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No, I won’t buy a scholar’s gown

Ben Woodward
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No, I won’t buy a scholar’s gown

On the day I arrived in Oxford, my college mother gave me one piece of advice: “Oh, don’t worry, Prelims don’t matter at all”. Of course, on paper, she was right: for most students at Oxford (provided you pass), Prelims or Mods don’t affect your degree classification nor what you can pick in second year. In theory, for the humanities, they are a chance to practise the art of essay writing under time pressure. But, as an ancient academic institution, Oxford risks forcing division between students by encouraging rivalry between the best of the best. Thus is the philosophy behind the scholar’s gown: a “black gown of Russell cord or synthetic material in full style with a gathered stiffened yoke behind and short open sleeves” (according to the University guide to academic dress), bulkier than the modest commoner’s gown, and given to those who achieve a distinction in their first set of Oxford examinations.

I am no scholar. I made the humble mistake of merely passing my Prelims. It therefore came as a surprise when I received an email saying that I’d been given an exhibition – an award given by certain colleges for reasons ranging from good Collections results to simply being in the favour of your tutors (which one I fall into remains, as yet, a mystery). Both awards entitle recipients at my college to wear the scholar’s gown as part of our sub fusc, alongside a host of other rewards that vary between colleges. Yet I refuse to subscribe to this privileged and elitist attitude towards academic achievement.

All of us worked hard to get into this university: we endured months of prep for the personal statement, put together written work, and faced the intensity of the interview season. Behind that are good GCSE results and likely years of seeking academic validation from teachers. Every person at this university deserves their place; we do not need to prove ourselves further. Some, naturally, work harder than others, and that is reflected in the variety of degree classifications handed out alongside academic prizes. But we must remember that academic reward is not the end goal, and that Prelims are just that: preliminary examinations. When simply settling into the rhythm and social circles of university life is hard enough in first year, must we pile on the pressure even further?

I do not, and cannot, consider myself above my academic peers. Neither the English cohort at my college, all of whom worked hard during exam season and both struggled and shone throughout the year, nor anyone else in other faculties, where marking criteria and the number of Distinctions handed out vary massively. So why would I draw attention to this with a billowing gown? During Finals, as you gaze around the marquee full of hundreds of students in sub fusc, I imagine the last thing you want to be fearing is your own academic inferiority.

The way some colleges reward scholars seems disproportionate to how most are won. At my own, St Hugh’s, I have been invited to “make a short Declaration” at the Governing Body meeting, as well as to attend a free formal and drinks reception with my tutors. All for only one week’s worth of exams! I am only thankful that, unlike central colleges, gowns are discouraged at our formal halls, so there is no obligation to parade around your luck in first-year exams for the next few years. The scholar’s gown is an overt sign of academic comparison, fostering jealousy and rivalry between friends and coursemates – it has no place in what should be friendly, encouraging communities.

Another major issue is the disparity between scholarships across courses and colleges. This is apparent in the criteria for a Distinction: in English and History, candidates must achieve an average mark of 67 with two papers above 70. In Modern Languages, an average of 70 is required, although History and Modern Languages need one mark above 70 and no mark below 64. The boundaries for the sciences are far more vague, since marks are scaled depending on the difficulty of each paper.  Meanwhile, in Medicine, tutors at each college decide scholarships. The prevalence of certain subjects amongst lists of scholars speaks to an inconsistent approach to Distinctions, and so it is hardly fair for their reward to have such a large financial and material benefit for students.

Between colleges, there are all sorts of discrepancies: Pembroke displays a list of scholars and exhibitioners near the porters’ lodge whilst subtracting £1000 from scholars’ battels and inviting them to a scholars’ lecture and dinner. At St Hugh’s, the sum is £300 a year for the rest of their course, whilst at Somerville it is £500 and at Hertford it is £250. Such large monetary gifts as incentives for good academic performance are surprising but also out of proportion. My tutors informed me in Freshers’ week that they valued the growth of my academic voice and development through tutorial essays far more than exam performance, yet the rewards for the latter speak volumes as to what the University values: prestige for the institution.

Of course, it is important to recognise and celebrate academic achievement, and this article ignores the not inconsiderable number of choral and organ scholarships given for talent and dedication to the colleges’ music scenes. And yet it is perfectly possible to skip most lectures and not bother with class or tutorial work, and come out with a Distinction in Prelims and a shiny scholarship to go with it. The way scholarships and exhibitions are awarded at Oxford is an out-of-date system, not recognising true academic talent outside the limited examination system.

The fact that I am here at Oxford, the place I spent so much time and effort to get into, the university I both desired and feared, should be good enough for me. Wearing a fancier gown in front of my friends does not make me cleverer, nor does it make me feel superior to the coursemates who have taught me more than many lecturers could. The friendships I have made at university, the experiences I have had, the joy (and tears) in tutorials, the love and human connection – all these mean so much more than a piece of fabric. No one here should ever feel inferior because they didn’t excel at a set of, quite frankly, mocks. And so, if you see me in the marquee during Finals, I will be wearing my commoners’ gown proudly. I have nothing to prove to others: simply being at this university is reward enough for me.

Realisations of a country girl in Oxford

Amy Cartlidge
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Realisations of a country girl in Oxford

My home village, in the quiet countryside of Cheshire, has a population of 200. Within walking distance, you’ll find a church, a pub, and an upscale coffee shop for passing cyclists. If you want anything else, you’ll need a car – there’s no public transport here, unless you’re willing to tame one of the hundreds of cows scattered throughout the fields. Some of my fondest childhood memories are of damp and muddy Boxing Day rambles through the neighbouring farms, or board game nights when the weather wasn’t hospitable enough to be outside. After receiving an offer to study at Oxford, local scrutiny was everywhere. I couldn’t attend any local tractor run, village fête, or even birthday party without questions about my future following me wherever I went: a side effect of how few people, especially young people, were in the community.

