Monday 1st December 2025
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Intoxtigation 2025: The good, the bad, and the Balliol bar  

Pour out a glass for the second annual Intoxtigation. 562 respondents told Cherwell all about where, when, why, and how much Oxford students are drinking. Now it’s time to reveal the results. The best bar, the best drink, the most alcoholic course, college, and year, and some of the wildest stories – you’ll find it all below. 

Before we begin, a note on data: it is difficult to work out how much people are drinking from a self-reported survey. Few consider their drinking in terms of units, but there aren’t many other reliable metrics from which it can be estimated. We went with the number of days drinking per week, with an additional question on how many days respondents drank specified numbers of units. We also asked how many days they had been drinking in week 4, in order to compare perception with reality (respondents were surprisingly on the money). In estimating intensity, we also looked at where people were drinking. As a result, this survey is not claiming to be a perfect encapsulation of every drop of alcohol consumed within Oxford. It’s a tour around attitudes, anecdotes, and habits in drinking. 

We received responses from every college, but excluded colleges from rankings when they were based on fewer than seven responses (Merton College, Mansfield College, St Catherine’s College, and Trinity College).

The colleges ranked

New College was the booziest college in Oxford, with the average student drinking on 3.62 days per week. Second and third place were taken by Jesus and Christ Church, closely following with 3.5 and 3.1 days respectively. Other strong contenders included St John’s (3.1), The Queen’s (2.9), Balliol (2.86) and St Hilda’s (2.71). 

At the other end of the spectrum were Lady Margaret Hall (2.33), Corpus Christi (2.32), Keble (2.31), and St Edmund Hall (2.20). Ultimately, the three most teetotal colleges (or PPHs) were Regent’s Park (1.71), St Anne’s (1.78), and Worcester (2.19). For Regent’s, however, this may have just been efficiency, rather than sobriety; for three respondents, at least one of those days would exceed 14 units (the NHS recommended limit for a week). 

Yet our survey also showed the gap between perception and reality. Our respondents thought the tipsiest colleges would be Balliol, St Peter’s, and – as our evidence revealed – the fairly sober Teddy Hall. It’s possible a great bar doesn’t always translate to more drinking…

The courses ranked

Most alcoholic course was a different story. Stereotypes about hard-working STEM students and no-contact-hours humanities students were generally confirmed, but with some notable exceptions. The most sober course (with 1.86 days spent drinking per week) was Theology and Religion – perhaps that one day was a Sunday. Aside from this, the sciences dominated: Maths (1.90), Physics (2.05), Human Sciences (2.07), Biochemistry (2.09), Earth Sciences (2.11), and Experimental Psychology (2.11). 

By contrast, climbing up the alcoholism ladder were Classics (2.65), the STEM-outlier Biomedical Sciences (2.65), English (2.85), History (2.88), PPE (3) and Law at an average of 3.08 days per week. The most intoxicated course, however, bucked all trends. With an average of 3.14 drunken days per week, Engineering Science students seemingly just can’t put the bottle down, topping the leaderboard as the drunkest degree. Not a great sign for our future buildings and bridges. 

Location, location, location 

So where exactly are our students doing all this drinking? Our data suggests that Oxford students are nothing if not consistent in their favourite watering holes. Despite all the buzz regarding rising pub prices, college bars and pubs are still essentially neck-and-neck as the city’s favourite locations. Respondents were asked where they drank the most, which we then compared to how many days they drank. Respondents who drank most in college bars drank an average of 3.04 days a week, narrowly beating pubs (3.01). Clubs trailed behind the two at 2.77 (must be all those blacked-out rounds of shots), followed by drinking in college accommodation at 2.48. 

Despite stereotypes of lonely and overworked Oxonians, only 0.08% of respondents reported primarily drinking alone, half of whom were at Merton, and over half of whom reported drinking primarily due to emotions or essays. Statistics which, if nothing else, are worrying in their existence, but reassuring in their proportion. 

What is interesting is not where people drink, but how little concern about cost seems to affect the choice. Weekly expenditure was nearly identical between mainly drinking in pubs (£23), college bars (£23), and clubs (£22). Even drinking in college accommodation averaged out to £16 pounds per week. The only real outlier was drinking alone (£8), which stubbornly resisted Oxford’s rapid inflation and remained alluringly affordable. In other words, Oxford students are seemingly willing to spend roughly the same amount regardless of location, suggesting that convenience, culture, and company matter more in choosing where to drink. 

A Balliol bartender told Cherwell that people drink whatever is cheapest, which at Balliol is Hobgoblin. She did not have glowing things to say about the taste of the drink. On the other hand, a St Hilda’s bartender reported a broad range of popular drinks: “We started selling San Miguel this term and it’s ridiculously popular. The only thing that comes close to it is Stella to be honest – although on the cocktails side our passionfruit martini goes down a storm. We also get loads of requests for Guinness, so are bringing that onto draught for next term. Oh and of course – our cocktail and beer pitchers are some of our most popular offerings!”

When it comes to the pubs themselves, a clear favourite emerged. The Lamb and Flag swept the poll with 83 votes, firmly claiming its title as Oxford’s best pub for the second year in a row. The Four Candles (63), White Rabbit (56), King’s Arms (54), and The Bear (50) completed the top five. According to the most frequent and regular pub goers, the order reshuffled slightly, with the Lamb and Flag still secure, but The Bear climbing to second place, and White Rabbit rounding off a holy trinity that sits at a convenient triangle in Oxford’s dense centre. 

