Saturday 19th July 2025
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Oxford admissions report reveals significant college and subject disparities

Noah Robson
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Oxford admissions report reveals significant college and subject disparities

Oxford University has released its Annual Admissions Statistical Report, providing information about undergraduate applications, offers, and admissions. It reveals a mixed picture, particularly between colleges and subjects, on areas including socioeconomic background, ethnicity, school type, and gender.

At a university level, it is broadly one of improvement, with the highest percentage of Black and Minority Ethnic students (30.8%) since the first report was released in 2018, and the number of students entitled to free school meals increasing to 8.1%. There were some setbacks however, with the percentage of UK students from state schools declining for the fourth year in a row to 66.2%.

Notably, this was the first year where applicants had the option of selecting either ‘I prefer not to say’ or ‘I prefer another term’ under the gender section. 2.9% of undergraduates admitted in 2024 opted for one of these, considerably higher than the 0.2% national average that did so at other UK universities.

At the college level, disparities were more marked. In particular, state school students varied significantly between colleges, with the highest being 93.7% at Mansfield (which has topped this ranking every year since the reports began), and the lowest being 55.6% at Pembroke. Oriel and New (both 56.5%) were also particularly low on this metric.

A Pembroke College spokesperson told Cherwell: “Pembroke’s approach to access focuses on tackling regional inequality in this country. We work actively and collaboratively with universities and colleges across England on a growing number of access and outreach programmes with this aim. Every year we engage with around 200 pupils from our target regions and over the last three years, we have supported 124 state school pupils to apply for and receive offers to read a wide range of subjects at mainly Oxford colleges.”

Such contrasts were present across subjects too. Classics saw the lowest percentage of state school students (43.2%), whilst History and Politics (79.2%) had the highest. A University spokesperson told Cherwell: “Annual figures for individual courses naturally fluctuate due to factors such as applicant preferences and cohort sizes, but our overall trajectory demonstrates sustained progress towards greater diversity and inclusivity.”

Ethnicity was another area where divides could be seen. The University caveat that “students from BME backgrounds are more likely to apply for the most competitive courses than White students,” with this being borne out in the statistics. Medicine had the highest proportion of UK BME students at 55.6%, with Modern Languages the lowest (15.7%).

Data was also given on more specific ethnic groups, including Black African / Black Caribbean UK students. Here, across the three years 2022-2024, none were admitted to Biomedical Sciences despite 45 applications, and just two were admitted for Computer Science, even with 97 applications being made.

The college with the highest percentage of BME students was Christ Church, with 34.7% – the highest figure since the reports began, and the fourth year in a row that the College has topped this ranking. Merton had the lowest, with 22%; it is a sign of the improvement, however, that this would have been the highest of any College when the first report was released seven years ago.

Of the 29 colleges included in the report, only seven did not have a majority of women among UK students. Corpus Christi had the lowest, at 42.9% – the lowest of any College since the 2018 report – whilst Lady Margaret Hall had the highest at 60.8%, the third year in a row it has done so.

Subjects saw the greatest splits on gender, with 82.9% of those admitted for Experimental Psychology identifying as a woman. Meanwhile, women made up just 19.8% of Maths and Computer Science students.

Course popularity additionally saw some changes, with Philosophy, Politics, and Economics no longer among the top ten courses in terms of applicants per place for the first time ever. Economics and Management came out on top on this admissions metric, with 19.1 applicants per place, whilst Computer Science saw a drop from last year, decreasing from 20 to 17.2 in 2024.

As the impact of Brexit continues to affect UK universities, figures also showed that the percentage of EU students is the lowest it has ever been, with just 3.2% of undergraduates coming from the EU in 2024.

An Oxford University spokesperson told Cherwell: “The majority of courses at Oxford actively support the UNIQ summer school, an intensive academic programme specifically aimed at students from disadvantaged backgrounds, significantly enhancing their readiness to make competitive applications. 

“We remain committed long-term to ensuring our undergraduate student body reflects the diversity of the UK, attracting students with the highest academic potential from all backgrounds. Recognising that socio-economic disadvantage and varying school performance may hinder some students from reaching their full potential, we employ comprehensive contextual information during admissions to better understand and assess individual achievements.”

Merton and Corpus Christi were contacted for comment.

Oxford Union believes the commodification of women has gone too far

Conor Walsh
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Oxford Union believes the commodification of women has gone too far

Last Thursday, the Oxford Union passed the motion “This House believes that the commodification of women’s bodies has gone too far”, with 133 members voting in favour of the motion and 97 members voting against it. The debate was the last of the academic year and included parting speeches from this term’s committee, including President Anita Okunde who made history as the first Black woman to lead the Union.

The debate was preceded by the emergency motion “This House would have a hot girl summer”. After a heart-felt debate about whether we should have a ‘hot girl’ summer, a ‘good girl’ summer or a ‘go get ‘em girl’ summer, the chamber resoundingly supported the motion.

Opening for the proposition for the main motion was the Union’s Chief of Staff Amina Bellalem. She focused on women’s bodies as goods to be sold and goods to be purchased. Specifically, she argued that surrogacy “can be beautiful and intimate. But once this biological gift has been commercialised” it can lead to problematic power dynamics where women are “relegated to their bodily functions”. Bellalem also highlighted the disparities between women in developing and developed countries performing surrogacy as well as problems relating to sex work. 

She further remarked that “plastic surgery normalises body modifications and unrealistic standards. The message is clear: your body needs costly fixes to be acceptable.” She concluded her remarks, saying: “Commodification is not liberation but an exploitation dressed in the language of choice.”

The first speaker for the opposition was Maya Kapila, a member of Secretary’s Committee. When introducing the opposition speakers, Bellalem had said she was not surprised to see Kapila on the opposition bench, noting her much-loved Thatcherite politics. 

Kapila opened by stating: “To say commodification is always necessarily exploitation is to deny the history of women’s exploitation.” She drew on examples from the Roman empire and the slave trade, questioning why the “breaking point” for commodification is OnlyFans. She argued that for the first time in history, women truly have autonomy over their bodies and that “women are safer and better today than centuries gone by – they now set the terms and reap the rewards [of commodification].”