By results day, the prospect of moving to Oxford had become a reality, and it wasn’t the intimidating reading list or the prestigious collegiate system that daunted me. It was the idea of living in the beating heart of a city that never seemed to sleep, where something was always happening. The perpetual chatter of tourists as they snake through the narrow alleyways to peer through the huge wooden doors of another college; the warble of buskers on Cornmarket Street, gathering crowds who toss pennies into their open guitar cases; the wailing of sirens as yet another ambulance drives beneath my bedroom window, startling me awake at night. It was all of these things that made the city feel more alive than anything I’d ever experienced at home. 

The streets of Oxford are like rivers. You are packed shoulder to shoulder in a flowing stream of people, each rushing off down their own channel. I often found myself longing to slow down and meander, like a duck floating downstream, admiring the rich history of my surroundings. That was my first lesson upon my arrival in the city: keep moving. Just as the city never stops, neither can you. Coming to a halt to admire a monument or ancient building will result in the agitated mutters of passers-by, inconvenienced by your wonder. 

On my way to a lecture at the Schwarzman Centre in my first week of Michaelmas, I remember slowing to read an inscription on a grave marker in the churchyard of St Giles’ (a reminder of the old churches I regularly encountered at home, being both a resident of a countryside village and the daughter of a rural priest). My curiosity was cut short when a woman, probably 20 years my senior, knocked me sideways and delivered a strongly worded admonishment I can’t replicate here. The whole interaction struck me as a little sad: humans are so focused on their own trivial goings-on that we find it so difficult to slow down and admire the things around us. Rather than let the city’s relentless pace deter me, I resolved to make the most of its history. I consider myself an expert at ducking out of people’s paths and taking every winding street to soak in everything I can. 

The city’s relative anonymity is another thing that takes some time getting used to. Where a passer-by might stop to chat with you on a rural country lane, the same privilege will not be extended to you down an Oxford alleyway. This reality hit me hard during my first time at the post office, sending letters home to my mother – perhaps an antiquated practice, but there’s something unmatched about the joy of popping a letter in a postbox, or receiving one in your pigeonhole after a difficult day. I was there not only sending letters but also buying postcards for future communications, chatting away merrily with the shopkeeper about the recipient of my letter, and some of its less personal contents. My enthusiasm, however, was met with little more than the occasional nod and a mildly judgemental stare. Equally, many students will whip by you, completely ignoring your smile, nod, or wave. Instead, their heads are down, puffer coats wrapped tightly around them (but rarely zipped, I’ve noticed), backpack or handbag slung over one shoulder, rushing to the library or the coffee shop or the lecture theatre. This surprised me at first, but now that my own classes and lectures have begun, I can sympathise with such individuals. For a student, life often seems to go faster than the average person, between laundry, meal prepping, and completing essays or problem sheets. Balancing the domestic with the academic takes a lot of energy, often leaving little to offer others.

And amid all this rushing around, there’s another challenge: knowing where to go. With so many places to eat, study, and visit, it’s easy to feel lost. Where before my choices were limited to my room, the garden, or a footpath, there are now countless places to explore. This newfound space will almost certainly affect how you study. Personally, this meant finding my feet incredibly quickly, without anyone to tell me quite how I was supposed to do it. The first thing you try is unlikely to be the strategy that sticks. I have played with my screen time, my study location, my social calendar, and found that my day sometimes feels like walking a tightrope between becoming a workaholic and a procrastinator. The allure of city life will distract you from work and likely drain your wallet (the thrill of actually being able to order pizza delivery still hasn’t left me). But don’t let the sheer volume of options overwhelm you. The core takeaway from my experience is to find your calm space amongst everything else going on in your life. Without it, the ebb and flow of Oxford will easily sweep you away with its tide. Finding peace and quiet stabilises you, offering somewhere to drop your anchor and rest for a while.

On the subject of finding calm, if in doubt, go back to what you know. Some days, I do my reading from my bedroom desk, a familiar setting I became all too acquainted with during my A-levels. Others, I take a walk around University Parks – the closest thing I have to walking through farm fields in the middle of Oxford. Above all, don’t put too much pressure on yourself to find your feet immediately. Adjusting to city life has been as much about learning to navigate Oxford as it has been about learning to live independently. When you return home for Christmas and find yourself begging your parents for yet another lift into town, you’ll miss how accessible the city can be. The freedom it brings is something impossible to find in the countryside, and something I’m sure I’ll grapple with when the time comes. For now, though, I’m learning to enjoy my newfound autonomy and the academic challenges of university without getting swept up in the rush, all the while being amazed at how far I’ve come.

One f**king thing after another: ‘The History Boys’, revisited

Saul Grenfell
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One f**king thing after another: ‘The History Boys’, revisited

Grab your motorcycle helmet. Sharpen up on the subjunctive. And cue the synthetic pulses of ‘Blue Monday’. The History Boys is back.

Alan Bennett’s 2004 play followed a cast of candidates vying for an Oxbridge place. Last month it was announced that the play is set to return to the London stage at the Theatre Royal Haymarket early next year. But we may ask: what’s the point of this revival?

