Tuesday 16th June 2026
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The life and death of a library

Alice Sanders
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The life and death of a library

I hereby undertake not to remove from the Library, or to mark, deface or injure in any way, any volume, document, or other object belonging to it or in its custody; not to bring into the Library or kindle therein any fire or flame, and not to smoke in the Library; and I promise to obey all rules of the Library.    

I feel slightly like a fraud when I confess that I never swore Bodley’s above oath, displayed on the entrance desk to Duke Humfrey’s Library. That isn’t to say that I would ever act against it. In fact, I am fond of a Bodleian study session and very precious about every book I handle, whether the meticulously kept copies on my own shelves or the stacks of already graffitied loans scattered across my room. How, though, does the perception of an Oxford student align with how libraries are experienced more broadly? Certain images come to my mind: cool evenings watching the sun slip away through the windows of the Rad Cam, or reorganising the children’s shelves in the silence of my local library, watched by an eerily smiling Humpty Dumpty mural, or (ever the history enthusiast) the halls of the Library of Alexandria in the depths of my reimagining. These images, lived and imagined, constitute my experience of libraries. Yet how we understand the relevance of these social and academic institutions inevitably varies across the spheres of time, age, class, and position.

Returning to Duke Humfrey’s Library and the Bodleian Oath, it is the premise that counts. It is one of Oxford’s irreverent traditions that sets the tourists in fits of excited whispers. Despite this apparent archaism, Bodley’s oath, of which this is the most recent abbreviated form, does speak to Oxford’s deep bibliothecal tradition. This history of libraries can be difficult to trace; the spaces used by students today are perhaps best understood as the result of a longer process of change: the gradual peeling of a chrysalis is perhaps a more apt description than an instantaneous founding. 

It is in no small part on account of these traditions that Oxford University’s libraries maintain their allure today. Merton College’s library is thought to date back to 1276, though I doubt that students today would be too pleased if they found themselves waiting for the ceremonial opening of a large, locked crate to access the texts they need for their essay, as the college’s earliest readers were obliged to. The architect of Magdalen College’s Old Library was tasked with ensuring it had windows superior to those of All Souls’, and links to grandeur don’t stop there. The monarchy is entrenched in the history of the University’s libraries – All Souls’ Library was co-founded by Henry VI. Charles I was prevented from loaning a book from the Bodleian in 1645. If this says nothing else, it is surely that the rules of the Bodleian do not bend even for the monarchy, let alone you with your takeaway coffee cup.

These traditions and trivia contribute significantly to the sustained value placed on these institutions today, with their claims to be the oldest library in continuous use globally, the second largest library in Britain, and the first library to ever stand their books vertically on their shelves. Yet alongside this pattern of growth and prosperity, they have also been vulnerable to fluctuations of funding and interest. 

These occasional troughs in popularity have, however, enabled their ultimate flourishing. The Duke Humfrey’s Library stood at a point of complete disrepair after 1550, when its books were all removed and taken to be burnt by the Dean of Christ Church in an effort to eradicate Catholicism from England, until Thomas Bodley intervened. Bodley’s refurbished and restocked library opened in 1602. After this, its developments only continued, becoming a legal deposit library in 1610, and physically expanding until 1637 in a project which included the construction of the quad known today.

The All Souls College Library also floundered at points in its history, though due to a lack of space, rather than a lack of books. Its expansion was funded by Christopher Codrington, a sum notoriously associated with his pursuits in sugar plantations worked by slaves in Antigua and Barbados. In 2020, the library was renamed in an effort to address his legacy, but his statue (now notably with cracks projected on it) remains a central feature among the shelves.

These histories have each marked moments of imminent threat and near loss of the library; however, despite these difficulties, and the moral and political complexities of their redevelopments, Oxford’s university libraries continue to thrive. 

In fact, physical reader visits to the Bodleian Libraries have been returning to their pre-pandemic levels at a reasonable pace, cited as having reached 2.2 million in 2024/2025, surpassing the overall visits in 2018/2019. College libraries are even more frequented, used by 29.4% of students. Moreover, only 3% of the respondents asserted that they never use a physical library in the Bodleian’s 2025 Reader Survey. Evidently, the University’s libraries are immensely successful.

Graph Credit: Ruby Barenberg for Cherwell.

It is evident that this success has been a foundational factor in the success of the University and its creative and scholarly output, as a spokesperson for the Bodleian told Cherwell that the libraries’ collections “have been instrumental in attracting scholars and major scholarly projects (such as the Oxford English Dictionary), shaping disciplines (such as Oriental studies) and the intellectual development of individuals (eg JRR Tolkien). Without the Bodleian there would be no William Morris and the Kelmscott Press, the Lord of the Rings, or the Rubaiyaat of Omar Khayyam”.

On a much more quotidian level, many users cite libraries as their most productive place of work and, once I have finally found a seat, (the Rad Cam at 11am during exam season is not for the weak) I would agree. My room is too plagued with the promise of snacks and sleep, neither of which is especially conducive to efficiency. The academic motivation, provided by the library, has a variety of roots. Many find it a strong social effect. When your neighbour is sifting through pages of scrawled equations, watching the clouds shuffle past the window becomes a much less viable pastime. Together, ease of access to resources, the sense of obligation that comes from being surrounded by others doing the same, and the pervasive sense of academic tradition, craft a persuasive incentive.

