst also cohesively working with the song. And who wouldn’t find a dancing gorilla memorable? 

However it was not to be for Gabbani, and he had to settle with a respectable sixth-place, with Portugal ultimately winning with the stunningly beautiful Amar Pelos Dois; incidentally this was Portugal’s first victory. On stage Gabbani’s performance seemed somewhat empty, and the dancing gorilla was more cliched than entertaining.

Moving forward a few years, in 2019 Tamara Todevska’s song Proud gave North Macedonia it’s best ever result – seventh place. This might seem a slightly odd inclusion in this list, but stay with me on this one. Tamara went into the contest sitting at fifteenth place in the odds. However, she quickly impressed with a moving performance of female empowerment, delivered with truly impressive vocals. Once the voting started, it began looking like a three horse race between North Macedonia, Sweden and The Netherlands.

In the end, it was The Netherlands who won overall, but Sweden topped the jury voting on the night, with North Macedonia only a few points behind. Or so it seemed. It was not until after the contest that it came out the Belarussian jury had incorrectly calculated their points, and that North Macedonia should’ve won the jury. Whilst this didn’t have too much of an impact on the overall results, it did rob Tamara the joy of realising she had been the jury’s favourite on the night, a truly well-earned accolade.

The 2021 contest witnessed not one, but two surprisingly disappointing results in both San Marino and Croatia. Perhaps the former of these was the most surprising. It’s safe to say that I, alongside many others, were unbelievably surprised to discover that the microstate had managed to get Flo Rida to feature on their act. Unsurprisingly this led to them racing up the odds, and many were anticipating that Senhit and Flo Rida would give San Marino it’s best ever result with their song Adrenalina. 

I can distinctly remember watching the contest and just before the hosts gave San Marino its points from the televote, turning to my friends and telling them to expect a huge score. It turns out I couldn’t have been more wrong, as San Marino received a meagre 13 points from the viewers at home. We were astounded. To this day I’m not sure how this song was so poorly received. One particularly farfetched theory that I heard was that the viewers at home believed that the Sammarinese act was actually the interval due to both them performing last and the presence of Flo Rida. I’m not quite sure whether this is true. If I had to take a guess, the reason for San Marino’s poor performance was probably just due to its rather chaotic staging, and maybe the song just didn’t connect with viewers at home.

Finally, we have Croatia who in 2021 was represented by Albina with the very aptly named song Tick-Tock. For a song with a name so relevant and current, you would have anticipated it would do well. Both the juries and televoters from semi-final one certainly thought so and wanted to see it in the final. Yet due to the intricacies of the voting system, Croatia did not find itself being one of the ten countries qualifying for the final. Whilst Tick-Tock was by no means one of my favourite songs in the contest, it nevertheless was incredibly disappointing for such a catchy and enjoyable song with a stylish staging to miss out on the final in such a way.

At the end of the day, Eurovision is a contest and there inevitably will be acts who don’t perform as well as some were expecting. However this is part of the entertainment; if the results were consistently as expected, would millions really be tuning in to watch?

Brain Freeze: The C word waltz

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CW: Cancer, surgery.

So I’m talking to someone, right. Say I don’t really know them. Well maybe I do, a bit. A friend of a friend. My name’s been mentioned in conversations, I’ve been told I have to meet them. That kind of thing. So anyway, we’re talking, and I let something slip – mention that I’ve taken a year out of uni, or even worse say something stupid. Something along the lines of “Oh yeah, I tried bran flakes for the first time in hospital”. 

Oooooooh shit. Deboraaaaaa. You were doing the normal thing tonight. You promised yourself when you were doing your makeup before the party that you’d be Normal Debora with No Significantly Shocking Medical History. But you did it. It’s hard, to be fair, to pretend it never happened. And you know what, why should you pretend, why should you hide it because it was awful and how can you hide that?

Yeah sure, there’s that whole angle. Transparency for whatever reason: raising awareness about brain tumours, destigmatising it all, getting clout for your trauma. But I remember very quickly why I wanted to hide my dramatic medical history. Because as soon as the words emerge from my mouth and hit the eardrums of my conversation partner, a cringe inducing, exhausting, I-want-to-scream-into-a-pillow provoking dance begins. An awkward dance, a minefield to navigate. The C Word Waltz. It’s what I call the weird conversation that is initiated when someone realises that an Actual Former Cancer Patient is standing in front of them, and they don’t know how to respond because we don’t exist in a society that has productive conversations about cancer (no, The Fault in Our Stars doesn’t count). Now, dear reader, the preferred choreography of The C Word Waltz varies from person to person, but because I am a kind teacher, I will take you through a few different iterations.