I have to confess that I’m not quite a dispassionate observer of what a 2013 poll found to be Britain’s best-loved play. Bennett numbers among my favourite playwrights, and The History Boys among my favourite plays. When applying to Oxford, I didn’t consider Jesus or Corpus, as Irwin failed to get in there. I’m aware this is hugely embarrassing.

Despite my love for it, it’s hardly an uncontroversial work. AQA chose to remove the play from its GCSE syllabus in 2022. The frequent gripe for a contemporary audience is the play’s disturbingly frequent gropes. The idolised general studies teacher Mr Hector fondles his pupils on the back of a motorcycle. Whilst they’re all adults (just about), the pedophilic behaviour is deeply uncomfortable, especially so given Bennett’s initial wish for student Posner’s voice to be unbroken.

Though Bennett acknowledges this as a fault (“a grope is a grope. It is not the annunciation”, the terrific Mrs Lintott bites), he treats it as no more than a foible in an otherwise idealised picture. The final scene glorifies Hector with a funeral no less exalting than that of his mythic namesake. In another particularly delightful line, the “big man” can refer either to God or Hector. This issue aside, the play also undoubtedly has an air of entitled schoolboy arrogance, though I think Bennett is partly aware of it. Think Dakin’s cocky declaration: “We are so fucking clever.”

Perhaps more compelling than these reasons not to stage the play is the seeming absence of any reason to stage it. What’s it for? Just a cash grab? Would Forty Years On not be a better choice, his moving school-play-within-a-play that reappraises a postwar, post-Suez Britain? Why The History Boys? Why now?

A tenuous case could be made for its particular relevance today. In Burnham’s Britain, burdened by housing crises and championing vocational education, it’s apt that the most brilliant success of the play is Rudge’s business building homes for first-time buyers, whilst Posner (the only one who took all Hector’s teaching to heart) is unhappy at Cambridge, and persists in parasitic nostalgia for his schoolboy days. However, when speaking to The Times, even director Sir Nicholas Hytner couldn’t stomach a “specious” claim about its pertinence to today’s conversations about the education system.

The revival seems to be Hytner’s idea. Sir Nick is brilliant. Balancing Acts, his memoir on twelve years as artistic director of the National Theatre, is a tremendous read. His 2013 production of Othello is electric, and One Man, Two Guvnors is deftly delightful. His film direction of The Madness of King George (1994) is excellent if only for the climax: “I am the King!”, George declares, strapped into a chair. “No, sir, you are the patient!” returns the doctor as Zadok the Priest swells in this perverse anti-coronation. But can’t he do better? Following The Standard of Living earlier this year, is rehashing this old work the best Hytner can bring to the West End?

Perhaps Bennett suffers from a similar condition. His last effort was the film The Choral (2025), which, whilst moving, was a touch derivative. It became a tick-box list of Bennettisms: passions unfulfilled, power of art, Yorkshire. A scene towards the end echoes Bennett’s admittedly devastating Talking Heads episode, ‘Waiting for the Telegram’. There’s a whiff of Posner to this revival: a reliance on younger, more successful days. We have a 2020s remake of a 2000s play set in the 1980s based on Bennett’s 1950s schoolboy years.

But try as I might to scoff at it, I can’t help but be excited by the return. Crowther’s elegy for Hector may work well as a verdict on the play itself: “He was stained and shabby and did unforgivable things.” But “even his death was a lesson that added to the store”.

In all its blemished brilliance, The History Boys has lessons to add to the store. It speaks to us about the value of education, the struggles of growing up, and – perhaps most fascinatingly – the “sheer randomness of history”. Dakin’s discussions of how history happens, the unpredictability of Halifax’s teeth winning Britain the war, Rudge’s declaration that it’s just “one f***ing thing after another”, even the boys’ playing around “in the subjunctive mood”; these are all questions that play out in the narrative itself, with Hector’s potential expulsion, and the plot (and motorbike’s) lurch.

Whilst it’s easy to mock the play’s soppy view of literature, it’s both intensely moving and true. A poem can be that hand across history, reaching out and holding yours. The cast of characters is vividly sketched, from the plight of love-sick Posner serenading his unrequited sweetheart with Ella Fitzgerald, to the swaggering arrogance of Dakin, the razor-sharp satire of revisionist Irwin, and the no-nonsense and brilliantly perceptive Rudge.

It’s also great fun. Bennett captures the playful musicality of schoolboys teasing teachers: “Are jokes gonna be a feature, sir?” The film adaptation (a guilty pleasure) is similarly charming. It adds Penelope Wilton as an Art History teacher brushing the boys up in culture, and Adrian Scarborough as a devoutly religious press-up-demanding PE teacher (“give me 20!”, “what? Hail Mary’s?”).

These lessons might not be much, but, to butcher AE Housman’s words: all plays are worthwhile whether or not they serve the slightest human use. The History Boys numbers among them.

“Why now?”, we may ask. “Why not?”, we may answer. I’ll see you at the Royal Haymarket.

What are you looking at? A reflection on the Ashmolean’s Aphrodite exhibition 

Abigail Riley
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What are you looking at? A reflection on the Ashmolean’s Aphrodite exhibition 

The woman crouches, nude. A gauzy blue curtain hangs where she hides her chest; behind it I can just see the other artefacts. She isn’t looking at me. Over one white shoulder, she stares into the distance. This is Aphrodite, or perhaps the later Venus – not Mesopotamian Inanna, or Assyrian Ishtar. I know she couldn’t be the Cypriot Aphrodite either.