These high reader numbers are proving remarkably persistent, even as the tendency to use online resources grows. For many students, then, access to a convenient and comfortable study space is the largest draw to visiting university libraries, even across the broader spectrum of subjects, with libraries accommodating varying needs in relation to accessing physical texts.

The shift from the chest of books at Merton College in the 13th century to the uses of our libraries in Oxford today has certainly been a metamorphosis; the libraries of the University are clearly continuing their life cycle, though in a different format. I, for one, am glad that my books are no longer chained to the desk, as they were in many of Oxford’s earliest libraries. Yet I do persist with a certain sense of nostalgia, ever willing to journey far out of my way to obtain the physical copy of the book I need from the Humanities Library, despite the tantalising presence of the SOLO link. Perhaps it is a needless pursuit, but there is something comforting in the connection, in borrowing from the library and, if nothing else, it aids in lowering my screen time.

Yet as the libraries of the University continue to thrive, the broader national picture appears bleaker. The UK is losing public libraries at a rate of approximately 40 per year. While 97% of Oxford students and researchers can attest to the physical use of a library, across the general British population, only 30% of adults claim to have visited one in the past year.

This disparity may be easily dismissed as a reflection of differing needs, as most of the general population are not likely to spend the majority of their week preoccupied with their imminently due tutorial essay. While this might explain the smaller percentage of those users requiring the space for study (only 19%), this still leaves a notably small number of people using their local public libraries for other purposes. The main focuses of users centre around borrowing printed media, bringing children to do the same, or accessing wi-fi and printing facilities. These services offer essential access to literature and other forms of artistic and informative consumption, alongside the tools and space to enjoy them.

Given that approximately one in ten children in the UK do not own a book (rising to one in six for those living in relative socio-economic deprivation), it is evident that libraries are, for many readers, the crux in enabling reading to many that would not otherwise have access to it. The uses of public libraries, therefore, outside the relatively narrow confines of an Oxford student’s perspective, have an essential breadth of impact, despite the proportionally smaller number of visitors.

While the University’s libraries’ social and welfare events are generally enjoyable, they attract the attention of only 32% of respondents, mostly (by a significant margin) on an occasional basis. However, for many across the country, libraries provide essential support beyond the confines of media. Many local libraries offer welfare initiatives, literacy programmes, and a warm place for those who lack access to one. A spokesperson for the Oxfordshire County Council referenced the public libraries of the city as “safe, trusted and warm spaces; community hubs where thousands of conversations and transactions occur daily”, making them more than just a resource, but also a social hub, which is comprised of these elements, but exists crucially as a focal point for community interaction. This breadth of uses has warranted a general augmentation in the percentage of the population using their local libraries, with visits increasing by 71% between 2021/2022 and 2022/2023, particularly as financial and social crises deepen.  

The role of public libraries is, therefore, an essential one, despite the fact that their uses differ so substantially. Yet, while the Bodleian Libraries’ funding amounted to £57,337,771 in the academic year 2022/2023, public library funding is declining – by 24% between 2020/2021 and 2021/2022 alone, amounting to a funding cut of £232 million since 2010. Furthermore, public libraries in deprived areas, where they are in some respects most essential, are four times more likely to be closed due to insufficient resources. A spokesperson for the Bodleian told Cherwell that: “The Bodleian has been fortunate as a major research library to have a broad range of funding sources, from the University funding, national research funding, philanthropy, commercial income, and its endowments. This has enabled it to survive the general and specific funding pressures facing libraries.” However,  not every library has such opportunities, and public libraries, as the spokesperson notes, are therefore much more susceptible to the dangers of funding cuts. This can only beg the question: when did the persistence of knowledge and community become a question of survival? 

This disparity in resources, which separates Britain’s local libraries from the well-funded and traditionally rooted libraries of the University, is reflected by the mixed experiences of students as to whether they study at their local library during the vac. Having visited my local library once to find that all the chairs had been removed, I must admit that I perpetuate this pattern. I study in University libraries daily, but never outside of the city. The university and college libraries of Oxford have an inherent convenience, boundless resources, a constant atmosphere of focus, and – usually – a seat for me. Not all students make this choice, however, although the general trend indicates greater use while away at university. It could be argued that this is in part due to the aesthetic and traditional values of Oxford’s libraries, or their convenience (there is no better place than a college library to resolve an essay crisis at 4am), but this ultimately comes as a cumulative result of these factors.

Born from an accumulation of developments and sustained by another myriad of conveniences and attractions, there is no single formula to guarantee the endurance of a library. However, with some having been maintained for upwards of seven centuries, it is evident that the libraries of the University, and many of those across the country, possess the undeniable elements for survival. 

History’s most famous library, in Alexandria, is principally known for its demise – not, however, as the result of the one infamous burning. It did not undergo the pivotal revivals seen in the University’s libraries, nor did it maintain the sustained resistance of those continuing to face challenges across the UK today. Instead, what remained sunk into disrepair, damaged by centuries of fires, sackings, and social changes that led ultimately to the loss of one of the greatest early academic institutions, and countless voices of the past. Whatever the ultimate cause of Alexandria’s loss, we must learn, in Bodley’s words, that we should never “kindle therein any fire or flame.” Nor can we sit by and permit any other library to burn.