Cameron Russell – author, fashion activist and former model – was the second speaker for the proposition. She argued that the “commodification of all bodies is exploitation” and that “the idea that a person is only a body from which to extract profit is inhumane.” She rejected the capitalist ideal of commodification in all forms – whether typing on a keyboard or performing sex work. Russell also doubled-down on objections that commodification leads to empowerment, arguing that the need for desire can be distinct from commodification: “Desire is beautiful … this is not a gendered thing nor is it something to be ashamed of.”

The American fashion and culture journalist Dana Thomas was next to speak in favour of the opposition. Thomas began by speaking about her experience modelling as a teenager and the trade-off that she made between modelling and baby-sitting. She accepted that some might see her modelling career as “commodification but really it was her choice and these issues are not so black and white. To view them as such would be to make a really rash conclusion.” Ultimately, Thomas’s modelling career enabled her to pay for her college education. She argued that, in our capitalist society “beauty can get people to part with their money” and that this is “not necessarily a bad thing.”

The chamber erupted in laughs of embarrassment as she called out all those who wore make-up, indulged in skincare routines, and shaved ahead of the debate. With a nod to her husband’s black tie, she noted that “we indulge in these practices because we want to amplify our gendered appearance.” Asking the chamber “do you feel commodified?”, she replied “I’m guessing not.” She drew on the philosophical debate about beauty, its power and its ‘form of genius’ in the words of Oscar Wilde. In her concluding marks she drew attention to her tuxedo and her absent shirt: “I may appear sexually available, but do I feel commodified? I have your attention. I have control. I am a woman in full.”

Following resounding applause, the chamber turned to speeches from the floor where countless members spoke passionately in favour of the motion. Few members sought to oppose the motion, with the President calling upon opposition speakers with little success. One comical moment featured a speaker in favour of the proposition who accidentally stood up to give opposition remarks. She quickly returned to her seat.

Leane Deeb, a digital content creator and designer of Gymshark’s modest wear collection, provided concluding remarks for the proposition. She argued that “this motion is not an attack on women, but a challenge to the world we inherited. A world which tells women their value lies in how they look, not how they are inside.” She rejected arguments that female commodification can be autonomy-enhancing, and spoke about her own journey as an influencer as she “chose to align with my faith and cover.” Whilst she lost followers in the process, many women reached out supporting her and she said that “for the first time I felt free.”

Deeb asked: “Is it really empowerment if we tie our worth to how we look? This is not about modesty versus not, it’s about choice versus conditioning …  a woman’s strength is not in how she’s seen but in who she chooses to be.”

The Wizard Liz, a podcast and youtube sensation, gave the final remarks of the evening on behalf of the opposition. Anticipation reached its climax as she got up to speak, with many in the chamber turning out to see her. She spoke from the heart about her childhood experiences of commodification, reflecting that “the first man to sexualise and objectify me was my father.” She argued that for the first time women have agency in commodification, saying that “the main thing the patriarchy tries to do is to ruin women’s autonomy over their bodies. Who are you to control women and their choices?”

Liz went on to say that “men and women are afraid of true female power” and that the “one thing men love more than objectifying women is making money … women are making millions from men’s lust.” As a result, she claimed that “we are walking towards a female dominated society because of this … money is power … people will listen to women with a lot of money because unfortunately that’s what this capitalist society cares about.” 

She concluded by remarking that “we do need feminism and we do need men” but she does not “believe men are meant to lead. Instead, they are meant to protect women from other men and women are meant to lead … women are and will continue to reclaim their power. We will no longer be told what to do, what to wear and how to act.” If the motion was dependent upon applause alone, it seemed that Liz had captured the hearts and minds of the house. Yet, despite her passionate and personal delivery, the motion passed with a clear margin.

Reviving the symposium at the Ashmolean Krasis programme

Dara Mohd
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Reviving the symposium at the Ashmolean Krasis programme

Every Wednesday, within the walls of the Ashmolean Museum, the Krasis Scholars gather for an object-centred symposium – and a cup of tea.

Devised by classicist Dr Sam Gartland and Teaching Curator Dr Jim Harris, Krasis is an interdisciplinary, museum-based teaching and learning programme for undergraduate and taught postgraduate students at the University of Oxford. Each termly iteration addresses one overarching theme, ranging from ‘Power and Imitation’ to ‘Absence’, with each afternoon symposium led from the disciplinary specialty of one of the eight Ashmolean Junior Teaching Fellows. The fellows and scholars, weaponed with notebooks and underneath the eye of Dr Harris, explore first-hand how the Ashmolean’s objects, galleries, and collections can teach what you do not yet know.

In this conversation with Dr Harris, we discuss why he brought the symposium back to life in the Ashmolean.

“Krasis,” Dr Harris tells me, “is a Greek word meaning ‘a good mixture.’ The name is perfect for it.” The name aptly reflects the purpose of the program as a series of disciplinarily-mixed symposia – an admittedly Grecocentric framing, favored by classicist Dr Gartland. 

But why create such a program? Dr Harris tells me that the point is “knowledge creation… knowledge exchange. We have people from anthropology, linguistics, and all sorts of disciplines; there’s you – a philosopher and theologian. They’re able to bring an informed perspective and answer the same question in eight different ways, depending on who they are. And that is exciting. So that’s the point of Krasis, and why I do it is because of the point of it.” And, above all, “because it’s fun!” 

Part of this programme’s aim is to ensure that participation in Krasis remains undemanding for all involved. The scholars and fellows, all Oxford students or academics, are “already under the cosh all the time,” Dr Harris tells me. You might be asked to complete a short reading beforehand, or watch a play, or perhaps even listen to music, but otherwise the only requirement is to bring your mind – sharpened and prepared to bear. 