Inappropriate imbibing 

Unsurprisingly, all this drinking doesn’t always stay in pubs and bars. Respondents listed some of the most inappropriate places they have been drunk. The standout answer by a wide margin was tutorials, with around 40 students having experienced at least one tipsy tute. College chapels featured 13 times, with students reporting everything from doing a reading of a Bible verse drunk, to singing a solo at Evensong after a few too many. One respondent even claimed to have been drunk and locked inside their chapel at 3am. Some answers went even further, with students confessing to being drunk at the Master’s Lodgings, a Principal’s Collection meeting, the Sheldonian on matriculation day, and in one particularly memorable entry, the “gravel of the driveway of [their] tutor’s house”. 

With a whopping 40 respondents confessing to turning up to tutorials mildly hungover, mildly dying, and in some cases, wildly still intoxicated, it seems Oxford drinking culture follows students straight from the club to the classroom. Some respondents describe all-bad experiences, like death warmed up. Others swore up and down it “makes your answers better” due to “pure adrenaline”. We can only hope that this was true for our one respondent, who described still being drunk during their last preliminary exam. Experiences reported ranged from petrifying to downright bizarre, with one student confessing to solving a problem in slow motion, only to have their tutor start “playing the f**king banjo at me to shame me”, and others describing a post-Halloween morning class where someone brought a cereal box instead of their laptop. One brave student soldiered through an entire tutorial before sprinting out to throw up down a grate on Ship Street. Their tute partner described them as “unusually subdued”.

Special mentions must be made for the May Day tutorials. Several beautiful May morning classes were interrupted by students stepping out to throw up, falling asleep, and at some points even almost fainting. The only comfort? It was May morning for everyone else in the class too. 

The institution of the college bar 

If you’re going to drink at college bars, you want to drink at the best ones. According to the respondents to our survey, that’s Balliol bar, St Peter’s bar, or Jesus bar. The draw might be obvious for Balliol – it was also voted best college drink, and its central location may account for 72% of its voters attending other colleges. A Balliol bartender told Cherwell that college bar crawls often come to a screeching halt when they reach Balliol, with all other college bars forgotten for the rest of the night. 

It divided opinion, however, in our “Rant about a college bar” section. Its supporters were avid: “Balliol Bar might be the best thing about my university experience”; “Balliol Bar is so good and cheap and awesome”; “A shining beacon against corporations and late stage capitalism”. But its detractors were equally passionate. According to one: “Balliol Bar is OVERRATED. IT IS BUSY, IT SMELLS, AND THE FLOOR IS STICKY”. For another, the “blood red scheme” gave “slightly dodgy vibes much more in keeping with the college”. From a Balliol student, there was a different criticism: “Balliol bar is great for everyone who’s not Balliol since the reason it’s so cheap is because of the insane rent prices.”

A bartender at Balliol told Cherwell that the bar gets most busy on a Thursday night when it gets inundated with drunk rugby and netball players on crewdates and bar crawls. She highlighted the peculiar trend at Oxford of drinking being a punishment. People don’t drink to enjoy drinking, she said, they drink to get as drunk as possible. Comparing it to her home city of Glasgow, where, she said, people drink for enjoyment, the gamification of drinking was quite odd to her. 

On the other hand, almost half of the votes for St Peter’s bar (48%) came from its own students, many of whom emphasised the importance of its remaining student-run. Across the survey, student-run bars were overwhelmingly popular. 82% of people preferred their bars to be run by students. In longer-answer questions, respondents praised student-run bars for the opportunities they provided, both for work experience and for paid work, in a university that bans term-time working. 

Leo Kilner, one of the St Hilda’s bar managers, spoke to Cherwell about his experience behind the bar. St Hilda’s operates a hybrid system, with the College having taken over the bar after the COVID-19 pandemic. Students run the bar, while the College is in charge of stock and devising staff rotas. This is a relationship of autonomy and high expectations. The bar is expected to pay for itself, but the bar team is able to try all sorts of strategies to achieve this. At the moment, they are focusing on drawing in students from other colleges, taking advantage (for once) of Hilda’s less central location: “Everyone walks past Hilda’s on the way to O2 or the Bullingdon, so it’s the ideal pres spot.” 

He considered student-run bars to have a more communal, convivial atmosphere than their professional counterparts, and to provide some of the cheapest drinks in Oxford, since they weren’t attempting to cover a professional salary. However, the downside of this was the strain on the bar team. Each member of the team had to play so many roles – bartender, events planner, strategiser – alongside an Oxford degree. They host live music nights, karaoke, Champions League football nights, and pool tournaments, making the bar an events space in its own right, not just for pres. Something appears to have paid off. Despite low uptake of the survey from St Hilda’s, the bar was the ninth most popular, and 70% of those who voted for it attended other colleges. 

The student-led status of the Balliol bar was also a point of pride for the bartender Cherwell spoke to. She believed that student-run bars make for a better atmosphere, that people like knowing who is behind the bar, and that it is a great opportunity for the bartenders working there. She added that with student-run bars, there was no pressure to make a profit and that they can just be a space for people. She lamented the loss of student-run bars across the University. 