Is the dancefloor really dead?

Emma Heagney
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Is the dancefloor really dead?

If you’re as hyped as I am for Charli xcx’s upcoming studio album, Music, Fashion, Film, then you might have also had the jittery, robotic melody of its lead single (“now we’re making rooooooooock music”) stuck in your head for weeks. In ‘Rock Music’, Charli firmly rejects the signature electronic soundscape that took her from being the darling of critics to a mainstream icon, and makes bold statements on the place of rock and electronic music in a post-Brat world – most significantly, announcing the dancefloor to be resolutely “dead”.

Interestingly, Charli’s nightlife scepticism goes hand in hand with an ostensible rejection of electronic music and an astute embrace of rock, as though the latter cannot overlap with clubbing – it’s precisely because the dancefloor is dead that Charli says she’s “making rock music” now. Guitar-focused rock music has been definitively out of the mainstream for well over a decade, perhaps even longer. Aside from the recent rise of bands like Geese and Turnstile, rock itself has died, or at least has remained dormant for a long while. A genre which once occupied over 60% of the Billboard Hot 100 has faced a steady decline since the turn of the millennium, being slowly replaced by pop and hip-hop. As someone who grew up obsessed with rock music, from grunge to shoegaze and more, my rock playlists are dominated by older tracks, their release dates spanning from the 60s to the 90s – part nostalgia, part genuine yearning for the days when rock was as creatively fruitful as possible.

For this reason, ‘Rock Music’ is all the more interesting. It is a fascinating blend of parody and utmost sincerity – on the one hand, we see Charli grapple with the legacy of her career-defining dance record, and on the other hand, she employs a catalogue of cheesy rock tropes, from lines like “I’m really banging my head” to the sugary, optimistic, ‘let’s make a rock band!’-style spirit that you only find in film and TV. In a way, Charli tells the critics who doubted her authenticity on Brat, rock can be just as superficial. Maybe ‘Rock Music’ is best thought of as the ‘Song 2’ of the 2020s: a satire of a genre which is often contrasted against her discography, rather than seen as complementing it. Charli also sticks to her roots in terms of the song’s production, filtering her perspective on rock through the distinctive A.G. Cook and Finn Keane production that we have come to associate her with. She has one foot in the door of rock and one in the door of electropop, refusing to commit to either side, and it is much to her advantage.

Just as quickly as she soared to electropop stardom, Charli abandoned her ‘365 party girl’ image to embrace a rock edge, bearing her influences proudly (namely, The Velvet Underground). She is inevitably reacting to her newfound fame and the anxieties that accompany it, but her reinvention also reflects the state of nightlife in the mid-2020s, which she declares to be “dead”. In Oxford, however, there does seem to be a place for rock music on the dancefloor – Indie Fridays continues to be massively popular, along with Boogaloo and other regular fixtures. But Charli’s statement may nevertheless ring true. Could Oxford nightlife do with better music? Most certainly. For me, the number one factor that puts me off clubbing in this city is how dire the music can be. My apologies, but I never want to hear ABBA or the same old Y2K playlist again. My ideal club night would either have a stacked lineup of student DJs, spinning anything from acid house to jungle, or it would simply be an all-night Future marathon – like a sleeper agent, I’m suddenly awake and alert when I hear the words “I’m on that good kush and alcohol…”

Nightlife discourse continues to circulate social media circles of the 2020s, thanks to shifting patterns and trends, partly fuelled by Charli herself. It would be a lie to claim that Brat did not bring electronic music into the mainstream, after a 2010s dominated by trap at one extreme, and Lana Del Rey-esque ‘sad girl’ pop at the other. Complete with a hyperpop flair, Brat and its various club anthems prompted renewed interest in partying and raving, as well as in the production of electronic music – think back to that viral episode of the Tape Notes podcast, in which Charli breaks down the Logic session of ‘Club Classics’. Even I now own the Pioneer DDJ FLX-4, the standard DJ decks for any performative cool kid.

Statistically, young people are going out less, and are also drinking less alcohol. But while this is often chalked up to ‘the damn phones’, or the pursuit of a clean-girl lifestyle, there are much larger structural factors at play. The dancefloor as a physical space might not be in rigor mortis just yet, but it is dying. In Oxford alone, at least 11 nightlife venues have closed in the last two decades. Only we true Oxford oldheads, in our third years and above, will remember the days when Park End was at ATIK, or when Intrusion, Oxford’s goth night, was held at Kiss Bar. This pattern is repeated in almost every part of the country, and contributes significantly to the general feeling among Gen Z that nightlife is in fact on its last legs. Even on an individual level, can you afford to spend upwards of £8 on a single spirit and mixer at a club? From drinks and Ubers to club tickets and post-club Hussain’s, the cost of a night out is becoming increasingly extortionate, and presents a material barrier to the formation of community, identity, and a great experience. Sure, you could go to an underground, illegal rave, but who’s paying for the decks? The sound system? The legal fees when the fun is shut down?