This term, the 23rd iteration of Krasis, the theme is beauty. At the start of every term, the teaching fellows meet with Dr Harris to choose the theme and discuss how they might bring their research to bear on the theme. Then they think about kinds or types of objects, resources, collections, and galleries to use for the symposia. “Sometimes,” Dr Harris tells me, “the joy is that we’ve got exactly the thing they need. But sometimes we do have to think more laterally about things.” But that, to teaching curator Dr Harris, is one of the most exciting things – to see how the collections can be drawn on, to see how never-used-before objects can be put to work in teaching. “The objects have just been sitting there,” Dr Harris tells me, “kind of waiting for the right person to come and look at them.” In this sense, the Ashmolean space itself shapes the kinds of conversations in Krasis. If the symposia took place elsewhere – “Pitt Rivers, for example” – there would be a vastly different array of material to work with, and would “no doubt” attract a different kind of participant and a different kind of teaching fellow. 

So far, our symposia have taken us from the witch-hunts of the early modern period to the mythic culture of the viking age. At first glance, neither era seems particularly concerned with ‘beauty’ as we now understand it. But after studying a fascinating array of objects – The Four Witches (1497) by Albrecht Dürer, Viking brooches, and the like – I came to see things differently. The early modern witch hysteria echoed the Platonic view of aesthetics as morally charged; consider the stereotypical image of a witch: an ugly, decrepit female whose external appearance reflects internal moral corruption. On the other hand, the art of the Viking Age shows its rich decorative traditions: beasts, filigree, ornamentation, runestones, stave churches, all following conceptions of beauty preserved in Old Norse literature. 

None of the things which we conventionally want to know about the object – who made it? How did it get here? – are accessible in the study room. We don’t read a label or understand the object in relation to a gallery or other objects. The object is, effectively, “mute.” This exactly is the benefit: There is a lot to be understood simply from examining an object. There is a life to be established, a life which you cannot establish from a simple lecture or pre-reading. 

During the symposia, I noticed that Dr Harris takes a back seat: he observes us quietly and with a smile. When I ask him why this is, he laughs. “Because it’s not mine,” Dr Harris explains to me, “I can’t quite get stuck in it the way that I would like to. That’s not my job in this; it’s not to steer the symposia, but to labor it. The ‘sinister lurking’ is the outcome.” 

Why should a student think about becoming a Krasis participant? Dr Harris tells me that “there’s something liberating about being in a place where you have the chance to think, but where there is no demand on you, and where you are not being assessed.” He also hopes that the fellows take away a confidence and a capacity to bear upon their teaching.

The museum should be a place of teaching, learning, and human ingenuity. “Because the museum otherwise,” Dr Harris concludes, “is in danger of dying.”

‘This Room Their Lives’ in Magdalen College’s Waynflete building

Josie Stern
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‘This Room Their Lives’ in Magdalen College’s Waynflete building

Every Magdalen member remembers their first encounter with the Waynflete Building. Sticking out a little obtrusively amidst the serenity of Addison’s Walk and the college’s two grandiose deer parks, the purpose-built, ‘60s-era block is hardly the accommodation most undergraduates had in mind when they received their offer. Especially not from the college that inspired C.S. Lewis’ Narnia.

It was almost certainly the aubergine-purple carpets that dashed my admittedly pretentious vision for a room, both quaint and saturated in dark academia, on that first day of Freshers’ Week. Or perhaps it was the radioactive green wardrobes. The glaringly non-existent sink equally did not help matters. 

Still, when I look back on that morning, it is not the disturbing interior design decisions that stand out. Nor is it even the tropical climate that greeted me immediately upon reaching the fourth floor, despite it having been an uncharacteristically chilly October (still a mystery to fellow ‘Riverside’ occupants). 

What comes rushing back isn’t my inaugural experience of the ‘Flete’ – as its residents affectionately nickname the Waynflete building – but rather the unmistakable, melodramatic camaraderie that seemed to thrum through its beige walls. Behind the imposing colour of my cupboards, I had relished discovering decades of choicely worded protests and gripes, juxtaposed with innumerable ‘Long Live Waynflete’ avowals and hearts all scrawled into its insides. 

It was a tale of two halves: a study of how somewhere ostensibly drab could nurture such a remarkable warmth. A kind of original ‘misery porn,’ if you will, where collective vexations forged meaningful connections. 

1st-year Magdalen student and fellow-Waynflete-survivor Abigail Grant captured this very sentiment and more in her Waynflete Building Exhibition, This Room Their Lives.

Stepping into room 13 of the Waynflete, where her love letter to the building’s inhabitants is housed, visitors are thrust into a time capsule. Yet, it remains unmistakably the room of a student you may come across now, ageless in its charm and unruliness. With the gentle hum of a Weezer tune in the background, I was immediately charmed by the careful curation of books, photographs, and posters that together told the story of an undergraduate who could have belonged to the class of 1995 or 2025.

The anecdotes Grant has dexterously sourced from dozens of alumni, detailing their experiences’ of living in the Waynflete, are perhaps the most compelling part of her exhibition. There are too many wonderful tales to recount them all, but one in particular stands out. Estelle Shirbon (matric. 1994) recounts how, on first entering the Waynflete, she was left “horrified.” Yet, she found some of her closest friends between the purple floors and green wardrobes. 

Grant has crafted an ode to a building that doesn’t necessarily lend itself to poetic recollection. It takes true patience and flair to sift through all the whinging, all the grumbling – and voices like Catriona Seth (matric. 1982), who professes, “I never once regretted leaving the Waynflete!” – to produce something so heartfelt on the other side. 

Michael McGowan, matriculating in 1982, wonders what the college’s founder would make of the rise and fall of the building to which he lends his name. “Unlike it,” he remarks, William Waynflete was “the ultimate survivor…having died of old age in his bed despite serving on both sides of the Wars of Roses.” It has to be said, however, that many a middle-class Magdalen Fresher – myself included – have at times treated their sojourn in the ‘Flete’ as akin to a noble sacrifice. 