In some ways, people felt more strongly about the best bar than the worst. On the latter question, there were double the number of blank responses than for the best bar. Still, the result was unequivocal – Wadham College bar is the worst college bar in Oxford, with 64 votes and numerous rants. Apparently, the quality brought out the poets in respondents, with numerous metaphors used to encapsulate its horror. A cafe, an NHS waiting room, and a youth club which had recently received its alcohol licence were all comparisons drawn to the Wadham bar. That, of course, was when it was open. The occasional 9.30pm closing time attracted considerable approbation, as did the bright lighting and the plastic cups. One Wadham historian put it in the most militant terms: “Wadham undergrads, we are supposed to be Communists. Seize the means of having a good old time.” 

When approached for comment, Wadham College told Cherwell: “We have various spaces for our students in our dedicated Undergraduate and Graduate Centres. There is a JCR adjacent to the bar and an extensive lounge directly above the bar, where Bops take place. These combined areas form the social space for the students, not just the bar itself”. They reported being “in consultation with the SU [Wadham JCR] about extending and refurnishing the bar and JCR area. We expect to improve and revive the space over the Christmas vacation and in Hilary term.” Watch this space? 

Drinking culture

The reasons Oxford students reach for a drink are, unsurprisingly, overwhelmingly social. A whopping 58.7% cited socialising with friends as their primary motivation, with 28.8% pointing to social events more broadly. Just 1.2% admitted to drinking for emotional reasons, 0.9% for dates, and a brave 0.5% confessed to alcohol-fuelled essay writing. Meanwhile, 8.4% abstained from drinking entirely.

The dominance of social drinking suggests Oxford’s booze culture is less about drowning sorrows or Dutch courage than it is about fitting in. When nearly nine in ten students are drinking primarily to bond with mates or navigate the endless carousel of bops, formal halls, and college bar sessions, abstaining becomes a social minefield. It’s hardly shocking that teetotallers remain a minority – though with 52 respondents choosing not to drink, there’s a quiet contingent opting out. While we emphasised that both drinkers and non-drinkers were welcome to fill in the survey, it’s also reasonable to assume that more people who drink will answer it, leading to a selection bias. 

But how much are students actually putting away? The NHS recommends no more than 14 units per week, ideally spread over three or more days. Our survey found 181 respondents regularly exceeding this threshold on at least one day per week. The breakdown reveals a stubbornly male-dominated pattern: 71 men versus 55 women drinking over 14 units in a single day weekly, with the gender gap widening as frequency increases. Among those drinking heavily two days per week, it’s 21 men to twelve women. By four days per week, it’s exclusively male territory. And then there’s the outlier: one Christ Church third year drinking over 14 units seven days a week. If that is true (which Cherwell does doubt) we would like to express concern for his wellbeing. A Balliol bartender observed that during crewdates, girls were more likely to do shots of spirits and order doubles with mixers, whilst the boys drank mostly pints, making them “messier” by the end of the night. 

Yet self-perception tells a rosier story. Nearly half of respondents described their drinking as “moderate”, with 25.1% rating it “low”. Only 17.3% admitted to drinking “quite heavily”, and a mere 3% copped to “very heavy” consumption. This perception at least matches some reality. The “low” drinkers drank an average of 1.28 days in week four, the “moderate” drinkers an average of 2.9 days, and the very heavy drinkers reported drinking 4.8 days in the week. But while the amount drunk (and spent) increased, something decreased across these categories – satisfaction. 90% of teetotallers drank as much as they would like, and even moderate (73%) and quite heavy (50%) drinkers were broadly content. But of self-reported very heavy drinkers, 59% drank more or much more than they would like. 

The university years follow a predictable arc. Over half of freshers (56%) reported increased drinking since arriving at Oxford, but this enthusiasm steadily wanes. By second year, 48% had ramped up their intake; by third year, 41%; and by fourth year, just 26%. In practice, this reduction appears to be limited to the amount being drunk. Between years, on average, there was just 0.3 days’ difference. Third-years reported drinking 2.85 days per week, while first-years drank 2.5. The places that each year reported drinking in most may account for a difference in perception, or amount, between them. First-years drank the most in college bars or college accommodation. Second-years were split fairly evenly between college bars and pubs. Third and fourth-years overwhelmingly drank the most in pubs, suggesting more social, low-key drinking meetups, rather than the club nights and crewdates of earlier years. 

The reverse trajectory tells the sobering truth: only 12% of first-years had cut back, compared to 27% of second-years, 39% of third-years, and a majority 57% of finalists. Whether it’s impending Finals, encroaching adulthood, or simply growing tired of hangovers, Oxford students eventually learn to ease off the accelerator.

But for Kilner in the college bar, the first years weren’t necessarily swarming: “You notice there’s usually one friend group per year group that makes the bar their second home. The rest of the undergrads aren’t necessarily regulars though – especially the freshers, which is surprising. From what I’ve heard across the uni, there is a definite downward trend in drinking in general in our generation, and every new wave of freshers highlights it more and more. We aren’t able to take the freshers’ custom for granted anymore, which I think speaks a lot to how our generation are changing their approach to university.”