Naturally, I write as a student and for students, who, by and large, do not have infinite funds to invest in a spectacular clubbing experience. I highly doubt that the economic burden of nightlife on the consumer is a significant problem for Charli, or any other celebrity of her stature, many of whom have responded negatively to the bold statements made in ‘Rock Music’ – her feelings seem to be fuelled in large part by her ruminations on what it means to be cool. Likewise, while I may be inclined to agree that the dancefloor is “dead”, my perspective is certainly skewed as a third-year with an exam-ridden friend group, for whom the Radcam has become the default third space. Tongue-in-cheek as it may be, Charli xcx’s ‘Rock Music’ speaks to the structural issues actively decimating nightlife across the world, issues she addresses candidly on its follow-up, ‘SS26’, even if her motivations may be more aesthetic than political.

Testing my patients: ‘The Effect’ at the BT Studio reviewed

Billy Skiggs
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Testing my patients: ‘The Effect’ at the BT Studio reviewed

It is always refreshing when a company chooses to stage a contemporary play, as if they are deliberately ignoring the expansive backlog of canonical theatre. This affront to the canon is made particularly exciting since, for me, Lucy Prebble’s The Effect (2012) was unfamiliar. It imagines two patients taking part in a drug trial for anti-depressants, exploring whether we can reduce our feelings to chemical processes, and whether this question really matters. Tristan claims “I can tell the difference between who I am and a side effect.” This is an unfortunately one-dimensional premise. The characters of the text are largely symbolic, and though this might prove a challenge for a director wanting to present convincing depictions of real people, the depth which was brought to each role was astounding. Thanks to the steering of director Joshua Robey and producer Sanaa Pasha, Fennec Fox Productions have done a remarkable job in presenting an enjoyable and immersive production at the BT Studio. 

The stage is set in traverse, and it is clear that Fennec Fox have thought deeply about their use of space. It’s confrontational – a word pertinent to their production – to see the BT rearranged in such a way. A projector tells us what we’re in for: ‘The Effect’, a helpfully ambiguous title which anticipates what’s left once the play has ended. It has a firm resonance with something, though Fennec Fox refuses to specify exactly what. This is, in part, enabled by Yusuf Naeem’s set, which is minimal and impactful. A tarpaulin lies across the floor, illuminated with soft white lighting; there is a sound of bubbling – ostensibly brewing suspense – and immediately the audience is struck by the importance of sound design in this production. 

Ice Dob’s sound acts, at times, in perfect harmony with the text, whilst at others it grates cruelly against the scene. The production includes a striking motif: each time the anti-depressant medications are taken an all-encompassing wall of sound and light embodies the intensity and severity of the decision to swallow. When the actors throw the empty cups against the wall, they clatter whilst an ominous voiceover explains the ‘DOSAGE INCREASE.’ At times, the sound is a pounding bass, distinctly club-like and entirely antithetical to the scene at hand. But it works, because the sheer volume and intensity of the noise creates such an anxiety that, even though nothing has happened, there is the sense that something is bound to go wrong. 

Robey knows how to keep everyone, including the actors, engaged throughout. As Dr James (the marvellous Robyn Hayward) stands assuredly still at one end of the stage, she interrogates one patient while the other turns to the audience and idly invites us into their character. Connie, played by Rose Martin, is agitated and unsettled whilst Alec Day Greene’s Tristan waits with cool indifference, his demeanour telling us at once that he isn’t concerned about the drug trial. Dr James is introduced to the patients as a blank wall, Hayward playing her as an uninterpretable page which resists the patients’ attempt to read her. She is effective in asserting her institutional power, embodied perfectly through her rejection of the patients’ jokes, and her laconic, almost lethargic authority. Martin and Greene’s energies play off against one another perfectly, her restless uncertainty absorbed by his relaxed and rebellious composure. 

A sincere life is brought to the characters, especially in the case of Greene, who was repulsive and entrancing in equal measure. The dance number (if one could call it that) was unexpected, a startling juxtaposition to the chaos which was to follow. Martin looked genuinely enamoured with Greene’s impression of a mating bird. The sexual tension between the two was palpable and well-illustrated in a vignette sequence which saw them engaged in various moments of intimacy between blackouts. 

Alongside this ostensibly harmonious relationship, power dynamics are a persistent theme accentuated by Fennec Fox’s production. The physical positions of the actors on stage corresponded well to where the characters saw themselves standing, socially. By the end of the play Hayward is so far hunched into the wall that she is easily forgotten until she speaks again. Her progression from monolith to husk was wonderfully pitted against Martin’s gradual assertion of power, tenderly and subtly expressed at the play’s ending. Up to this point, Martin has reminded us that Connie is not altogether sure of herself – “What if I take advantage of you,” she asks meekly. It is clear that this cannot be the case. 

Dr Toby Sealey (Rohan Joshi), the nepotistic counterweight to James’ institutional upset, did a remarkable job of navigating the awkward traverse staging to give an exceptionally compelling presentation about his father. Holding a brain aloft, like some STEM Hamlet, Joshi made Sealey’s revelation that it was his father’s truly unsettling. He was sympathetic when necessary, and yet, condescending in other moments as he seemingly disregarded the opinions of James for the sole fact that she is a woman. 