Grant does well to tension this entitled tone against the quiet luxury of living amongst so many of your dearest friends, sharing everything from late-night gossip to a singular kitchen that does not produce inexplicable odours. Indeed, Grant told Cherwell how she “wanted to create this exhibition to honour both the loathing and the love people have for the Flete,” admitting that while “it’s clearly not the most beautiful building…it’s full of memories, and…didn’t want those to be lost when it was demolished.” If her ultimate intention was to show off “the kind of real history,” she says she tends towards, a history centred around “people falling in love, making lifelong friends,” Grant certainly achieved it.

The photos, which deck almost every inch of the room, are deftly selected. They demonstrate that while mohawks and terrible polo shirts might separate more recent Magdalen freshers from older ones, they share a significant, common experience.

The Waynflete is a building that everyone loves to hate, a building that oftentimes seems to pose more challenges than it is worth. Even in death, its imminent absence – more than provoking fond memories – comes with further practical problems for undergraduates. Recently, second – and third-year Magdalen students have protested their accommodation prospects now that freshers will be situated inside college walls, which had previously been their stomping ground. 

If the Fletes’ long history is to be boiled down to one anecdote, Grant’s rewarding find of one describing the Great Fire of ’82 is a good fit. The image of 70 first years bellyaching as they stand on the pavement in their pyjamas in the middle of the night – but silently revelling in the comradeship and pandemonium of their situation – is emblematic of the melodrama that ties together the diverse inhabitants of the Waynflete Building’s 60+ year tenure.

Long Live Waynflete, indeed.

In More, Pulp aren’t just trading on nostalgia – they’re fresh

Tom Cockburn
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In More, Pulp aren’t just trading on nostalgia – they’re fresh

In a year where many are talking about one Britpop band in particular – cough, cough, Oasis – the often-forgotten band of the same era, Pulp, have stolen the limelight with their new album More. Last summer may have been ‘Brat Summer’, but for all you Geek-Chic Radio 4 listening icons out there, this summer is undoubtedly ‘Pulp Summer’. 

More is Pulp’s eighth studio album, and their first since 2001’s We Love Life. Even after the long wait, it doesn’t disappoint. Jarvis Cocker and Co have weaved a creatively magnificent, joyfully quirky, and at times delicately loving 50 minutes of listening. I’ve never wanted to buy a pair of thick oversized glasses and dress like an expert off the Antiques Roadshow more than after hearing this record. 

The album announces itself with ‘Spike Island’, which was released as a single in April. It’s a tight, groovy, and boisterous track where Cocker’s vocals are, perhaps, at their peak. It’s classic Pulp, but with a new maturity, and it sets the tone for what’s to come. 

Songs like ‘Tina’, ‘Grown Ups’, and ‘Got to Have Love’ have a similar typically rousing and playful Pulp guise to them. They stir the inner adolescence in you, just as older Pulp songs like ‘Common People’ or ‘Disco 2000’ do. When listening to songs like ‘Got to Have Love’, you can feel the band just seamlessly slipping back into creating together. One can only imagine it’s like slipping on an old pair of comfortable shoes for them, even after all these years.

The dark and moody Nick Cave-esque track, ‘My Sex’, is noteworthy too, and topical song for 2025. It’s brooding and menacing, but when Cocker sings the lyrics “I haven’t got an agenda / I haven’t even got a gender / my sex is hard to explain”, one can’t help but feel it’s a middle finger to the likes of JK Rowling. 

Cocker recently told Jools Holland on the Later… with Jools Holland show that his wife’s favourite song on the album is ‘Farmers Market’. And it’s easy to understand why. It’s delicate and soft and is, perhaps, the band’s most emotional song on the record. It’s a cry in the car song if ever there was one – a nice cry, like a warm hug. Additionally, the use of strings on the track is reminiscent to those which appear on Arctic Monkeys’ The Car album; reasonable, when you realise that both bands used producer James Ford on the respective records. Both bands also have the same Sheffield melancholia feel about their art nowadays too – it must be something in the Yorkshire water.

The track which stands out above the other ten on the album, however, is without a doubt ‘Grown Ups’. It tackles the endless coming-of-age story of man, the maturity process, and how it never concludes for any of us, no matter how old we are. Since, at the end of the day, even fully grown adults are just trying their best to fit in. The song makes you remember that it’s everybody’s first time living, and it’s okay to feel lost, but you should own it when you do. Amongst the lustrous strings and synths falling around him, Cocker’s chorus laments: “Trying so, so hard to act just like a grown up / And it’s so, so hard / And we’re hoping that we don’t get shown up / ‘Cause everybody wants to grow up”.

More is not just the work of a band getting back together for old-time’s sake. It’s the work of a band who’s potentially at the peak of their powers. When one Britpop band prepares to sell out stadiums across the country on nostalgia, playing material they largely wrote over 20 years ago. Another band from the same era is still trying to push the boundaries. That’s just Pulp in a nutshell, and you’ve got to love them for it.

Racism tarnished my European year abroad experience

Peter Chen
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Racism tarnished my European year abroad experience

We’re often told that a year abroad in Europe is meant to be the time of our lives. It can be both intellectually enriching and personally fulfilling to spend a year in a foreign country, learning a new language and connecting with a different culture. As someone who spent a year doing just that, I can tell you that in many ways, I learned more during those twelve months away from Oxford than in the two years I spent there. I picked up rowing, learned Dutch, and explored areas of my discipline that were not on offer back home.

But for some of us, that’s not the whole picture. Because when you’re abroad and visibly different, even the most mundane experiences – like buying fish at a market – can turn into moments of confrontation, confusion, or fear.

This year, even though I was technically living in the Netherlands, I found myself back in Oxford more often than I expected. Partly because I missed my friends: many of them are graduating this summer, and I wanted to spend more time with them before they left. But there was another reason, one I don’t usually talk about.

As a person of colour, I found living in the Netherlands unexpectedly difficult.

I want to be clear: I don’t claim to speak for anyone else. Everyone’s experience abroad is different, and this is just mine. But having lived in Leiden for nearly ten months, I can say I was racially harassed and abused on a regular basis.

Some of it was subtle. One afternoon in a shop, wearing my puffer jacket — the only warm coat I had — a man approached me.

“Do you go to Oxford?” he asked.