There is the “Doe-Eyed Shock” version. They genuinely had no idea and don’t know exactly what happened but get the vibe that it was something bad. “You don’t have to talk about it” they say. I truly appreciate the sensitivity, but I know for a fact that they would get an inaccurate retelling of the story from someone else and stare at me from across the room all night in fear. I give in and quickly tell them. They’ll get quite upset and I’ll actually feel bad for them because my trauma is so traumatic, and I’ll end up comforting them even though I’m the one that had cancer. This is overall a harmless interpretation of the Waltz, although I don’t enjoy feeling guilty when they get sad that I had cancer.

Up next, we have one that makes me seethe with white hot rage. The Waltz performed in the “Oh Yeah, I Know” style. They nod knowingly and play it cool – “Oh yeah, [so and so] told me”. Oh my god. Shut up. Literally shut up. What a great way of telling me that you’ve been gossiping about me, you annoying little – I sound bitter? Sorry, lovely reader. It’s because I am.

Next up we have the “Overfamiliar Arrogance”, and it’s perhaps the one with the highest success rate of making me quite upset. They think I’ll feel more at ease if they add a little bit of humour into the equation, and make a joke about it all. I find that people often do this when they’re faced with something that they can’t really relate to. I’ve seen it happen to a whole range of people who, for some reason or other, have an inherent difference to the person they’re talking to. It’s the kind of exchange that makes me go to the bathroom and dry heave afterwards. Here’s the thing that lovers of this particular interpretation of the Waltz need to understand. If someone has a scab, they’re allowed to pick at it. Make jokes about it. But under no circumstances can you do that if you aren’t familiar with how the person with the injury treats their wound.

I lied when I said that one was the most upsetting, because a very close contender is the “I Knew Someone Who Had That and They Had a Really Painful Death and/or Suffered a Lot” version. Honourable mentions go to the following: “Holy Shit That’s Awful” (fair enough, it was pretty bad), the “But Are You Okay Now?” (I mean I don’t have the brain tumour anymore, but I’m really traumatised, and I know you don’t want to hear about that) and the “Oh Yeah I Read Your Column It Was So Good” (this is great and not enough people say this even though it’s the least you could do).

And it’s weird, to be honest, these feelings that I have around the Waltz. Because sometimes I think that I bring it on myself by being so open about it all. I once asked an oncologist: “How do I explain it all to people when I go back to university?”. She very plainly replied: “You don’t have to tell anyone”. And she was right, I didn’t have to. But the thing is, I did. And I still do. The reason that I hate The C Word Waltz is the very reason why I need to keep talking about it. Someone has to do the awkward dance, so that the choreography runs smoother for the next person. We live in a world where cancer is seen as something so awful that you can’t talk about it, you just furrow your brows in sympathy or say something stupid to mask your discomfort. But you don’t have to do that. Now, my sweet reader, if we see each other at a party and this conversation comes up – ask questions, show genuine emotion. But don’t tell me about your pet that died from the same type of cancer that I had.

Image Credit: Waltz at the Bal Mabille / CC PDM 1.0 (Public Domain)

Arrogant, Offensive Truth Twisters: Don’t cry for me, Britannia

“Right guys, place your bets, how long do you think it’ll take Fiónn to become a Tory?”

It was a cold January morning in my year 13 Spanish class. My Sixth Form was buzzing as it was the fateful day that Oxford decisions were being released, and I was one of the lucky ones. My Spanish teacher allowed for a gleeful five minutes at the start to break the good news- that was when my friend jokingly piped up with the proposition that attending the alma mater of our incumbent Prime Minister would drive me to abandon my long-held reputation in my school as the local commie. My teacher even joined in, giving it two terms. 