However, it is in moments like this that the text resists the complexity of Fennec Fox’s production; the takeaway is so straightforward that it is almost disappointing. Susan Sontag says it better in Against Interpretation: “Sometimes a writer will be so uneasy before the naked power of his art that he will install within the work itself […] the clear and explicit interpretation of it.” Fennec Fox retaliate against the text’s simplicity by utilising the absolute force of theatre. Lights and sound are violently deployed against bare set, insisting on an experience of the play that is sensational rather than analytical. 

Altogether, the production is a successful one; this is largely owing to the performances of Greene and Hayward who commit to such a convincing, almost aggressive realism that one is compelled to check if the actors are doing alright afterwards. Necessarily navigating the difference between ‘side effects’ and reality, the play strikes a fine balance between what one thinks and what one feels.

Gender is what you make of it

Morwenna Stinchcombe
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Gender is what you make of it

If you ever dare to become an audacious transsexual like me, you may have been confronted with a litany of in-group terminology online: “nonbinary amab”, “birthday boy” (referring to a particularly petulant kind of trans man), “AGP”. Some of these are used with a wry smile, such as “AGP”, which was originally conceived of by someone, Ray Blanchard, attempting to explain trans womanhood in a particularly tasteless manner, and “AGP” was his term for a trans woman attracted to her own femininity. The first term, “nonbinary amab”, elicits deep anger from some, as it implies a real suspicion of non-binary people who seem not to be doing androgyny correctly; labelling them by their sex assigned at birth seems to suggest that they are still fundamentally male in some way. The point is, however, we have these terms because some understand gender to be what one makes of it. It is because gender is so multifaceted, so open to individual manipulation, that gender-segregated colleges would flatten an otherwise multidimensional facet of our lives.

It is for this reason that I am suspicious of the idea of segregating genders from each other, and feel it ought to be reserved for only the most severe and necessary circumstances, such as, arguably, crisis centres for victims of sexual assault. As a trans woman (pulling the card here) who went to an all-boys’ school, I feel especially qualified to tell you: the patriarchy exists, and it affects men too, and people are very good at reinforcing patriarchal standards without any evident bloke in the room to keep the male gaze ticking over. Current dialogues about “single-sex spaces” avoid the hard truth that we are all responsible for combatting patriarchal standards by rendering the patriarchy into a ‘Thing Men Do’.

Many women can attest that they have experienced being silenced by men. History is filled with examples of men stealing women’s ideas; it seems that men underpay and often step in the way of women when possible. But these behaviours are not a rank smell emanating from their genitals. These behaviours are rooted in a complex set of factors which hover around their masculinity. It is possible for women to do all of these things to other women, and some indeed do: some are quite terrible to other women (see: Ellen DeGeneres’ treatment of her staff as one example, or some of my friends have cited the cruelty they experienced, often based on judgements levied at their body, at the hands of other young women during sex-segregated PE lessons). To treat patriarchy as a cut-and-dry problem one can escape by escaping men, or, as the zeitgeist seems to be, anyone with a penis, one refuses the nuances around gender and socialisation.

Let me express an unwoke opinion: the episode of The IT Crowd in which Douglas Reynholm dates a trans woman appeals to a part of me. I recognise the argument for it being transphobic: it does portray the one example of a trans woman on the show as a beer-guzzling darts player who can deck a man with a single punch. And there is no doubt that the writer, Graham Linehan, was basing this characterisation on his own prejudices. Yet I love it. I want to be a beer-guzzling trans woman who could, if necessary, deck a full-grown man. This does not make me any less of a woman: in fact, we should celebrate the beer-guzzling, punch-happy women in our lives. We should not treat femininity as divine, meek and mild, governed by what Nietzsche would probably call a ‘slave ideology’. All-women’s colleges suggest otherwise: that women’s existence would be somehow corrupted or threatened by men themselves, rather than being threatened more broadly by patriarchy. 

If one therefore treats femininity as tainted by male company, one ends up with a horribly flat image of men based on their gender. In the last year, there has been a flurry of discussion around heterosexual women avoiding dating because men are just so much baggage emotionally. I get it. I dated someone who is probably best described as an incapable manchild (another example of gender’s nuances: we have no better term than ‘manchild’ to describe this dynamic, yet they are undeniably non-binary). I do not begrudge anyone for hating men, disliking them, or actually needing to not be around them, although this latter option implies traumatic circumstances which call for proper attention and care, which is not, per se, best handled by the establishment of women’s colleges alone.

What I do begrudge, though, is believing that a personal preference warrants a donor paying out the wazoo to found a women’s-only college. 

Gender- (or, probably, sex-) segregated colleges are the bane of good taste. They will worsen gender relations. They turn the other gender(s) into unidentified other(s) without a face, and by consequence, lead to an inability to treat those who are not women or men as fully-formed humans. They will be treated on the basis of their gender alone. If, for example, you do indeed hate men, which is a fine and fair position to hold, given how awfully some of them dress, or how often some of them go to the gym, then your criticisms should at least be well-founded, and, even better, humorous, which is only achieved – to adapt a T.S Eliot quote – with realism. Men, it is true, can be awful, but they are also awfully varied as a group. You cannot ignore this.