In terms of the change in drinking habits across the years, a Balliol bartender said that freshers were most likely to drink the infamous Balliol Blue, whereas third and fourth years stay far, far, away from it. She also noted that drinking was particularly prevalent in Freshers’ Week, when 18-year-olds, who don’t have to face their parents at two in the morning, and are very nervous at being at the formidable Oxford University, drink enough Balliol Blues and Reds to turn their insides purple. Although alcohol consumption decreases across the years, she said the booziest group she has ever served were a group of recent graduates in College for a reunion who were thrilled to be back in their old college bar drinking cheap drinks. Reliving the glory days… 

Graph credits: Oscar Reynolds for Cherwell.

Waste mountain discovered near proposed University development site

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A mountain of waste described as an “environmental catastrophe” has been dumped by a suspected gang of fly-tippers outside of Kidlington, near the River Cherwell. The mass of refuse, measuring around 150 metres long and 6 metres high, has drawn criticism from numerous environmental activist groups. 

Reports of the incident come amid proposals by Oxford University and Exeter College to construct a new science park in the area. The disaster complicates the University’s ambitious plan to build a supercomputer within the park complex. 

The site, located in the leafy green belt surrounding Oxford, is a hotspot for anglers who have highlighted the risks that the waste might pose to local marine wildlife. Many community leaders and organisations have been quick to highlight the illegality of the incident. Calum Miller, Liberal Democrat MP for Bicester and Woodstock, emphasised that the quantity and scale of the waste was “illegal” and warned against rising waste crime in the country. 

An investigation into the waste mountain is being led by the Environment Agency who said that they would “ensure those responsible” for the waste cleared it up. An organised response to the event is yet to be announced.

Addressing other MPs in Parliament, Miller said: “River levels are rising and heat maps show that the waste is also heating up, raising the risk of fire. The Environment Agency said it has limited resources for enforcement, that the estimated cost of removal is greater than the entire annual budget of the local district council.”

In November of 2019, Kidlington Parish Council, which covers the affected area, declared a climate emergency, along with other local governmental authorities. 

Questions surrounding rising reports of waste crime have surfaced in reactions to the event. This comes in the aftermath of the government’s national waste crime survey, which discovered numerous blind spots in enforcement and legislation. 

Laura Reineke, Chief Executive of Friends of the Thames, a charity campaigning to clean up the waste, told Cherwell: “This illegal dump is the largest pollution event on an inland waterway that this country has seen. Having been left to fester for 4 months, unfortunately damage has already been done to the surroundings, and the precious River Cherwell.  

“We are calling for emergency funding to make the site safe, and onward to clear it up, not in 2 years, or 2 months, but immediately. Please sign our petition, and donate to help us challenge, and push this project forward, so we can see the Thames catchment restored, healthy and safeguarded for future generations.”

The charity has launched a working group called Save Our Cherwell to campaign for the removal of the waste mountain, alongside a crowdfunding page and a petition which demands that the government and the Environment Agency take immediate action.

The Parliamentary Committee for Environment and Climate Change, in their policy letter published last month, recommended an independent review into increasing waste crime. Similar fly-tipping incidents in Dorset and Staffordshire have also challenged the government’s commitment to the issue. 

Between performance and reality: ‘To What End?’ reviewed

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To What End is a new meta-theatrical, absurdist play written by Billy Skiggs and Billy Hearld. It begins in what seems to be simplicity: a wartime song hums through the intimate Burton Taylor Studio, where two actors (Luke Carroll and Georgina Cotes) sit quietly on opposite sofas, leafing through books as the audience arrives, instantly immersing you within the production. The music gets louder, and the pair dance to ‘We’ll Meet Again’ by Vera Lynn. Yet what follows is far from a traditional period drama. Skiggs and Hearld’s new play quickly unravels into a chaotic, witty, and unsettling exploration of theatre itself – an investigation of ambition, authorship, and the futility of performance. 

The premise is deceptively simple. Two directors, Albie (Peregrine Neger) and Bernard (Tomasz Hearfield), are staging what they think to be “the greatest theatrical work of the century”. Their actors, rehearsing a wartime romance, stumble through a scene in which love is declared across enemy lines. Then, the rehearsal goes wrong: the script is unfinished, and Bernard can’t find the ending. From that moment, logic begins to disintegrate. The rehearsal collapses into arguments. Arguments lead to an interrogation. An interrogation leads to the courtroom. All the settings blend reality and fiction until neither can be distinguished. 

Hearld and Skiggs’ script dismantles every structure it builds. It’s a play which is obsessed with its own undoing. An interrogation becomes a quiz show; the courtroom devolves into knock-knock jokes. Each scene doubles back on itself, revealing a performance where we thought there was truth. It’s reminiscent of absurdist, tragicomic theatre: Stoppard’s Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead, or Beckett’s Endgame – words pile up but meaning continually slips away. The ensemble handled the rapid tonal shifts with impressive precision. Even as scenes dissolved into absurdity, the actors maintained a sense of rhythm that kept the audience engaged. 