The plaque calls her Crouching Aphrodite; she’s the first of many images in this room that depict the goddess bathing. Some Romans sculpted her in the second century, but she is really only a copy; there was a Greek original. In many ways, the image of her is a succinct summary of the Ashmolean’s exhibition. The voyeuristic pose, the elaborate up-do, her naked back; these are the marks of beauty and desire. She implies sex, perhaps looks towards love. When I sit down later to write about her, however, I realise I didn’t truly notice much at all about her date, her body or her history. All I know is that she looked right past me.

The first room of the exhibition, Aphrodite: The Making of a Goddess at the Ashmolean, is painted a dark blue. Statues and friezes glow, though they were originally brightly-coloured, and the vases shine above their small lights. We have begun in media res, if you like to think of the goddess’ journey through time as one long story – which I, and presumably the curators, would. The next room takes us from the second century to around 3000 BC. We are now with Ishtar, Inanna, the goddess of love, as she began in the Middle East and, later, as she was in Cyprus; the goddess when she wasn’t a goddess of love at all. 

It makes sense to begin there, though, with the classical: we know her image the best. When I walk into the second room, I see that familiarity cast against the strange. Small fertility statues line the left wall. Etched into their features are some of the same rough lines I made in clay at school, using wooden pottery tools. A huge pink circle illuminates the space from the opposite end; everything is bright and quite literally rose-tinted. The sense of time is enormous, only matched by the weight of the goddess’ gaze; here, she looks right at me. 

Where the classical goddess looked away, her Middle Eastern ancestor was almost always facing straight ahead. Of course, there are logical explanations. Classical sculptors had very consistent ideas about which poses best displayed the body, and thus statues rarely looked straight ahead. Similarly, the function of these older statues fits a straight, forward-facing structure far better. Many were made for small shrines, for personal luck. 

But I do not believe that the sole purpose of an exhibition like this should be education. There is something valuable in how we respond to it, which parts stand out and why. I know it is probably a coincidence that the more powerful the goddess is in her culture, the more ancient and remote from my own imagination, the more direct her eyes are. It still feels a little like we have lost something there, and I cannot quite put my finger on it.

The final room reinforces my vague sense of loss. A replica of the Venus de Medici stands there, nude and shy as Crouching Aphrodite. On the opposite wall hang drawings that detail her precise measurements. They believed, in the Renaissance, that the Venus de Medici portrayed the perfect feminine form. The drawings thus measure out every limb, every joint. Little numbers and dotted lines scatter her body; drawn from the front, drawn from the side. I know that these were made, at least ostensibly, for artistic education. And yet, I can only imagine that these men were getting ready to cut the goddess open and sell her body for parts, like a pig or a side of beef. And, if she can be cut open like this, as though Venus de Medici lay on the table of the butcher’s shop and not on a pedestal in The Uffizi, then Aphrodite must no longer be a goddess. Now, she is only another woman. 

Hanging next door is A Girl Drawing by Peter der Werff, small and perhaps even unassuming. Of everything I have seen, though, I feel the closest to that little girl. She sits at a table, drawing the Venus de Medici. Between her and the statue, a boy holds the bust of another woman and tries to distract her. The girl’s gaze is unchanged and her mouth a little slack. I can’t see what’s on her page, but something tells me she isn’t trying to measure the goddess’ breast size. As always, Venus does not look back. Like the Crouching Aphrodite, the goddess looks over her shoulder and into the background. In this little painting, I feel maybe we have found something of what we lost from the statues of Inanna and Ishtar. Aphrodite might not be looking back at us just yet, but we at least are trying to catch her eye.

The early bird gets the worm

Alice Sanders
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The early bird gets the worm

At least, that is the age-old adage. It is what many Oxford students, often cast as the ‘ambitious type’, will have heard time and time again. Whether it be early entry undergraduate applications or job interviews, we as a society are obsessed with being first at everything, and those who are first are, inevitably – so we are told – successful. However, while this may just be symptomatic of the world we live in, there is one race that I will never compete for first place in: that of waking up first.

Let me just clarify: I am, resoundingly, not a morning person. The precise moment at which my alarm clock begins to beep and my phone begins to buzz is, without fail, the worst of my day. Add a grey sky, cold room, and soft duvet to the mix, and I think few would dare suggest I am overexaggerating.

Then comes the slog: snooze, snooze, snooze, but eventually it has to be time to get out of bed and, in the murkiness of the delightful British autumn, start my day. It is a process certainly not unfamiliar to any student, but one made all the more pertinent today, when the proverbial ‘early bird’ has become an even greater icon of success than it has been before. More than ever, too, we have become obsessed with maximising our productivity in every aspect of our lives, streamlining our time to push our busyness to its capacity.

This busyness is certainly no stranger to an Oxford student, for whom ‘doing everything’ is not so much a choice as it is a doctrine. Inscribed in early sporting commitments, the morning essay deadline and 9am lecture are, inevitably, alarms variously beginning with a seven, six, or even five. This is often supplemented with copious amounts of coffee and usually makes for a begrudging start to the day.

For some, however, this is the ideal lifestyle: an early night, an early start, and an undeniable sense of achievement obtained before the sun has even peeled back its sheets, and ditched the pyjamas. It is a way of life sustained by the modern cult of productivity, in which the very act of doing is an invaluable social currency that feels impossible to escape. In our desperation for constant advancement, we capitalise on the doing of everything. We are told that two cooked breakfasts, a workout, meditation, a walk, coffee, and the completion of all our work is possible before the (I would argue still early) hour of 10am, and, honestly, I am sceptical.