So, no, you do not deserve a women’s-only college. You do not deserve a women’s-only college on the basis of an inability to recognise what the rest of us, transsexuals, transgenders, nonbinary amabs, birthday boys, AGPs, all of us, have long accepted: gender is complex. So do something interesting with it. 

A love letter to my year abroad 

Rebecca Bushee
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A love letter to my year abroad 

A year is a long time: enough to call a place home, enough to strip away the bright facade of newness. I’ve spent my year abroad at this university, unstuck in time. My friends at home have lived a thousand different lives in the interim, and I suppose so have I. But this place is different. It’s somewhere that’s nearly impossible to explain. My friends ask me about how it compares to Brown University, and I find myself at a loss. The differences are manifold; they’re cosmically different, worlds apart. How can I express how I feel about Oxford? How can I capture this rapturous feeling? I cannot hope to explain my world here. And yet, I must try. I love this place, I hate this place, I can’t bear to leave it behind. I don’t think it will ever truly leave me.

I write to tell you all what this place means to me. To tell you what it has been to take a year abroad. 

Michaelmas

Oxford still seemed romantic, a sort of richly brocaded city of dreaming; it was all twisting spires and ancient promises. The city was new, freshly minted in my mind. Things felt heavier: the air, the weight of age, the frantic, feverish rhythm of life. That was particularly significant, the speed at which everything seemed to go. Two months is not a long time. The rate of coursework, essays, and even social activities seemed breakneck. I found myself settling into my modules, grinding out two essays every single week. I would go to the Radcliffe Camera and bask under the elegant arches and soft incandescent light. Work felt special when it was beneath the watchful eye of some marble statue. I rowed in the mornings, and swam on Saturdays. Days were spent dutifully working, nights were consumed by revelry. 

There was something on every single evening. Whether it was formals (such an alien concept, even to students in the UK, I’m sure), college BOPs, club nights, socials, or debate nights, I was meeting new people at a rate which rivalled my own first year of university. Formal dinners were particularly dazzling – dressing up for a three-course meal in a vaulted hall evoked some sort of Public school fantasy – and it’s no surprise I went to as many as I could afford. I involved myself in societies which seemed novel and interesting. I made friends in student politics, and watched with mild amusement as intrigues unfolded on a scale unlike any I’d seen before. It felt very…Oxford. It was somewhat alluring, the draw of the glitz and glamour of an entirely different social world. 

But my disillusionment with student politics came early into the term. One night, sequestered in a college common room, beneath dim lights, I found myself at a hushed afters. The group was discussing one of my friends, saying terrible things. I knew then what I know now: I wanted no part of that world. I resolved to extricate myself. 

Like any new thing, Michaelmas was bright, exciting, and romantic. Underneath the shine, I found that some truths were better left buried. The journey out of darkness was not easy or linear, but it was worth it.

Hilary

Hilary began as it ended, with a sort of incorrigible grey. There was a lightness to it, at some point in the middle, when things fell into place. When the rhythms of life here began to feel as normal as breathing. I wrote so much that term: articles for a student paper, modules on Mesopotamia and Ethnobotany, and pages and pages in my journal. I also took up ice skating. There was something freeing about gliding across that glittering rink. It smiled at me, kissed my cheeks with cool breath, and pushed my feet across frozen ground. I found peace in my solo skates, joy in skating with others. Collapsing into bed, face flushed from the cold, I could not have been happier.

By this point, the glamour of student politics had thoroughly worn off. It seemed more like a tired old thing, full of fatigued people. Yet still, friends found themselves deeper entrenched in the machinery of it. I pulled further and further away as they ran elections and relayed intrigues. 

Working on the student paper was my saving grace, with the Schwarzman becoming an unlikely refuge. We spent long hours below that sun-soaked ceiling, passing the day in leisurely conversation. We discussed the paper, pitched articles, and wrote silly headlines that could never be published. Little work was done, even when dusk came and went. The watchful oculus considered us carefully, as we raced about on rolling chairs under the moonlight. We would stay into the early morning hours, dancing, singing, running around that hollowed-out space. The darkness was warm.

Nights at the Schwarzman melted into afters at one room or another. Twilight spent in fervent conversation, marked by tea or cheese and crackers. I felt so full in these liminal moments. Pink parties, game cafes, and homemade DnD campaigns made my time at college all the brighter. Although the end of Hilary was marked by a particularly nasty bout of pneumonia, I felt satisfied with all I’d done in my grey little term. 

Sometimes, in that mid-year lull, the only thing to do is to keep pressing forward. There is a light at the end of the tunnel. The articles and essays I wrote that term are still some of my favourites.

Trinity

May night was long and dark, a treacherous road twisting round the riverbend. We walked in cold twilight. Moonbeams glanced across my cheek – a quiet beacon in the near black. The neon glow of varsity faded into dawn, slowly. When the sun finally turned Magdalen Tower blushing red, the choir heralded the start of spring. May morning shone just a bit too brightly, full of clamorous noise and clatter. Dancing and merry bells followed me all the way into my belated slumber. 

Oxford was beginning to shimmer beneath the brilliant sunshine. It made everything feel just a bit more hopeful. I was determined to spend the term trying an entirely new set of activities. I shed the politics which made Hilary drag endlessly, and leaned into my renewed joy for writing. I  joined two magazines and a different student paper. These turned out to be such sources of light: full of incredible, creative people, and even more incredible work. Writing articles, performing pieces, editing work, it was all so fulfilling. I looked forward every week to our lay-ins, or planning meetings for events. 