Much of the play’s humour is brought about by the sharp contrast between its central figures, convincingly acted by Peregrine Neger and Tomasz Hearfield. Albie, with his formal diction, and Bernard, with his colloquial language and vape in hand, represent two poles of theatre: the classical and the contemporary. Wartime songs sit uneasily beside the hiss of the vape, formal RP accents clash with modern slang – the production feels unmoored from time. History consistently bleeds into contemporary life. The ever-present tape recorder suggests the stage itself is a trap, a loop from which no one can escape. It’s deliberately chaotic; confusion becomes the medium through which meaning is made. 

The introduction of two police interrogators named Stager (Sanaa Pasha) and Trouper (Madison Howarth) extends the play’s meta-theatrical joke: even the agents of authority are theatrical archetypes. Their questioning unfolds as if the theatre itself is on trial, forcing its makers – and by proxy, the audience – to confront the question of what performance is for. 

The fictional directors allow chaos (and even tragedy) for the sake of a ‘better performance’, a possible satirical commentary on how art can exploit real suffering. Quoting Macbeth and invoking its superstition underlines the theme of doomed ambition and the blurred boundary between play and reality. Like Macbeth himself, the characters’ desire to create something great leads to their own undoing. Even the play’s humour feels haunted by this awareness, leaving the audience complicit in the spectacle: laughing at the chaos, yet uneasily aware of its consequences. At times, the relentless layering of meta-theatrical conceits risked overwhelming emotional clarity, but this excess felt deliberate, a part of the play’s critique of theatrical self-obsession. It ends where it began – with the ‘actors’ and ‘characters’ merging again, leaving the audience uncertain as to what is real. Just as the directors and actors seem trapped in endless rehearsals and re-enactments, the audience too is left asking the question posed by the title: all this, to what end?

The day she died

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  it was cloudy 

for the first time in months and the flowers 

welcomed the rain; or maybe 

it was sunny but inside it rained, 

drip dripping onto the carpet.

   my nails were too long

as I stared at our hands entwined for hours,

her skin so caressed and delicate

but growing colder in mine as I tried to 

pour my love into her lifeblood.

   she said 

Now let me sleep, I’ll wake when I wake

and when woken asked where she was 

As I looked around her home and thought heaven.

   my brother’s voice 

was hoarse from reading aloud 

and the pulse was so weak so I 

watched the delicate wrist bone

passed down to me and pretended

her tremors were squeezing back.

   I ate sugar cubes 

straight from the bowl and bought

her favourite pastry at the bakery

and handed over my entire wallet 

as payment.

   I fled to the garden

with the view over the river 

to catch her soul in a swallowtail

and forget the anger that did 

nothing to absolve the injustice.

   they took away her 

wheelchair and her morphine and her hospital bed

and there was a hole in the living room the size

of a struggle.

   a pillow was left and

I inhaled with my lungs that could breathe

the delicate scent of her, soft

and fading steadily.

Death’s Lament

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Please, I have done what you asked. 

I burned it all for her.

I wrench the parchment from my pocket,

fingers shaking, chest convulsing, screams eviscerating my throat,

shattering the silence that smothers my lungs,

Nothing has changed. 

No matter what I do,

it cannot change. 

No matter how many I kill,

she will still –

I am done, tired 

of being trapped

I cannot cheat my own hands, tears 

drip down my face, dragging me

to a fate I detest.

The sky oozes crimson, tatters

of hope cascading like confetti, the red 

hot string rips into my skin, 

the scythe smirks against my palm, her name 

pulversising my brain, my body 

thrashing against her chains

Just once I cry, 

let her live and me die.

I will fight till she is safe and sound, or I 

am broken and bleeding, bound 

in my puppeteer strings,

dead to the damnation I will bring.

And she woke up…

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Yesterday I thought I saw you

between blinks of an eye:

a lecture together and notes

left behind for curls and a sharp jawline;

the same old eyes exchanged. 

Your profile rather than Descartes’ 

in my mind, your smile more to me 

than any meditation: I exist

only in the rouge of autumn. Street lamp, tree. 

Lecture over, we swapped colleges for a while

and there was you, perfectly framed in my window seat,

memories like skeleton leaves shivering against the door.

The only reason I knew it was a dream 

is that you talked to me.

An affectionate, homely play with hidden ambition: ‘Under Milk Wood’ reviewed

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The lights dimmed, a small plaque was illuminating the stage with the red letters, “ON AIR”. I know I am in for a treat: Welsh poet Dylan Thomas wrote Under Milk Wood, or A Play of Voices, as a radio play, and this set choice indicates the production will be a thoughtful application of Thomas’ voice. The sound designers are actually onstage, at the edge of the traverse, so the audience is conscious that every sound is indeed an act of theatrical illusion. During one moment, a metronome pulses while characters begin to exchange lines in perfect meter – the way that Thomas’ poetic and sensitive rhythm was lifted from the page and to the stage was charming. 

Playful deception is the starting point for this play, as the first narrator (Bea Smalley) opens, inviting the audience to listen to the innermost thoughts and dreams of the townspeople of a small Welsh fishing town called Llareggub (which you only notice is “buggerall” backwards when you look at the programme). One by one, the characters enter, and we see snippets of their dreams: Mrs Ogmore-Pritchard relentlessly nags her two dead husbands; Captain Cat relives his precarious seafaring times; and Polly Garter pines for her dead lover. After these introductory snippets to the unconscious of our characters, the town awakens and we watch them go about their daily business, now with the knowledge of what hidden feelings motivate their actions. 