Some call the discipline necessary to engage in this morning routine ‘self-improvement’, but it can hardly fail to be self-destructive in the immensity of its expectation. I don’t know about you, but I will not be making any seismic decisions before breakfast. In fact, it is unlikely I will have even decided what I’ll be wearing. Perhaps this is narrow-minded, for there is an undeniable (if egotistical) reward in being able to reel off the imposing list of tasks you completed all while your friends and family slept, letting the early bird start hunting.

However, I cannot help but doubt this 5am alarm and the gloating that accompanies it. Under constant pressure that this is the right, the healthy, the committed, and the successful way of life, it is impossible for guilt not to shadow those who hesitate to admit that no, they have not ‘done’ anything yet, even though it is 11am. There is a certain shame in accepting you haven’t ‘achieved’ anything yet with your day, and one that is only exacerbated by the cacophony of blaring opinions on social media and ‘productivity guidelines’, in which we are baited with success, and teased with the ever superior successes of others.

Perhaps this comes only as some form of self-vindication for the many days that I, red-faced, have admitted to having wasted my morning, those precious hours in which time is endless and potential is limitless. And yet, I do not seem to be alone in this feeling, and we are not scientifically unjustified in it, either. It is an uncontested fact that circadian rhythm changes with age, and is set to a later schedule in the years of twenties and teenagedom, meaning it is only natural to sleep later, and to wake later in accordance. Studies have proven not only this, but also that students’ performance in cognitive activities (such as taking exams) is better at 1.30pm, than either 9am or 4.30pm.

Bolstered by such evidence, this unmatched productivity and glamour of the early morning is marred: while the choice of some, this obsession with the early hours is unfounded as a miracle solution to the perfect life, and its propaganda is not enough to tempt me. After all, while so often confounded by our academic environment, there is much more to our day than the achievements perceived as ‘productive’ in the traditional sense. Although a midnight essay crisis is a situation where I know I’m not alone, the evening often lies in wait with open arms for so much more. Social events, in particular, are usually hosted in the evening, stretching into the hours of the night. Evenings are not exempt, either, from those pursuits typically associated with the morning. It is only at the cost of these evening hours that the early bird can rise.

I imagine that I will always be a night owl, taking advantage of the dying light for everything that can be achieved before dawn, and more. While this avian foil is the most well-known image, the appended ending of the early bird proverb is an even greater favourite of mine: “The early bird gets the worm, but the second mouse gets the cheese.” Perhaps some of us will never be first to the mark, chased by the growing light, but we should all take our rewards when they come, without rising to an impossible standard of what is productive or admirable, for there is no shame in choosing to bide our time, and rising, if just a little later. 

Shedding selves, one term at a time

Eva Zielke
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Shedding selves, one term at a time

A week after returning from visiting my friend studying in Reims, a charming city in the Champagne region of France, I sent her a text: “I miss your friends.” I had known them for three days, an embarrassingly short time to claim such an attachment. And yet, there I was, staring at a reading list with an inexplicable nostalgia for people I barely knew. I missed a flat I’d visited a handful of times and the Thursday tradition at Saint Maurice bar I’d borrowed for one evening. Stranger still, I missed a person: a slightly louder, more spontaneous, French-phrase-attempting version of myself who stayed behind in France, and neglected to board the Eurostar home.

My friend was amused by my sentimentality for a city she had lately associated with mid-term preparation. Seeing Reims through my eyes, she told me, had reminded her to appreciate it. For three days, I inhabited the most romanticised version of her ordinary life. No deadlines, laundry, or the type of mundane grievances that inevitably accumulate, even in the loveliest of places. But I realised that, just as my visit had briefly changed her relationship with the city, it had changed mine with myself. I missed being me there as much as I missed being there.

I think William James would have understood my text. In Principles of Psychology, he argued that a person has “as many social selves as there are individuals who recognise him”. This, he suggested, is just how selfhood works: we step into a different version of ourselves with each group that knows us, each a partial expression of who we are. Susan M. Andersen and Serena Chen’s concept of the ‘relational self’ suggests we carry mental models of the people close to us that shift how we behave when they’re around. This isn’t necessarily dishonesty or performance. Some people make you funnier, others more thoughtful, others capable of talking to strangers in broken French. It might take leaving their company to notice how much of ourselves they brought out, for better or for worse.

University, it turns out, is an extraordinarily efficient machine for manufacturing these selves, and Oxford seems particularly fertile ground for it. There is the college self, who you become when you queue for the dining hall, do your laundry, and collect parcels from the porter’s lodge. There is the tutorial self, who says things like “encapsulates” with an ease that is rarely demonstrated outside oak-pannelled rooms lined with books. There is the rowing self, the library self, the Spoons self, and, in due course, the home self. 

Each belongs to a slightly different world, sustained by the company in which it exists. People often talk about Oxford’s sense of identity as a single, unified, aesthetic experience: bookish students moving through spires and candlelit libraries. In reality, however, the selves we occupy come from the many intense, smaller components of our lives. We belong to so many different places and people that leaving any one of them behind can feel like leaving something of ourselves behind too.

I find this most apparent in Michaelmas. I’m sure I’m not alone in wanting it to promise a fresh beginning: a better work ethic, a more packed social calendar, a newfound commitment to attending lectures, and maybe, just maybe, a sustainable sleep schedule. Social media only adds to the feeling. As I scroll, the instructions to begin a ‘winter arc’ seep into my subconscious. Reinvention in October is a trend as old as TikTok, and it feels almost compulsory. New wardrobes, timetables, and fresh seasonal coffee options offer us every opportunity, and every pressure, to become a slightly improved version of ourselves.