I smiled. “Yes, I do.” As the first in my family to go to university, I carry enormous pride in that.

He frowned. “Well, that can’t be right.”

I froze. “What do you mean?”

“You don’t look like you go to Oxford,” he said. I must have looked confused, because he scoffed and added, “You know what I mean.”

I didn’t reply. I walked away, unsettled and unsure if I’d imagined it. But I hadn’t.

Then there were other moments, uglier ones. Soon after I arrived, I visited the famous Saturday market in Leiden; in a tradition dating back centuries, farmers and fishermen would bring their fresh produce and set up stalls around Nieuwe Rijn – literally ‘New Rhine’ – with bikes and fresh tulips adorning the canal path.

On that visit, I had a handful of herring and hatred from the locals.

First, a group of young men screamed ‘Chinese’ (pronounced SHE-nase in Dutch) to me and my friend; we shrug it off. Then, an old man stops me in my tracks, blocks the busy pavement, and starts lecturing me with everyone else around us watching. My mind goes blank. What is happening? His speech is mumbled and hard to discern, all I could comprehend is something along the lines of how no one speaks Dutch anymore. Passers-by stared. I stood frozen. When he finally walked away, I did too, numb and shaken, unable to understand what had just happened to me.

I stopped going to the market.

If you know me at all, you’d know that this isn’t my normal style. There are lots of reasons for that. Often, when minorities speak out about their experience of hatred and bigotry, they are simply met with more vitriol and abuse. Some will say I made this up; some will call me an attention seeker. At the same time, writing about these things is hard; it is both mentally demanding and emotionally exhausting to dig up something that I would much rather never have to think about, let alone write down.

Sometimes I also wonder why I have to do this at all. Why I need to remind people that Europe isn’t just cobbled streets and cathedrals. That your experience in Burgundy or Bologna may not be the same as mine. That people who look like me move through the world differently. My friends, who spoke so fondly of their time abroad, meant no harm. I don’t blame them. And the vast majority of Dutch people I met were warm, kind, and patient with me as I struggled through conversations in my broken language.

All I want to tell you, dear reader, is that the next time your friend comes back from their time in Europe, in the quieter moments between the funny stories of that time in an Irish pub or failing that language exam, ask them gently: What was it really like?

Exclusive: St Catz racks up £3.4 million bill on concrete repairs

Amelia Gibbins
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Exclusive: St Catz racks up £3.4 million bill on concrete repairs

St Catherine’s College spent over £3.4 million in less than one year due to ongoing concrete issues, Cherwell can reveal.

Catz spent £2.4 million on “temporary measures”, which was deducted from the College’s revenue account. The temporary measures that were put in place in 2023 include the marquees that currently house the bar and dining hall. The College also spent £1 million on capital expenditure, which includes long-term, physical assets like buildings.

The College’s Contribution Scheme has contributed £1.04 million over four years to mitigate the expenditure, though Cherwell understands that the predicted costs are fluctuating daily. Catz told Cherwell: “The total cost of the works depends on the scope and scale … which is being developed as the project progresses, with the intention to bring the College’s buildings back into operation as soon as is practicable.”

The affected buildings at Catz include 152 top floor student bedrooms, the JCR and SCR, the dining hall, the library, administration offices, and the Bernard Sunley Building.

On the expected timeframe, Catz told Cherwell that they were looking “to occupy our Administration block, SCR and JCR towards the end of the year,” followed by “the Dining Hall very early in 2026”.

Access to these buildings has been limited since September 2023, when reinforced autoclaved aerated concrete (Raac) was discovered in the roofs. Raac was used for building between the 1950s and 1990s, and has a lifespan of 30 years. Structural issues came to a head in 2023, when schools across the UK were ordered to be closed due to the risk of Raac instability.

Fundraising efforts were ramped up by Catz following the discovery of Raac, and the College hosted its first giving day in May 2024 which raised over £200k in 36 hours. Money raised through fundraising has more-than-doubled, reaching £2 million last year alone.

A further £1.5m was budgeted for Raac-related interventions for 2024/25, though Catz states that the presence of Raac has posed a significant risk to the College’s financial objectives.

Perhaps, Oxford

Ngoc Diep
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Perhaps, Oxford

We met at a Latin meeting hosted by the Oxford Ancient Languages Society at University College.

I signed up for Latin partly out of curiosity, partly out of guilt. I’d always wanted to study it, but growing up in Vietnam, Latin wasn’t something schools offered. Two years into my undergraduate degree in Linguistics and Philosophy, I still hadn’t learned it. At Keble, where I was spending the year as a visiting student from an American university, Latin felt like the perfect bridge: a way to read Cicero in the original, finally, and to make sense of the syntax and semantics that shaped so many Indo-European languages.

That was where I first saw her. She always walked a few paces ahead of me on the way to class, purposeful and brisk, clearly not there for sightseeing. I later learned that she was from Trinity College and a visiting student from a Chinese university in Germany, working on her second Master’s degree in Finance. Compared to my wide-eyed fascination with ancient languages, she brought a different energy to the seminar room: precise, pragmatic, and efficient.

We had little in common, except for one hour each week, reciting Latin verbs side by side.

After a few lessons, we grew closer to one another as we needed study partners. I would cover her notes when she was absent, and she did the same for me, which we joked about as a kind of academic ‘friends with benefits’.

In the penultimate week of the term, she invited me to a Trinity College formal, followed by drinks at the bar, and we ended up having apple cider at the King’s Arms. 

By the third glass, I felt tipsy enough to let our guard down and talk. I shared all about the anxiety of moving around the globe and crazy American stories. She revealed how stressful it was to study in Germany without speaking much German. The conversation drifted, past Oxford, over the Atlantic to America, across Europe to Germany, France, and Spain, winding through memories from China and Vietnam, until we circled back again to our colleges and recounted every rumour and gossip, as well as complaints, about our tutorials that happened in the Hilary term.  

I can’t recall everything we shared, but we spoke from 9 p.m. until the stroke of midnight, until my facial muscles felt fatigued and the midnight starvation kicked in, and we headed out for kebab. 