It’s all rather chaotic. Not only are there twelve actors onstage but there are 28 characters in the whole play – it’s incredibly difficult to follow. Actors had to double up and identities were initially easily confused given that our introductions to the characters were through their fantasies (or nightmares) rather than reality. Yet when Mr Pugh has dreams of poisoning Mrs Pugh, and then in real life announces to his wife at dinner that the book he is reading is a guide on poisons, the moment of connection between the unconscious and conscious is such a sudden shock that it provokes a rich feeling of collaborative comedy – the audience is delighted to be in on the joke.

The entire ensemble rises to the challenge of Thomas’ convoluted script. As the stage is a strip on, with the audience on either side, you can only hone in on the interactions that are happening directly in front of you – it creates a unique and intimate viewing experience, as though the audience member, like Captain Cat, is peering through a window and watching the townspeople go about their lives. 

Despite the largely mundane activities enacted, each character is entrancing. It is no easy feat to portray different characters within a few short moments, but each character has such a developed series of mannerisms, gait, and vocal inflection that you are gradually able to intuit when an actor has switched between characters. 

Some notable moments were Lily Smalls, a young girl who bemoans her existence immediately upon waking, complaining with childish vanity into her mirror during an aside, before returning onstage with elegance and poise, truly presenting as a different person. This was an  introduction to the theme of dual identities which continued throughout the production, and was mimicked by the dual roles actors inhabited. Magdalena Lacey-Hughes, for example, played both a 17year-old girl who has never been kissed but spends her afternoons drawing lipstick circles around her nipples, and Mrs Ogmore-Pritchard, who ceaselessly pesters the ghosts of her two dead husbands.

One moment, however, stole the show. Captain Cat, the blind sea captain who is tormented in his dreams by his drowned shipmates, dances with the ghost (or rather, a puppet) of his lost lover Rosie Probert. Until this scene, he has been an observer in the town, narrating what he sees through his window, but this change of emotional tempo is so gentle and calming that it is heartbreaking. 

The production occasionally struggled to keep up with their ambitious sound and lighting concepts. Technical issues at the start of the show meant that lights came on rather than off, sometimes there was a clear delay in the sounds or lights, and we were sat suspended in the silent darkness waiting for something to happen. This only really hindered the performance at its opening, however, and first-night jitters can always be excused, especially when demanding effects are necessitated by the text itself. 

Overall, the production’s risks tended to pay off: the most engaging set innovation was a small light projector, used to create a backdrop, but also tell shorter narratives of the play without adding in new cast members through clever shadowplay. The technicians were working constantly. At the end of the performance, when the townspeople were falling asleep onstage, I glimpsed the sound directors also slumped over the switch board – they had earned their rest.

In the final moments of the show, the overwhelming emotional response was tenderness. As all the characters danced around in circles at a celebratory town hall event, switching dance partners and involving the narrator, it was heartwarming to see these characters finally meet each other outside of their dream worlds. There was something homely in the dancing, with fiddles and even harps brought onstage, which left me half expecting the audience to get up and join. 

Cartesian Production’s Under Milk Wood was a delicate and heartwarming showcase of ambitious creative talent in all departments; the chaos and lyricism of Dylan Thomas’s writing was brought to life with tangible affection for the stories of the residents of a quaint fishing town. 

It’s time we woke up to the failures of the NUS

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After the Cambridge Student Union (SU) voted to disaffiliate from the National Union of Students (NUS) last month, Oxford University students should be left with questions about whether the NUS is equipped to live up to the political moment, especially after years of watering down their radicalism.

The official case for the motion to disaffiliate claimed that the NUS has “ignored calls from students nationwide, and a motion passed at their own highest democratic decision making body, to campaign for Palestine”. This is not the first time that the NUS has been challenged in recent years, especially over what Amnesty International has described as the apartheid and genocide in Palestine. In the last three years, SUs at the Universities of Warwick and York have tabled disaffiliation motions, citing Islamophobia, antisemitism, and anti-Palestinian racism in the organisation. Cardiff SU voted against renewing their NUS affiliation just last week. However, there is a much longer history here that Oxford students should consider: that of a once-vital student organisation slowly fading from relevance, of one we desperately need back. If Oxford disaffiliating could serve as a step towards an effective and principled NUS, it is one we should seriously consider.

The disaffiliation vote at Cambridge came after more than 200 student leaders and societies signed an open letter to the NUS criticising the organisation for “failing to defend” pro-Palestinian student protesters facing a “wave of repression” on university campuses. This should ring true for Oxford students more than anyone; the demonstration at Wellington Square on 23rd May 2024 saw heavy police repression of peaceful demonstrators. The University accused student protesters of violence and failed to back these claims up. The NUS, however, was silent. 

The issues raised in the open letter were serious, and merited appropriate engagement. Unfortunately, NUS leadership did not see it that way. According to Not My NUS, the group that organised the open letter, the NUS issued a letter to the CEOs of all student unions that signed, pressuring them to unsign or be banned from NUS events. 

Though in recent months the NUS has made concessions to student pressure, supporting the campaign to evacuate Gazan students with places at UK universities, it has not done enough. Delegates walked out of the NUS conference last week after NUS president Amira Campbell refused to state, when asked, that the NUS was willing to be anti-Zionist. The invitation of Palestinian ambassador Husam Zomlot to the conference rang a little hollow, given Campbell’s refusal to stand against the ethno-nationalist ideology which guided the settlers who expelled Zomlot’s parents from their home in 1948.