Anyone who knows me knows that you can’t get through a conversation without a mention of my ingrained dislike of the Conservative Party. It’s something that is so entrenched inside of my philosophy, influenced by both my upbringing and my own personal experiences. Growing up with two Northern Irish Catholic parents who worked in universities under the coalition, combined with a large extended family full of doctors, academics and public servants, socialist principles were always prominent. I don’t think I could have turned out any other way. 

Hence why it is no surprise that I’ve proudly held Labour Party membership since the age of fourteen. Whilst it is by no means a perfect party, I joined in the belief that it was the party which truly wanted to make Britain a country that worked for everyone. It is the party that passed the Race Relations Act, the Abortion Act, the Equal Pay Act, that decriminalised homosexuality, repealed Section 28 and pioneered devolution. It is a party that has always aspired to create a better Britain, one with the interests of ordinary people at its heart.

And I was reminded of these reasons when tuning in to a highly anticipated round of Prime Minister’s Questions on the 5th January 2022, straight off the back of the energy crisis and the discovery of a series of lockdown parties that took place on the property of the British executive. With Keir Starmer in isolation, a ferocious Angela Rayner stepped up and rightly tore into Boris Johnson, laying out his government’s myriad of failures, lies and incompetence in a spectacular fashion. You could hear it in her voice: she wasn’t doing this to grab headlines, promote corporate interests, or secure support from some self-indulgent, merciless autocrat. Her anger came from her care for the British people: how their own government was stabbing them in their backs whilst laughing in their face. As she said in a tweet, her responses showed the benchmark of a good politician: integrity, honesty and decency. Antithetical to the practises, ideology and visions of the Conservatives. That is a fact. 

Widespread, bi-partisan fury at the string of scandals gripping Downing Street in the last few months is evidently justified. NHS staff doing exhausting 12 hour shifts, people having to say goodbye to their loved ones over Zoom, small business owners watching their life’s work crumble before their very eyes, all whilst those who set their rules laughed, drank and danced the night away, trampling the British peoples’ trust and sacrifices whilst doing so. They continued laughing as they attempted to cover them up, jousting amongst themselves as if they were the administrators of some sup-par university meme page. It’s infuriating. It’s disgusting. It’s a national disgrace. But one thing it certainly isn’t, is a surprise. 

Let’s focus on the Crony-in-Chief himself, Boris Johnson. It’s no secret that the man in charge of making the most important decisions in this country has a somewhat loose relationship not just with the truth, but with standards of decent human behaviour. As a journalist and editor for the Spectator, he repeatedly lied, and not only permitted grotesquely offensive material to be published, such as the racism of Taki Theodoracopulos, but actually authored a good chunk of it himself. I wonder what he would think of the ‘tank topped bum boy’ writing this article, breathing the same Balliol air that he so mightily did all those years ago? Of course, too, who could forget that £350 million lie plastered on the side of the red bus that drove Britain off of the Brexit cliff, with him in the driver’s seat? His branding of Muslim women wearing the burqa as ‘letterboxes’? His referral to Emily Thornberry as “Lady Nugee”? His grand proclamation that inequality is “essential”? His description of a salary of £250,000 per annum as ‘chicken feed’? And more recently, on top of his apparently forgetful parties, his awarding of PPE contracts to his close mates, and his call to let the bodies ‘pile high in their thousands’? I forgive you if you in fact forgot all of this, since it seems Johnson himself has a hard time doing so. The worst thing is, I could go on, though I don’t think the good editors of Cherwell deserve that. 

Let me spell out some facts here, which as we’ve seen is a concept with which Johnson is vehemently unfamiliar. He is not ‘Boris’, or ‘Bojo’, or the man who brought bikes to London.  He is not some asinine, harmless caricature of a bumbling yet loveable politician, who we can all raise a glass to at Port and Policy. He is a deeply insidious, dangerous, lying, incompetent, amoral, elitist, discriminatory crook, who does not deserve to lick the floors of Parliament, let alone command it. He is responsible for some of the biggest failures this country has seen in centuries, the COVID-19 pandemic serving as a prime example. And no, he did not do his best. Boris Johnson does not have a ‘best’. At every twist and turn in his shambolic career, he has proven himself as someone incapable and undeserving of representing the people of this nation. Nevertheless, they voted for him. They followed his lead in the Brexit referendum, and they voted for him as an MP, as Mayor of London, and as Prime Minister in a landslide majority in 2019. If you ticked blue for any of those elections, there’s a simple message for you too. You can’t get angry about a wholly predictable breach of COVID-19 regulations, when you were so comfortable with sexism, racism, islamophobia, homophobia, elitism and cronyism, and all the other acts he and his party have done. Reprehensible people tend to continue to do reprehensible things if they know they can get away with it. And that is why Johnson is not resigning- he knows he will get away with it. 