“You know what is so crazy?” She asked. Her eyes were bright, and a grin bloomed on her face.

Before I could proceed with an answer, she ran a few steps in front of me, turned around, and tilted her head toward the sky.“We are at Oxford!” 

I pause. Yes, we are at Oxford. Something so simple, yet sometimes, I forget. Tutorials and my hectic schedule often distract me from this significant fact. In primary school, I had read so many stories about Oxford, and now, somehow, I had made it here, the city of books, dreams, and curiosity. I met someone I had never imagined I would meet, and had the best conversation under the most beautiful night sky. 

It had been far too long since I last grew so close and felt so safe around someone. Yet, it was a girl I met abroad whom I genuinely connected with, communicating in a language foreign to us both and with a startlingly different background.  And, if not for that fated encounter in Latin class, our paths would have never crossed.

We ended the meeting with a promise. A big promise. For her, she would complete her master’s in Germany and return to Oxford to pursue her interest in History as a DPhil student. For me, I would return to the US, finish my undergraduate degree, and then come back as a Master’s student. 

Perhaps we’d meet again at a classics meeting, and we’d have cream tea at The Vault to celebrate. Perhaps, there’d be formals, street walks with wine in hand, quiet “study with me” sessions in a Bodleian corner. Perhaps, we’d speak fluent Latin someday. Perhaps, I’d even get her to try Greek.

Perhaps.

As we wished each other goodnight, exchanged one final hug, parted ways, and walked in opposite directions at Westgate, I considered something she might have contemplated as well: We might never meet each other again. 

Oxford brought us together, but everything else would keep us apart. 

As I walked along St Michael’s Street, I gazed up at the stars, and a quiet sense of insignificance settled over me.

The world is so small that two people from different backgrounds and different stages of life can meet in a city far from their homes. Yet, the world is vast enough that she and I may never meet again. 

But that is what makes life worth living. We live as if we’d never live again, and treat fleeting moments as if they might be our last.

Max Morgan, director of Oxford’s first feature film since the 1980s

Billy Jeffs
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Max Morgan, director of Oxford’s first feature film since the 1980s

Max Morgan is the writer and director of Breakwater, the first feature film to be made by Oxford students since the 1980s, and May Day!, a documentary about the May morning celebrations. He read English at Christ Church, and graduated in 2024.

Cherwell: Can you tell us a little bit about Breakwater and May Day!?

Morgan: Breakwater, for some context, is the first feature film to be produced by students at the University of Oxford since Privileged in 1982. It came about because my friend Jemima Chen [Breakwater’s producer] and I were speaking to original members of the crew and cast, and they encouraged us to make a feature film and not mess around with shorts, and take on the challenge. The film itself is about the relationship between an Oxford student called Otto and his romance with a retired angler on the east coast of England. It’s about connecting through seemingly nothing but everything. May Day! is a documentary about Britain’s oldest tradition of May morning, and the epicentre of that in Oxford. And it’s about guiding the viewer through all the cultural eccentricities and the different parts of May morning. What was special about that was we had five different roaming cameras around on the morning so we could cover it from all angles, because there is no centre to it – it’s completely scattered all over the city. That’s currently in post-production.

Cherwell: How did you assemble a crew to make these films? Where did you find the students across the university, and how did you get the funding and the technology?

Morgan: The scale of both projects is quite different. Breakwater was pretty big overall; I think we’ve had about a hundred people involved in the project at various different stages. Our production crew for that was about 40 at its largest. I wanted to make the film with a group of mostly students, and so we did a massive call out on the OUFF [Oxford University Filmmaking Foundation] Facebook group, which is such an amazing resource full of people who want to get involved in projects like this. We had a really overwhelming response to the idea of making a feature film, and we pulled most of our crew from that. It was many people’s first time on set because although there’s obviously a really great short film community in Oxford, there’s one camera, so there are limited opportunities to get on set. And so it was a lot of people’s first time, and that’s an exciting challenge for them, and for us as well. 

The other way we found crew was through connections that Jemima and I had made from working on slightly bigger professional sets. We found our director of photography, a guy called Evan Bridges, through one of Jemima’s friends from work – Evan was a student at the University of Westminster at the time, studying cinematography. He brought on board his own camera crew who were all students at Westminster or working in the industry professionally. It was a really nice fusion to have people who had a bit more experience and were willing to teach members of our production crew how working on a set worked. We managed to pull it off because everyone was so up for the challenge and really believed in making the film happen. For May Day!, that was a bit smaller, but again we went through the OUFF Facebook page after Isaaq Tomkins, the co-producer, and I developed a core crew from people we’d worked with. We also just messaged people who we thought might be interested in the project from a journalistic or filmmaking angle.

Cherwell: You mentioned that you’d worked on some professional sets before. When did you decide you wanted to become a filmmaker, and how did you turn that into getting onto professional sets?

Morgan: I came to Oxford and I did lots of theatre, and I really loved the theatre scene here. I think that the creative arts scene in Oxford is superior to literally any other university in the UK. It’s amazing how many different theatre venues there are, as well as production companies. I think it’s a really great way of encouraging people to be entrepreneurial and push themselves to put something on. So I did lots of theatre and always wanted to divert into film, but didn’t really know how to – Jemima and I both really had that ambition to get into film together, and so we started to think about how it would happen. One day they were shooting Endeavour, the TV series for ITV, outside Canterbury Gate at Christ Church. I was watching, and it was a really fascinating scene where some guy gets in a vintage car and puts his foot to the floor and belts it down Merton Street.

I asked a member of the crew if they had any jobs going or wanted to take someone on, and so the next day I was in a hi-vis telling people to stay back from the set. It was really cool to be part of this film set. That was the Easter of first year, and I got some more work with the location manager for that – it was location marshalling work, and then eventually a bit of running and just working on more productions gradually over time, meeting more people and getting invited back to work on new shows. I now mostly freelance on locations and production. I was working with the same boss a couple of weeks ago on Midsomer Murders, which was really nice. Jemima was doing the same thing, which is how we met.