This equivocation over Palestine draws a sharp contrast with the key role the NUS has played in fighting apartheid in the past. The NUS’ “Boycott Barclays” campaign was critical in forcing the bank to pull out of apartheid South Africa in 1986, putting its institutional power behind a campaign which had originated in the student movement and university occupations of the 1960s.

Yet some argue that the case for disaffiliation ignores the important work that the NUS does on issues that affect UK students more directly. The Cambridge Labour Club highlighted the work of the NUS in “campaigning to save the graduate route visa or defending trans rights”. This argument sets up a false opposition, however, between taking a principled stand on global politics and effectively defending student interests. It was in 1971, just as the NUS embraced its ability to campaign against apartheid, that it mobilised British students against government proposals to reorganise the finances of student unions. An institution which can fight for the just treatment of its own members is one which can stand up for justice everywhere. It is here that the NUS is now failing. 

In 2000, journalist Gary Younge said that over the previous fifteen years the NUS had been transformed “from a mass campaigning organisation to little more than a provider of cheap booze and a crèche for would-be parliamentarians”; a dramatic change that occurred under the dominance of the Labour faction in the NUS. The detrimental effect of the monopolisation of NUS leadership by its Labour supporters reached its most depressingly illustrative moment in 2007, when the NUS dropped their opposition to tuition fees under then-President, now-Health Secretary Wes Streeting. In 2010, while demonstrators filled the streets of central London in protest against the trebling of fees, NUS leaders were telling Liberal Democrat MPs that if fees were doubled, the organisation would only “go through the motions” of opposition.

The NUS has changed, and for the worse. Over the last three decades – especially during the tenure of New Labour – it has become a springboard for ambitious would-be Westminster apparatchiks rather than a purposeful organ to represent students and uphold progressive values. It no longer fights power. It is a path to power.

This is such a waste. Having a nationwide organising structure for students to use is vital. Whether challenging universities on complicity in genocide or fighting for the freedom of international students to study in the UK, there are so many things that the institution can do, and has done. As student debts continue to climb, and student movements against apartheid and genocide face consistent repression, the NUS needs to change if it has a chance of fighting on both fronts. Dramatic actions like disaffiliation cannot be off the table, if they can force the NUS into becoming the institution students so desperately need.

Spokesperson at NUS UK said: “The student movement is at its strongest when we stand together. Through NUS, students at Oxford are represented across the country, in Parliament and wider afield. We have been, and are committed to continuing, working alongside your Sabbatical officer team to work on your priorities based on the issues your SU has raised with us. NUS staunchly defends the right to protest on campus. Additionally, we are committed to ensuring that Palestinian students can access higher education here in the UK. We have been working with the Universities Minister on that, and Oxford students should be integral to these important conversations. We hope to continue working with Oxford SU, and remain open to constructive conversations.”

Peach Juice and Other Inappropriate Attachments

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My hostel sheets smell like regret and Chanel No. 5 sprayed like insecticide. I suspect it was me. The scent now mingles with the peach juice that trickled down my thigh this morning, as if my body itself was tired of holding form.

It’s hard to write in Paris when you’re sticky, humiliated, and vaguely possessed by the ghost of a man who’s still very much alive.

He was my mentor, sort of: old enough he should be irrelevant, but attractive enough to disrupt that fact. He looked like he belonged in the margin of a medieval manuscript, elbowing cherubs and taking long, meaningful pauses before disagreeing with you. He wore unseasonal scarves. He recited Rilke aloud, unprompted, as if life were an audition for a radio play no one was casting. Once, he called me “too clever for my own good,” and then proceeded to ignore every idea I ever offered him.

Naturally, I wanted him to ruin my life.

I misread everything: his tone, his glances, the way he once touched my shoulder as if I were a particularly delicate antique. It’s possible he just liked the sound of his own voice and I was a conveniently placed audience with oversized eyes.

Someone told him I was obsessed. He told me this as if reading aloud a fortune cookie: “Apparently, you’re obsessed with me.”

I laughed. A sound like crushed insects.

He looked pleased. Or maybe his face just does that.

By the canal, I sweat through linen and contemplate leaping in. Not from sadness—more for theatrical effect. A sort of baptism into bitterness.

A man sits beside me. He smells like shampoo marketed to tired mothers. He reads slowly, lips moving. I think, “This is the kind of man who wouldn’t complicate my life,” and immediately hate him for it.

I try to write, but the page is smug. All I manage is:

“The peach juice is inside my notebook now.”

This feels like a metaphor. Let it be one.

He never asked me out. Never kissed me. Never even stood too close. Still, I rearranged my thoughts to accommodate his absence. He lived inside every unwritten sentence. A squatter in my syntax.

He once said, “I worry about you,” and I carried that line like a relic, as if concern were some higher form of love. Looking back, I think he just didn’t want me to make a scene.

The truth is: I liked the idea of falling in love with someone who couldn’t possibly love me back. It felt safer. Like throwing yourself at a locked door and blaming the hinges.