Luckily for me, my Spanish class or teacher won’t be seeing a penny, since every day I spend in the institution that has bred, and continues to breed, so many people like Boris Johnson confirms that I made the right decision aged fourteen, as did my parents and grandparents who have proudly never given a single penny or vote to the band of cronies. For all Labour’s downfalls, the one thing the party has today is decency and respect for the British people. I’m proud to say that I haven’t spent my days at University cosying up in the privileged bubble of OUCA, as I, like the government, dance and drink and laugh as the world crumbles for so many ordinary, decent people. Though No.10 must be proud, since it appears with the scandals of Michaelmas Term 2021 that disregard for the values of financial honesty and proper conduct is something which OUCA, too, appears to follow

So, Britain, spare me crocodile tears. Don’t act surprised and outraged when you knew this would happen. Next time, act. Or don’t! It’s your choice, but don’t you dare complain about the consequences. 

Image Credit: Annika Haas / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

Hindi and Urdu: A language divided, or a shared history destroyed?

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CW: Violence

I was in Tesco last week, looking at the tomatoes. A man to my right commented on the ripeness of the peppers. I made a good-humoured reply – the tomatoes weren’t pakka hua either. He told me my Urdu was good; I told him I was speaking Hindi.

With the regime of Hindutva and the increasing tension between India and Pakistan, it’s now more important than ever to examine the linguistic history of the two languages that embody one of the largest, bloodiest mass migrations of human history.

Hindustani is a Persian term meaning ‘land of the Indus (river)’. The term was used at certain points in history to refer to all of the Northern Indian subcontinent. It is also the name given to the Hindi-Urdu language. This is a pluri-centric language, meaning a single language of two different standard varieties, that arose from the Hindustani region. A native speaker will likely separate the two and assert whether they speak Hindi or Urdu based on their national identity; in India and Pakistan, language heavily denotes culture.

Hindustani, or Hindi, or Urdu, areis/are (an) Indo-Aryan language(s), descending from Sanskrit and its evolved Prakrit. Yes, the grammar in that sentence is as confused as I am.

Between the 7th and 13th centuries, the subcontinent was ruled heavily by Central Asian Turkish invaders, who brought with them the Persian language, religion, and literary traditions. The Persian language of the elite and the Arabic of religion influenced the lay-person’s Prakrit and Hindustani was born in Delhi.

When the Mughal Empire was established in 1526, uniting most of the subcontinent, Hindustani became the lingua franca. The degree of influence that Arabic and Persian had over the language varied between local areas. Muslim communities grew to write in the Perso-Arabic script, nastaliq, whilst Hindu communities favoured the devanagari, derived from Sanskrit. By the end of the Mughal rule in the 18th century, Hindustani had replaced Persian amongst the society’s elite.

This was the period in which the literary language flourished, with the emergence of revered writers like Amir Khusrow and Surdas. The Persian variety of Hindustani came to be associated with fine art and literature, and this still holds true in culture today.

When the British colonised India, the language of the East India Company was chosen to be English and Hindustani, of the Persian variety. They gave it the name ‘Zaban-e-Urdu’, the ‘language of the [army] camp’ because it is said to have been created through communication between the Persian soldiers and the native merchants.

When the British made the official script the nastaliq, they established religious and linguistic borders between the population through the Hindi-Urdu controversy of 1867. They enforced this segregation 80 years before establishing the hard country border.

And so, even before the country was split, the tongue was split.

Hindustani, alongside an estimated two million people, became caught in the crossfire of Partition. Nationalist ideologies encouraged linguistic purism, with India’s Hindi purging itself of Perso-Arabic influence and Pakistan’s Urdu purging itself of Sanskrit (in the standard written form at least).