Cherwell: What have been the main obstacles that you faced in terms of getting those films made, and the problems in the pipeline of Oxford student to filmmaker?

Morgan: May Day! and Breakwater are such different films. On May Day!, we were running around with a camera and trying to capture as much as we could. And that was a lot more free range – we were just documenting what was in front of us. That still came at a cost, and fortunately it was funded by the Oxford Research Centre for Humanities, which really helped us make it. I think one of the barriers for students making films in Oxford, and for filmmakers in general, is just the cost of making a film. You think you can low-ball it, but when you consider things like transport, additional equipment, lighting gear, covering people for expenses and food, location fees, and insurance, it really starts to rack up.

In Oxford particularly, there’s a lot of amazing resources like the Cameron Mackintosh grant for funding theatre and stage productions, but there’s a real dearth of funding opportunities for short films, and so I think many people rely on grants from colleges. Obviously some colleges have specific art funds, while some colleges don’t, and some colleges don’t really give JCR funding to artistic projects, which I think is a shame. For us, that was a massive challenge with Breakwater and we relied on getting grants from colleges. I was lucky to be at Christ Church, which had at the time quite a good JCR for funding arts – I’m not sure if, because of me, they do anymore. 

We did a crowdfunder, and Jemima also came up with the ingenious idea of doing a student art auction, which we turned into quite a big thing. We also managed to get donations from professional artists like Steven Appleby and a really cool painting from Maggi Hambling, who is this fantastic East Coast-based artist. Her scallop sculpture features really heavily in Breakwater as a symbol, so that was really cool. That auction literally gave us half our production budget, and the crowdfunder basically did the other half. But we were making the film and writing and deciding where to shoot based around the constraints of our budget. We were literally writing to a micro-feature  – writing scenes in that we knew we could shoot for free or we knew would be easily accessible. I think you have to be very creative with your expectations and taking risks and what you can get away with on such a small amount. So funding, to really bluntly answer your question, is and was the biggest difficulty for filmmakers.

Cherwell: I’d also like to ask about the films themselves, rather than just the process of making them – Oxford as a city and university features in both Breakwater and May Day!. Can you speak about that influence?

Morgan: Obviously there’s such a rich cinematic heritage to Oxford. Privileged, the first feature film that was shot by Oxford students, was directed by a guy called Mike Hoffman, who’s a fantastic director. It was produced in part by Rick Stevenson and Andy Patterson, who both work in the film industry – Andy and Mike have been the most unbelievable mentors and guides through this process. That film starred Hugh Grant, Mark Williams and Imogen Stubbs, and the score was composed by Rachel Portman, an Oscar-winning composer. They’ve gone on to do unbelievable things and become titans of the industry in their own right. That film was about a very narcissistic student, and is a satire on privilege in the university and the age of the last hurrah in the eighties, when it was being made.

Additionally to Privileged, Brideshead Revisited cast a massive shadow over our contemporary vision of Oxford and our understanding of it, and there are lots of other great films set at the university. We were very aware of Privileged, and obviously we had Andy and Mike really helping us and encouraging us through the process – they read countless drafts of my scripts and the film is so much better for that. They were so generous with their time. 

We wanted to make the film in Oxford and make use of the beautiful limestone colleges and all the beautiful scenery and that baggage that comes with it, but we also wanted to make Oxford part of the film and break the wall of Oxford and come outside of it. Part of the reason for that was we also wanted to not be considered a student film made by Oxford students, but an independent film made by students at the University of Oxford, which I think for us was a very important decision for our mentality, and for our marketing of the film as well. My favourite day in the whole production was filming in Radcliffe Square one evening, and it’s quite a nice scene where the two characters have had a lovely day in Oxford, and they’re not really sure how they’re feeling about each other anymore. It’s the final chapter in the Oxford part of the film. We locked off the whole of Radcliffe Square using just a couple of students posted in each corner of it. The location lends so much to the story and the film, and makes it look so beautiful.

As for May Day!, Oxford is, as I said, the epicentre of this tradition of May morning, and it has been for 800 years. I’ve had some of the best days and nights of my life on May morning, and I think I shared that feeling with some of the people who made the documentary. It felt like an inherently filmable thing and an idea that immediately worked. I think making that documentary was really fantastic because it enabled us to connect with a community of Oxford that exist outside of the university and is normally very separate from it – Morris dancers, musicians, community artists, community historians, people who love the city for reasons that include the university, but also different areas like Headington, Cowley, Summertown, and the villages around Oxford as well. What was cool about May morning was that it felt like a moment when the ‘town and gown’ were able to meet and see eye to eye and dance and celebrate the coming of summer with each other. It’s a very joyous and unifying celebration.

Cherwell: What filmmakers do you think have had an influence on you? 

Morgan: For different projects there’s different filmmakers, but I think the most influential for Breakwater and the way I understand and see film as a medium and an art form is a Cornish filmmaker called Mark Jenkin. In 2016, he made a film called Bait about a Cornish fisherman and the gentrification of Cornwall, which won a BAFTA. He came to Oxford once and did his screening of his second feature film Enys Men, a really beautiful horror film starring Mary Woodvine. He’s really engaged in grassroots filmmaking – what’s exciting about his work in particular is that he shoots it all on film and then he cuts it himself, and he uses basically a Super 8 camera to shoot, and live mixes the sound. His soundtracks are really haunting, really eerie, and I think his framing is really striking; he sets his stuff on the coast, which is a massive setting for Breakwater as well. He has just shot a film called Rose of Nevada with George MacKay and Callum Turner about a ghost ship in Cornwall that I’m very excited about.

Cherwell: Can you tell us a bit about the post-production life of Breakwater? 

Morgan: Post-production took about 18 months. We were editing that film from Trinity of second year all the way through mine and Jemima’s third year, and finished in December 2024. That was a process of working with various editors who came on board, and each one shaped the film in a really fantastic way.  At the start, that was with some students, who were still involved throughout the process, and then at the end, with a professional post-production house called Box Clever. But the score is all composed by students, it’s being coloured by some students, sound edited by students, so there’s student involvement throughout the process. 