This year, the transition felt even more abrupt. I had only just returned from France when noughth week demanded an entirely different version of me. Suddenly, I was no longer babbling rusty GCSE French over drinks, but a second-year student, expected to have acquired some wisdom, academic discipline, and general competence over summer. I was caught between affection for the self I’d left behind, and anticipation of the one I might become.

Yet, what might offer some comfort is how quickly this new self begins to feel ordinary. By fifth week, some novelty has worn off, and your routines may have settled. You know when Michaelmas-you wakes up, where they like to study, and which newly familiar faces they’ll encounter on the way there. We develop our own small geography each term, and soon enough it’ll become second nature for a short time.

This can make Michaelmas bittersweet. Autumn is conventionally associated with endings, retreating indoors, hibernating. Yet at university, it is the season in which so much begins. New friendships form under trees already shedding their golden leaves, and new routes back from the library will become familiar as the daylight disappears and tries to draw you home. We spend October becoming people that we get to know only in November, before December arrives to take them away. 

Because then it all reverses. Eight weeks on, even more weeks off, and the communities we’ve assembled scatter across the country and the world. 

So, somewhere between college Christmas dinner and packing a suitcase in a freezing room, the person you’ve spent Michaelmas becoming begins to slip into the past. Perhaps it’s only in January, scrolling through your carefully curated end-of-term Instagram dump, that you realise how attached you’d become to October-to-December-you.

We have plenty of language for missing people and places, but less for missing the person we were in their company. 

The odd thing is that, come Hilary, I’ll probably return to many of the same people and places, and become a slightly different person all over again. For all my attempts to make a fresh start, I was equally determined to mourn my last self. Maybe that’s the real Michaelmas tradition: spending eight weeks reinventing ourselves, then the vacation looking back at who we became.

 Four colleges invest in revitalising local businesses

Jeremy Azzopardi and Miriam Ilderton
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 Four colleges invest in revitalising local businesses

All Souls, Brasenose, Lincoln, and Oriel are working together to revitalise Oxford’s historic Market Quarter, with a particular focus on encouraging independent businesses. 

The quarter makes up much of the city’s centre, including Turl Street, High Street, and King Edward Street. All four colleges own properties in the area, many of which are occupied by small businesses. Alongside restoring and redeveloping specific properties, the project is also designed to promote greater collaboration between businesses and the colleges. The colleges have launched a website to boost footfall, and also plan to hold events in the future. Lincoln is already paying for extra cleaning on Turl Street and working on improving lighting. 

Many of the colleges have historic connections to businesses in the area. Lincoln, for example, has owned the Mitre Inn, now occupied by Gusto Italian, since 1475. Today, more than 40 cafés, shops, and restaurants sit on property owned by the four colleges. The colleges hope that their long-term approach to managing their properties will help give independent retailers the confidence to settle in the area. 

In a joint statement to Cherwell, the colleges said that they plan to work with existing businesses to “build on what makes this part of Oxford distinctive”. They hope the investment will improve the experience of students, residents, and tourists who use the streets by encouraging “a strong mix of independent and specialist retailers, alongside interesting places to eat and drink”. The colleges have decided to work together on this project so they can “develop a particular feel to the area” and provide “a distinctive and attractive shopping and leisure experience”, compared with destinations like Westgate, which focuses on national brands. 

Shepherd and Woodward on Turl Street agreed, telling Cherwell: “Whilst we recognise that there is a demand for T-shirts and memorabilia, Oxford would be a less attractive area if every shop sold tourist goods or Harry Potter goods.”

Students also stand to benefit from the income generated by this investment. The rent businesses pay helps subsidise student accommodation – often in the flats above – as well as tuition and financial support, which at Lincoln amounts to £1.8 million annually.  

Cherwell spoke to several local businesses, many of whom expressed gratitude for the support offered by the colleges. This includes Vaults and Garden, a cafe now located on King Edward Street, which faced a prolonged legal battle over their previous location in Radcliffe Square. The cafe owner, William Pouget, told Cherwell that Oriel’s support has “really mattered” when the businesses faced “unprecedented difficulties”. “In my experience,” he added, “Oxford colleges are understanding, compassionate and responsible landlords who take their ethical obligations seriously”.

Missing Bean, a cafe on Turl Street, also emphasised the “good relationship” they have with Lincoln. Ori Halup, Co-Founder and Director of Missing Bean, told Cherwell: “The colleges can play a big part through their investment and the businesses they bring into their properties.” The business hopes the college’s investment will lead to expanded outdoor seating and a curation of “a thoughtful mix” of shops, restaurants, and cafés. 

For some local businesses, this town-and-gown partnership is relatively recent. All Souls only purchased its High Street properties in 2020. The College plans to restore the historic shopfronts and create space above for seminar rooms and offices. A spokesperson for All Souls told Cherwell: “We believe that the project will be very much to the benefit of the Market and city centre generally, as well as to the academic mission of the College.” 

According to plans displayed on their website, the project is also designed to help preserve the “historic features of the buildings… wherever possible, including early stonework, roof timbers and historic ceilings.”