In 1973, The New York Times wrote about how a ‘Decline of Urdu [is] Feared in India’, recognising the ‘political and religious ties’ of the language to an Islamic Pakistan. The article reported on the politicisation of the language in post-Partition India. It ends on a quote from Professor Anjum stating that the British “resorted to every device that could create a gulf between the Hindus and Muslims”, not even sparing language in their attack.

The decrease in the prevalence of Urdu persists to this day. Between 2001 and 2011, Indian census reports show a further decline in Urdu speakers with less than 4.2% claiming it as their mother tongue.

The article from The New York Times  fearing a rise in ‘intolerance’, for lack of a better word, still rings true. The Islamophobic shunning of the language is reflective of the political stance India takes towards its Muslim population and neighbours.

It is strange to think that there are fewer and fewer people in the Indian subcontinent who could read and understand the literature that traces India and Pakistan’s shared history. Take for example the Urdu poetry of Bismil Azimabadi, whose Sarfaroshi Ki Tamanna (1921) became a war cry for Independence. The poem reflects on the wake of British atrocities, one of the most painful of which was the Jallianwala Bhaga massacre of 1917. During the Jallianwala Bhaga massacre, Colonel Reginald Dyer emptied 1,600 rounds of ammunition into an unarmed congregation.

The poem is an ode to young freedom fighters, often associated with those belonging to the inter-war period, like Ram Prasad Bismil and Bhagat Singh. Indeed, Ram Prasad Bismil sung the poem in the gallows on 19 December 1927, before being hanged for mutiny. It is written as a gazal, a Persian poetic form, and uses heavily Persianized vocabulary, including the phrase ‘shaheed-e-mulk-o-millat’ to praise the country as a ‘nation of martyrs’.

I could not understand it without a translation.

I wonder whether India’s government, with its growing intolerance, would still claim it as a patriotic poem.

This said, it should be noted that language does not immediately correspond to religion. Not all Muslims in the subcontinent speak Urdu. Not all Hindus speak Hindi. But the variations of the language that is spoken does suggest the cultural and religious identity of the speaker. An Urdu speaker would identify more greatly with Islamic and Persian heritage and literary traditions than the Hindu Sanskrit traditions of Hindi.

Urdu is not the Pakistani language, nor is Hindi the Indian. Urdu and English are the official languages of Pakistan, but only 8% of the population claim to be native speakers of Urdu. In fact, Punjabi is much more widely spoken across the country. Hindi and English are the official languages of India, but each state and union territory is free to choose their own official language; eight have chosen Urdu.

What I hope to bring to the forefront here — and what I’ve been thinking about since meeting that man in Tesco — is how much Hindi and Urdu appear to me as conjoined twins. Neither would exist without this incredible fusion of Persian, Arabic, and Sanskrit. Both languages exist in a spectrum with the ‘shudh’ (pure) Hindi and Urdu existing on the extreme ends, and the colloquial in the mutually intelligible centre. They have the same beating heart. To separate the twins would be a major surgical operation, through which both countries would lose an incredible amount of their shared history.

In terms of script, what haunts me is that the middle ground might be the English transliteration. This would be one way that the Urdu and Hindi literate, with their different scripts, could communicate by the written word. Maybe even language cannot heal from colonial trauma.

I hope to meet that man again in Tesco. Maybe we will talk about the ripeness of the tomatoes and peppers again, but I know for sure that I will think twice about being so quick to assert my Hindi linguistic identity, as though it proves my Indian cultural identity.

As the smoke burns down to my fingers

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CW: mild references to self-harm and body horror

Cinders, smoulders, ruin on earth

Like throats that grab me by the – wait – 

And haul me slow through rough and tar 

And scratch me flying up and up,

(Easy now, cantabile)

Singing night.

Whirling day, birth of thought

That far outstretch this meagre meet

Of eyes that swim and fill with ash

To blink a bloodshot world away

And drink in rough, and burn, and heat

Until she comes to kiss the dark.

I’d go gladly, by the end.

Artwork: Ben Beechener

Reading for pleasure: Unrealistic expectations

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Since I started secondary school, reading for pleasure kept eluding me. Or maybe I was avoiding it. As a hobby, reading should be enjoyable. But for me, until very recently, reading was becoming less and less of a hobby. After always having to read for a purpose – the purpose of turning reading into something else (usually something useful or productive) – it has become so difficult to really sit down and get lost in a book. This realisation only came to me near the end of last year, when picking up a book became a chore because I could only associate it with work. 