Trinity was a time of great celebration. I attended countless birthdays, including my own. My friends made me such thoughtful cakes; I was laughing long into the night. It was so nice to be with the people who made Oxford special. I turned 21 under the multicoloured lights at the Brasenose Ball. It felt magical, to be able to mark the occasion in such a fairytale manner. I will always remember the purple glow and the soft music in the background as I checked my watch, and hugged my friend tight when the hour hand slid to midnight. 

Ultimately, it was the small moments that made Trinity particularly special: whether it was simply studying with finalists, or watching Eurovision for the first time on my friend’s bed (we ate too many of her snacks and took our bets entirely too seriously). 

I must have done absolutely no revision the second the sun came out. Maybe it was the warmth of the afternoon light on my face at Port Meadow, or the cool depths of Hinksey Lake, but those days passed in such a calm haze. The picture of idyllic summertime. 

Sometimes, letting go is just a chance for a new beginning. 

__

Oxford has been so many things. I’ve sought out every hidden place and tried every new activity that I could reasonably fit around my coursework. I’ve met so many important people who have impacted my life in countless ways. It took time to find my place here. There was a significant period of trial and error, but I’ve somehow made it to where I am happiest. I do not regret the experiences I tried which were not quite right for me. I learned from them, they were meaningful, and made for fantastic stories. 

When I return to Brown in the autumn, I will carry all of these experiences with me. I will hold them close to my heart, and I will try, and fail, and try again to explain how much they mean to me. If you are embarking on a year abroad, whether for your third year of Modern Languages, or to Oxford just like me, prepare to try everything. Prepare to change, to experience as many new things as you possibly can. You will return different, but you will be better for it. 

A year is a long time to be away from home. 

Oxford law academic cancels lecture series on sex and gender following protests

Anisha Mohammed
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Oxford law academic cancels lecture series on sex and gender following protests

Dr Michael Foran, Associate Professor of Law and Fellow of Keble College, has cancelled the remaining lectures in a series on sex, gender identity, and the law, following protests at two of the events.

The lecture series, hosted by Keble College, examined themes from Foran’s recent book Sex, Gender Identity and the Law. Topics included the legal treatment of sex, single-sex spaces, and gender-identity beliefs, and sexual consent.

Foran is an expert in equality and anti-discrimination law, whose work has been cited by the UK Supreme Court. His lecture series was delivered alongside the publication of his book, which traces the history of how sex has changed within UK law, and its implications for ongoing controversies over single-sex spaces, freedom of expression, and sexual intimacy. Protesters said his positions on sex and gender identity, and his associations with certain campaign groups, motivated their demonstrations. They told Cherwell: “We have a moral responsibility to challenge transphobic rhetoric, even when it’s dressed up in academia.”

The protesters also argued that Foran’s associations with organisations such as Sex Matters and the Women’s Rights Network, which they described as working to “erode the rights of trans people”, made his platforming by the University a harmful rather than neutral act. They further argued, in a statement shared online, that his work “weaponises the language of feminism to pit women’s rights against trans rights”.

Footage of the protests, which has circulated widely on social media, appears to show protesters standing to read statements before leaving the events. A statement shared by individuals involved in the protests, including the Oxford University LGBTQ+ Society’s President, who appeared in footage circulated online, disputed characterisations of their actions as harassment or bullying. They said in the statement that they had “read out short statements, and left peacefully”, and that Foran had been able to continue delivering his lectures after they left. The statement added the decision to cancel the remaining events “was entirely his own” and not something the protesters had called for.

The protestors also told Cherwell that engaging with Foran through the lectures’ question-and-answer sessions would have required them to challenge his views within a format that he controlled. They added that the protest allowed them to “create our own space for expression”, and rejected suggestions that their actions were “anti-intellectual”.

In a statement posted on social media following the cancellations, Foran described the decision to cancel his remaining lectures as “deeply lamentable” and said that disagreement with a speaker’s views should be expressed through debate rather than disruption. 

The protests attracted significant attention online, including from former Home Secretary Suella Braverman, who criticised them on social media, describing them as an attack on free speech. The protesters have argued that their actions constituted a peaceful and lawful form of political expression, and rejected media portrayals of their actions as intimidating or harassing.

In response to the cancellations, University Chancellor William Hague said the remaining lectures “should go ahead”. Writing on X on 9th June, Hague said: “Freedom of speech is a fundamental academic freedom and it must be upheld. Equally, legitimate and lawful protest has an important place in university life.” In a short video accompanying his statement, Hague added that he was “concerned” by the disruption, but stressed that “hundreds, maybe thousands, of events” at universities continue despite disagreement, with “entirely civil disagreements and debates every day”. He also pointed to the recent Freedom of Speech Act, saying that “the overall atmosphere of free debate in universities is actually very strong”.

A spokesperson for the University of Oxford told Cherwell: “Freedom of speech and academic freedom are fundamental to the University of Oxford. Members of our academic community must be able to teach, research, speak and debate within the law, including on issues that are controversial or strongly contested. Equally, we support the right to lawful protest and civil disagreement.” 