The midterms and the YA novel: Impossibly happy endings

Ruya Oral
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The midterms and the YA novel: Impossibly happy endings

Given its intense media coverage and everything that seems to be on the line, I feel as though I have been anxiously awaiting the results of the 2026 US midterm elections for weeks, months – maybe years. Having lived in Central America in the lead-up to the 2024 presidential elections, I had become utterly disillusioned with the idea that shared identity could ever guarantee political solidarity. I had watched people around me sport MAGA hats and post AI-enhanced pictures of Donald Trump as Jesus on their Instagram stories; people with skin like mine, who spoke English with an accent (or not at all), people who joined me in holding up the passport queue at the Houston border. It made my stomach turn to think that the win had been secured with the help of people I considered my kin and, no matter what they had been led to believe, people I knew Washington would quickly alienate if they were to ever step out of line. The horrific acceleration of ICE activities across the country, but particularly around the Mexican border, had been a predictable, but nonetheless more upsetting development under the current administration. So, despite Zohran Mamdani’s landmark win in New York (which I saw announced in an A&E waiting room in Oxford at 2am, heart beating out of my chest unrelated to any medical issues), I did not have high hopes coming into the midterms. 

My political pessimism, however, has not extended to my taste in literature. I don’t know how many of my coursemates would admit this, but my decision to study English was partly propelled by my love of young adult (YA) literature. If I ever find the time in between reading lists, I am most likely to be found with my nose buried in some trashy Harry Potter fanfiction with the names changed for copyright purposes. I enjoy unadulterated fluff. I yearn for inconceivable happy endings. I don’t want realism in my YA – I want happiness against all odds, and refractory periods that bend the rules of biology. As such, Casey McQuiston’s 2019 novel Red, White & Royal Blue, with its queer romance and almost aggressively optimistic vision of American politics, has been my comfort read for many years. 

For the uninitiated, Red, White, & Royal Blue tells the story of Alex Claremont-Diaz, son of the US president, and Prince Henry George Edward James Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor (average Oxonian number of middle names), fourth in line to the British throne. Despite long-standing animosity, after an incident that could threaten the president’s re-election campaign, Alex and Henry are forced into a PR friendship that soon unravels into something more. The enemies-to-lovers façade is shattered, as the two come to realise they have loved each other all along. The fictitious stakes for their relationship are very high – Alex doesn’t want to put his mother’s career at risk, and Henry fears being estranged from his family. However, the story is sold on its lack of realism: though it’s impossible not to invest in Alex and Henry’s relationship, just a quick scan of the list of characters tells you that something like this could never happen, so it’s easy to infer that everything will work out in the end. Alex is half-Latino, and his mother Ellen is the first female president in US history. She is a divorced, middle-aged woman, and the Democratic candidate from Texas. She has one trans and one pansexual Secret Service agent on her security detail. One of her closest allies is Rafael Luna, an openly gay, Latino senator from Colorado. Henry’s older sister is a recovering cocaine addict. McQuiston imagines a true woke-gone-wild, blue-hair-and-pronouns takeover. In the book’s final chapter, Ellen wins her re-election. Her home state, Texas, is the last to be called: “Texas is grey for five more seconds, before flooding beautiful, beautiful, unmistakable, Lake LBJ blue.” It is utter nonsense, and the only conceivable end to a narrative filled with things going right at the last second for the most unexpected people. 

The Venn diagram for literary scholars and queer activists overlaps when it comes to tangible prejudice against gay pop-lit. It’s not entirely uncalled for; there is a concern that people write about a community they aren’t part of in ways that don’t adequately depict queer lived experiences or aren’t conducive to relatability for those peering in from outside the bubble. The medium seems too flat to convey the varied lives of people within the community without making caricatures out of them. I sympathise – it is difficult not to perceive stories like Red, White, & Royal Blue as indulgent and mocking, particularly at a time when it feels like stereotypes are being used to demonise and legislate against us. But I also think there is value in shameless positivity and, much like mainstream music, I charge the elites to approach the corny YA novel poptimistically. To turn a blind eye to the suffering we have long endured would be a disservice to the progress we have made in being unashamed of who we are and of the people we love, but part of that progress is also learning to be comfortable in the idea that we can be happy, in the same cheesy, tooth-rotting way as anyone else. We are not doing ourselves any favours by self-flagellating, and just as we shouldn’t be expected to justify our identities to anyone else, we also shouldn’t have to justify any fantastical romances we revel in to ourselves.

The Democratic platform for the midterms was built almost entirely in reaction to the decreasing quality of life under the Republican administration. Candidates emphasised the cost of living and claimed unaffordability to be a direct result of corruption in the White House. For once, it was almost impossible to claim what the right always does, which is that liberal candidates sideline economic issues in favour of trivial social problems that affect only a small minority of people. Still, the character list for Democratic wins in the midterms rivals the diversity of Red, White, & Royal Blue. Chris Pappas became the first openly gay man elected to the US Senate in New Hampshire; Abdul El-Sayed is the first Muslim man to win a seat in the US Senate in Michigan; Keisha Lance Bottoms, in Georgia, is the first Black woman governor of any US state. Hakeem Jeffries remains the frontrunner for Speaker of the House of Representatives, a position that is second in the presidential line of succession. And of course, as the prophecy of Red, White, & Royal Blue foretold, James Talarico won the Senate seat in Texas, flipping the state blue for the first time since 1988. We now live in a world where deep-South, Bible-belt Texas is being led by a man who five years ago claimed that God is nonbinary. “The Lometa Longshot and a long-awaited blue Texas.” Who would’ve thunk it.

So, despite her cartoonish faith that the good guys will always win, McQuiston has won this particular battle in the culture war. The ideological optimism that Red, White & Royal Blue upholds has been reaffirmed by real changes in the American political climate, and though there is still a long way to go and now is certainly not the time to relax our hold, I think that we have at least reminded ourselves that hope and solidarity go a long way. I’m embarrassed to say that I had forgotten. And if the next time you see me I’m reading a book with a bright pink cover, maybe you’ll hold off the ridicule for a couple of seconds longer.