We always knew that we wanted to submit to this iconic British film festival, the largest independent film festival in the UK, called Raindance. That was our goal from before pre-production. Last month we were invited to have our world premiere at Raindance, which is incredibly exciting for us. We have five nominations, which is really exciting because our film, which is in the grand scheme of things really tiny, is competing against much bigger, high-budget productions. It’s such a cool celebration of independent, maverick filmmaking. We’re screening on the 23rd and 24th of June at Vue Piccadilly for our world premiere. There have been some really cool films that have been there over the years like Red Herring, Memento, What’s Eating Gilbert Grape,  Black Pond, which was produced by Sarah Brocklehurst and written by Will Sharpe, which was another big inspiration for us in making our film.
We’re hoping to use Raindance to make as much noise about Breakwater as we can, with the end goal of trying to get a limited theatrical run and some distribution at the end of the project. It’s been a delayed gratification of three years for all the work that the crew did in April and May of 2023. Jemima is also just doing her finals at the moment, which is crazy. We’ve watched the film pretty much every day for the last two years, but for some people who worked in it during production, they hadn’t really seen it until we did a little private screening a couple of months ago. It will be really nice for them to finally see the film how it was intended, after putting in a couple weeks of work ages and ages ago.

How to Say Goodbye to the Cities You’ve Loved

Ngoc Diep
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How to Say Goodbye to the Cities You’ve Loved

“Finally.” I sighed, zipping my suitcase shut. 

The streetlights of St Michael’s Hall cast long shadows through the window. My boxes were packed, and in less than 20 hours, this room would no longer be mine.

I lay on my bed, exhausted, thumbing through my camera roll, my favourite form of brain rot. The comforting sensation of lying on something soft overcame me, causing me to momentarily forget that I was leaving soon. Somehow, a series of photo albums popped up before my half-closed eyes: New Orleans, Sevilla, Athens, Vietnam. And now, Oxford, another city I love, another home that I cannot stay in.

Reflecting, my 18-year-old self would shout at me, “LIAR!”, if I ever time-travelled and told her I had at least five homes scattered around the world. That girl barely left Vietnam. But I did.

My first journey among cities began when I left Vietnam to attend university in the United States. My degree in Linguistics and Philosophy has opened up numerous opportunities in various countries worldwide, such as Spain, Greece, and England. I embraced them all and spent my semesters and summers in each new location, one after the next.

Halfway through my degree, after dozens of flights and long nights spent in airports, I have mastered the art of packing. I’ve learned to pack quickly. Not just clothes, but versions of myself.

Some people have a home. I’m lucky to have several, even if none have been mine for a long time.

I still remember the first Mardi Gras I experienced in New Orleans. My roommate lent me her shirt, and we used beads to decorate my dull suits. The night was filled with eating, dancing, and enjoying the parades, which exploded with wonderful jazz music and the festive cheers of visitors worldwide. That’s home.

On my last night in Sevilla, my host mum hugged me as if I’d lived with her my whole life. Her daughter, with whom I barely exchanged words, struggled to hand me my luggage, as if it were laden with memories. That’s home.

Athens, after dark. My friends and I climbed a hill, carrying cheap wine and snacks. The Acropolis lit the sky, and we exchanged visions about a future filled with possibilities, promises, and dreams. That’s home.

And, of course, Vietnam. My first home. The city where I know the stories of nearly every neighbour. The noisy motorbikes, the condensed milk in the coffee, and the cramped yet warm house filled with my beloved extended family. Sometimes, I wonder if it’s the only place that hasn’t changed, or if I’ve changed too much to enjoy what was once all I knew.

Soon, after the next term, Oxford will become another home that I’ll forever carry with me, but never return to. It always begins the same way: awkward hellos, missed buses, and wrong turns. Then there were the wrong groceries, the constant use of Google Translate, and the late-night calls crying to friends back home, trying to seek the comfort that I would not have from the faraway. Then, almost unnoticed, everything changes. One random morning, the café barista remembers my name and my favourite choice of medium matcha latte with whipped cream. I stop using Google Maps. Silence in a language ceases to feel like isolation and begins to feel like a form of peace. Slowly, a city transitions from being somewhere I visited to being somewhere I live. And then I leave.

I’ve stared out the aeroplane window on flights and wondered: Will it ever stop? Will I ever claim one place as my permanent home? And what about the homes I’ve made along the way?

Who am I?

The grinning dancer twirling barefoot at Mardi Gras in New Orleans. 

The study-abroad student speaking just enough Spanish to order Sangria at Las Setas in Sevilla.

The struggling filmmaker spending days climbing Mount Olympus for a beautiful shot.

The quiet girl crying on the last night in Oxford, walking Cornmarket Street with friends and takeaway chips. 

I gazed at my reflection on the phone, the screen black from inactivity. Who am I?

I chase the answers to those questions every night spent on a plane, every time I pack and repack my luggage. Now, I lie in bed in Oxford, still wondering. And maybe I don’t need an answer. I could be every girl, every version of my life, in every city I love; I could dispose of consistency, predictability. Every home of mine contributes to the significant, genuine, undivided me.

I’ve grown to love who I am now. I embrace all the journeys I’ve experienced in my late teens and early twenties because, without each of them, without their mistakes, confusions, and unique stories, I could never be me, the one I love the most. 

I got up from bed, slipping my phone into my pocket as my friends knocked. We were heading out for one final bar crawl, from Flambs to Wetherspoons, for one last night in a city that had, in just a few short months, become our home.

As I applied my lipstick, I studied my reflection in the mirror. I embraced the Oxford girl staring back at me before leaving her behind, adding her to the jar of selves I’ve gathered along the way. She was young, stubborn, and brave. I loved her. 

For those of us between borders, home is not fixed; it’s cumulative.

Each home lives within me, tucked between photos, phrases, and the selves I have packed along the way, reminding me who I genuinely am.

I’ve never said goodbye to the cities I have loved.

I leave pieces of myself behind, and take pieces of the cities with me.

I love them all.

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