There used to be three main reasons as to why I would read: firstly, for educational purposes, and as a historian, I can’t avoid this. I didn’t feel like I was even keeping up with the bare minimum of reading for my degree, and I was crossing off hardly any books on those ludicrously long reading lists. How could I allow myself the luxury of reading something for fun? 

Then there were the books I would read to fulfill the arbitrarily high Goodreads challenge that I would set for myself every year, often short, easy reads which I wouldn’t even digest properly. I read some books that, looking back on it, I might have really enjoyed, had I not zoomed through them in order to get my reading progress bar to move forwards (and for Goodreads to say ’12 books behind your goal’ rather than 13). 

And thirdly, and perhaps the most stupid category, were the books that I read to seem intellectual, when in reality I had absolutely no idea what Rousseau or Seneca or whoever were going on about. It felt like my time was limited by some abstract, unrealistic demands, and when I wanted to relax, reading would not be my preferred method because I no longer associated it with enjoyment. Of course, occasionally I enjoyed some of these reads, but enjoyment was never the primary purpose; either I read because I was obliged to, or for the sake of seeming ‘well-read’. 

So after having come to this rather depressing conclusion: that I was deriving virtually no pleasure from reading, I set myself a new challenge at the beginning of the holidays: to read books for fun. But given that this was not something I had done before, I wasn’t sure what I enjoyed (did I really enjoy that book or did I just say I did because that’s what I’m supposed to say?). And so, I turned to friends and family, hoping that we had similar enough taste for me to enjoy their recommendations. 

By reading such a diversity of literature, I discovered the genres that I actually enjoyed. In particular, I dived into a lot of foreign literature (foreign by English standards), and I read many works by foreign authors about foreign countries, transporting me through the ages and across the world. 

Two books I particularly enjoyed were A Suitable Boy by Vikram Seth and Autumn Light by Pico Iyer. A Suitable Boy was terrifying at first because of how long it was (over 1500 pages) – the fear of thick books is very real for me. But somehow, I managed to read it in a week. I was pleasantly surprised at how quickly I read this book, but it was unputdownable, even when the most mundane details of each character were being described. Autumn Light was much shorter but was also a very slow book: a memoir about facing aging and the death of loved ones, but simultaneously an ode to autumn in Japan. 

Of course, I still turn to terrible Netflix TV shows when I want to relax a bit, but I’m slowly beginning to turn to literature too, because now I read books that I know I will enjoy. And a lucky bonus from all of this is that since I’m actually reading books I enjoy, I’m no longer embarrassingly behind on my Goodreads challenge.

Image Credit: CC0 Public Domain // Max Pixel

Campaigners question potential government sale of £200m Oxford vaccine centre

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A vaccine centre in Harwell, near Oxford, has been put up for sale by the government, prompting questions from MPs and observers about the implications of such a move. The Vaccine Manufacturing Innovation Centre (VMIC) was at the heart of the government’s efforts to respond to future pandemics.

Creation of the VMIC began in 2018, when the government, in concert with the University of Oxford and other university and industry partners, announced plans for a state-backed entity to produce vaccines and manage pandemics. It was planned for completion in 2023, but progress sped up for a Spring 2022 opening amid the coronavirus pandemic.

Some campaigners have referred to the centre as a “crown jewel” and worry that privatizing the vaccine centre will stymie future vaccine manufacturing efforts. Some that have worked closely with the VMIC have said that it greatly accelerated Oxford’s vaccine programme and contributed to saving lives.

Government officials in support of the sale have said that additional investment is needed to complete the VMIC, which can come from private buyers instead of public coffers. Furthermore, the need for a state-backed vaccine manufacturing centre has gone down, as the private sector has shown its ability to quickly develop and distribute vaccines to the wider public.

The Financial Times reported that at least four companies have placed bids for the VMIC, including biotechnology company Oxford BioMedica, a Swiss healthcare manufacturer, and a Japanese conglomerate.

Prime Minister Boris Johnson told the House of Commons: “I think what we’re doing is investing hundreds of millions to make sure we have a dynamic vaccine industry. Clearly government needs to work hand in glove with the private sector as we have done.”

Image: Daniel Schludi