Oxford Chancellor delivers lecture on  Britain’s relationship with Europe

Jeremy Azzopardi
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Oxford Chancellor delivers lecture on  Britain’s relationship with Europe

Chancellor of the University of Oxford, Lord William Hague, delivered the 2026 Europaeum Annual Lecture at the Sheldonian Theatre on 4th November. Hague called for closer UK-EU ties as a matter of urgency, including strengthening cooperation on technology, defense, and climate change, whilst upholding democracy and doubling down on multilateralism. 

Hague’s wide-ranging speech is the second ever Europaeum Lecture. The series brings together high-profile speakers from top European universities to discuss Europe’s challenges. Describing the current era as “the most dangerous period since 1945”, Hague outlined his vision for Europe to escape decline by rebuilding through renewal and resilience. In response to Prime Minister Andy Burnham’s call for the UK to eventually rejoin the EU, Hague expressed scepticism about the move’s feasibility, but declared that “our fate is as entangled with the fate of the continent as it has ever been”.

On technology and the rise of artificial intelligence, Hague warned that Europe risks becoming either a “digital colony of the US or a tech dependency of Beijing”. He urged the continent to “take back control”, including by ensuring the “free cross-border flow” of global talent. The Chancellor portrayed universities as “engines of ideas” crucial to spurring innovation. Oxford ranks as Europe’s leading university for spinout value creation, accounting for 20% of all investment into spin-outs across Europe.

Noting Britain’s record summer temperatures, the Chancellor called for new measures to adapt to the effects of climate change and greater investment into “novel technologies”. These included  carbon capture, geoengineering, and genetic engineering. Citing Greece’s recent launch of a satellite system for wildfire prevention, Hague urged the UK and EU to work together on a similar scaled-up Europe-wide solution. He also encouraged both sides to unify carbon markets and simplify trading of electricity.

Cherwell asked the Chancellor about possible reductions in tuition fees for EU students at UK universities, currently under consideration as part of UK-EU negotiations. In his reply, Hague told Cherwell: “We’d love to see it easier for EU students to come to our universities, but it does require governments to reach agreement.” He expressed support for a youth mobility scheme enabling young British and EU citizens to live and work in each other’s countries. However, Hague also referred to negotiating conflicts over equalising tuition fees for EU nationals with British citizens to pour cold water over a deeper UK rapprochement with the EU.

In exchange for a youth mobility scheme, the Chancellor encouraged the EU to involve Britain in its “Made in Europe” industrial policy. He also endorsed closer defense cooperation through the EU’s €150 billion Security Action for Europe (SAFE) loan scheme, as well as joint UK-EU leadership on international governance of new technologies, including creating guardrails against artificial intelligence.

Founded in 1992 by former Oxford Chancellor and the only-ever British President of the European Commission, Roy Jenkins, Europaeum offers postgraduate programmes to students across 17 European universities. The network describes itself as “an alliance of pre-eminent universities” focused on interdisciplinary learning to tackle Europe’s major issues. The University of St Andrews is the only other UK member of the organisation, which continues to be headquartered at St Antony’s College, Oxford.

Sport Spotlight: Robin Munday

Freddie Lewis-Hedley
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Sport Spotlight: Robin Munday

When I sit down to interview second-year Ancient and Modern History student Robin Munday, he happens to be wearing his Swiss Glacier Pistol Club fleece. The Oxford University Pistol Club (OUPC) captain is right to sport his discipline with pride. In his first year at the club, the team beat Cambridge twice: in an official varsity match in Hilary, and an unofficial competition in Switzerland during the long vacation. A few further victories against other university teams in the summer also contributed to OUPC’s “moderate success” last year, he tells me. 

This year does not look set to disappoint either. Competition has not started yet, but since an appearance at Freshers’ Fair, the club’s weekly training sessions at Iffley Road Sports Centre are fully booked, and its group chat has over 200 members. “There are some very talented freshers,” Munday tells me. “By and large most have never touched a gun before, but some of them have and are very promising shots.” Munday mentions how some of the new members are getting to grips with trickier techniques, like aiming at targets that collapse when the bullet hits. 

The incoming pistol shooters could not be in safer hands. “I’d always grown up around shooting,” Munday says. “The first time I was on a shooting range I was a few weeks old, and I started shooting aged five, with an air pistol I got for Christmas. When I was six, I was on centre-fire, more powerful revolvers.” Munday started competitive shooting at the 2015 Swiss Federal Shooting Festival aged ten, the youngest of around 35,000 competitors. He went on to win the under-21 division of the Swiss Feldstich contest in 2024, and a year later placed third. 

His affiliation with OUPC, though, started well before its recent successes. Munday’s parents met at OUPC as undergraduates. His father served as “one of the early captains” after the club broke off from the Rifle Club in 1976, and his mother became captain a few “generations” later. He still owns and occasionally wears a size XS OUPC polo shirt which the club gave his parents as a gift for him.

“For a very long time, I’ve wanted to become captain of the OUPC – I’m proud partly because I’m following in my parents’ footsteps,” Munday tells me. The club’s events lined up for this year will certainly make his tenure an exciting one. “In a couple of weeks there’s the Oxfordshire Rifle Association Gallery Rifle Championships, and, like every year, there’s the Faded Blues.” In part of the latter event, Munday tells me, OUPC alumni compete against current members, who, he adds, “are almost always defeated”. Whatever the case, there cannot be anyone better placed than Munday, with his unique overview of OUPC’s history, to take part. 

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