What I felt wasn’t even romantic. It was logistical. Like: “If I give him exactly 13.5% of my brilliance and 100% of my trauma, surely something will open up.”

It didn’t.

Instead, I got a headache and an itchy sun rash.

There are pigeons here that strut like minor aristocrats. One of them made eye contact with me today, and I swear it looked concerned. I took it as a sign that I’m not writing enough.

I try to revise this scene in my mind: He tells me he’s been in love with me all along. I pretend to be surprised. We kiss. The pigeons applaud.

But that version doesn’t end with me Googling “how to get peach juice out of Moleskine paper.”

Eventually, I’ll leave Paris with nothing but a tan line shaped like a shoulder bag and a vague understanding of boundaries.

Here’s what I know:

  • He didn’t love me. Not even a little.
  • I made a performance out of pretending he almost could.
  • There are worse things than unrequited feelings.
  • Like hostel roommates who snore in iambic pentameter.
  • Like sticky thighs and no working fan.
  • Like seeing him again and saying, with complete composure, “Ah, yes. I wrote about you.”

That he will not get the pleasure of asking what I wrote.

Can movie violence ever be fun?

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“Because it’s so much fun, Jan!” This was Quentin Tarantino’s answer when an interviewer asked him to justify on-screen violence. Few would disagree. From the thousands who flocked to see the on-stage strangling of the Duchess of Malfi in the early 1600s, to the 16.5 million moviegoers who paid to watch the slaughter of four teenagers in The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (1974), violence has always been a staple of popular entertainment. Even the supposedly buttoned-up Victorians had the sensational novel and the ‘penny dreadful’; The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde sold 40,000 copies in only six months. 

But is violent entertainment really just a bit of fun? Aristotle thought it might lead to spiritual renewal through catharsis. Psychologist Dolf Zillman thought violence was entertaining because it is perversely arousing. Others have likened it to a ‘forbidden fruit’ or as a contained rebellion against everyday morality. Austrian filmmaker Michael Haneke, whose films The Piano Teacher (2001), Funny Games (1997), and Caché (2005) were re-released this summer, shows that violence in media isn’t harmless; it desensitises us to the act itself. 

Haneke has made it his project to remove the fun from violence on screen. He wants to remind his viewer of what it means in real life. In a 2009 interview, he articulated the dangers of desensitisation: “I don’t notice it anymore” when violence is shown on the news. He told another interviewer that physical violence “makes me sick. It’s wrong to make it consumable as something fun”. 

So his most violent films are anti-violence. They intend to be anti-entertainment, too. Funny Games (1997), for example, tells the story of a bourgeois family’s country holiday. Two young men take them hostage in their home, torturing and killing them in sadistic ‘games’. It’s a pretty standard sounding slasher plot, except that Haneke frustrates the viewer at every turn. When one of the young men is shot, the other one breaks the fourth wall, ‘winding back’ the plot with a TV remote: he frustrates the viewer in their desire for revenge. Even the violence avoids gory catharsis: the murder of the last remaining family member is an anticlimax, as the mother is quietly pushed off a boat to drown. Breaking the fourth wall, the villains mock the viewer’s appetite for entertainment. After beating a dog to death with a golf-club, one of them turns towards the camera and winks. Thus Haneke seeks to show our complicity (also the title of a recent retrospective) in the characters’ suffering. 

Caché does the same. It begins as a surveillance thriller. A French TV host anonymously receives videotapes of his house: he is being watched. But the ‘whodunit’ setup never pays off. The film shifts its focus into an exposé of French colonial violence. We never discover for sure who sent the tapes. As in Funny Games, Haneke frustrates the viewer’s wish for a tense, violent thriller. A tale of bourgeois paranoia is trivial next to  the mass, unthinking violence of colonial brutality. 

However, I doubt cinema can ever truly offer a deconstruction of its own violence. Take, for example, the opening of Funny Games. A family drives down an idyllic country road, playing ‘guess the opera’. Suddenly the words FUNNY GAMES appear in huge blood-red letters, accompanied by the discordant screams of the avant-garde metal band Naked City. The noise verges on painful, but it’s so audaciously satirical that it’s also incredibly compelling. Haneke’s postmodern tricks do the same thing. The torturers break the fourth wall; they comment on their own violence; they compare themselves to ‘Tom and Jerry’ and ‘Beavis and Butthead’. All these make for bold, playful storytelling so strangely fascinating that it ends up aestheticising the violence Haneke wants to deplore. He cannot escape his own talent: by making a film so engaging, he fails to avoid the ‘fun’. 

Caché also struggles to escape the conventional role of violence on film. The graphic suicide is there to shock viewers into recognising their own role in the erasure of colonial suffering. But it’s hard to separate the moral of the story from the form it takes. By shocking the viewer, the violence also keeps them watching. It feeds their hunger for suspense. A massive splash of blood across a white wall is so memorable, so artistic, so brutal, that it serves to satisfy the morbid desires of the desensitised movie-goer. 

Haneke’s aims are didactic, but he carries them out with such bold style and biting satire that, for viewers already used to violence on film, it’s hard not to get something  pleasurable from his bleak cinematic imaginarium. He may want to teach us about the dangerous power that violent entertainment offers. But he can never avoid an uncomfortable truth: that cinema, however upsetting, is always entertainment.