The spokesperson added that despite interruptions at the start, the first two talks proceeded and continued uninterrupted, and said it was “concerned that the series will not now be completed as planned”. It confirmed it would work with Foran to explore how the remaining events might take place.

Absence (and digicam photodumps) make the heart grow fonder: Nostalgia for Oxford

Prity Laloux
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Absence (and digicam photodumps) make the heart grow fonder: Nostalgia for Oxford

Last Michaelmas, as my friends and I were going through our photos from a weekend trip to Bristol, Bath, and Cardiff, my friend said: “When I look at these photos, I feel nostalgia for time that isn’t over yet.” This comment stuck with me, and I have found it to ring increasingly true the more time I spend in Oxford. As my camera roll fills up with photos from formals, balls, BOPs, and ordinary days just spent revising with friends, I can’t help but feel a twinge of sadness every time I go through it. Given that I am only a second-year undergraduate, this melancholy feels premature and out of place. While it certainly still lingers during term time, I feel my nostalgia for Oxford truly reached its peak in the last long vacation, and has only grown as my year abroad draws scarily close. Ultimately, this nostalgia is due to a combination of distance and distorted memories, framed through the lens of social media and selected photos. 

We all know the bittersweet end-of-term feeling, when the last essay has been submitted, your room is packed, and you are ready to go home. When you open Instagram, your feed is flooded with digicam ‘photo-dumps’ captioned  “michael-mess”, “hellary”, or “trinifree”. Swiping reveals a series of formals, parties, and general merriment taking place across a variety of friend groups. Your heart swells at the thought of all the fun times you had last term as you prepare your own ‘photo-dump’. I myself am guilty of the overly sentimental, highly curated Instagram post (though they are often nine months late). Through such colourful carousels, we are offered a highlight reel of the term – a glimpse of only the best moments. When I first post, though, my feelings do not necessarily reflect the version of term I present on my social media. Although I already miss the fun times with my friends, I am also exhausted from the previous term, and thoroughly ready for a break. When I look at my highlight reel in this context, all I can see is the absence of all-too-recent essay crises and deadlines passed. 

On reflection, it seems that these types of posts have the greatest impact on me a few weeks into the long vacation. Once the dust has settled, and I have fallen back into my daily routine at home, I find myself spending more and more time staring longingly at my term-time photos. Originally taken in the context of Oxford chaos, they now stand independently, as images of a more exciting time with friends, and the nostalgia this evokes is only exacerbated by the warm, familiar glow of the digicam. These photos look older than the ones taken on my phone (I am a shameless digicam leech in my friend group), and thus, almost feel as if they come from a more distant time. Not only do our digicamposted memories recall the best, hand-picked moments, they do so in a way that covers our experiences in a romantic haze. It is no secret that Oxford lends itself extremely well to romanticisation, and the combination of distance, lack of context, and blurry analogue media only serves to heighten this longing. It seems that, as Oxford becomes more remote, my feelings towards my university experience become less accurate. The breakneck speed of term is forgotten in favour of remembering the times spent ignoring work in favour of more lively pursuits. In short, as soon as August hits, my rose-tinted glasses are decidedly on. 

I have spent some time contemplating this feeling as I prepare to leave Oxford for a year. This looming departure makes this the last term my college wife and I will spend as students together, and my last overlapping term with many of my closest friends. As I feel the same nostalgic emotions swelling up much earlier this time around, I really start to feel that the depiction of Oxford in the photos I post is misleading. I wonder whether, in my preservation of the best parts of Oxford, I have done my real experience an injustice. While I love and cherish the fun and beautiful parts of Oxford, it would be a lie to say that the stress and challenges were any less of a fundamental part of my experience here. When so much of my time is spent at a desk in a library, it almost seems unfair to my past self to forget those moments. The rose-tinted glasses seem to have selective blinders attached to them. 

Yet I think the solution to my problem might come in the form of better documentation. While my camera roll provides ample material for yearning, my saved snaps with my sister offer a very different version of the term. There, I can observe a museum of library sessions, essay crises, and the generalised academic chaos that accompanies the term. Without concern for external perception, these photos are taken live, and offer far better contextualisation for the ups and downs of Oxford. Although I sometimes expect to be brought down by the resurfacing of such memories, the resulting feeling is surprisingly much more optimistic. In forgetting the chaos of term, I think we tend to also forget our achievements within the eight-week period. The sudden shift in circumstance, environment, and sometimes even time zones can often distract from the challenges that we each managed to overcome, and the projects we’ve completed within such a short period of time. Distance from these varied experiences, combined with a more accurate recollection of them, has allowed me to appreciate what I have learned, and achieved, throughout my time here. I can cherish my weekend trip to Wales with my friends, recall the stressful week of catch-up that ensued, and appreciate the increase in my writing speed that I gained as a result. Thinking about all the times I have scrambled to finish writing before going out for the evening has allowed me to value the balancing act of managing work and fun that Oxford demands, and makes me excited to continue this in my final year. 

Of course, this isn’t to say that compilations of happy memories stored on digicams or posted online are always harmful to us. As I mentioned, I love to dump digicam photos of myself at balls on my Instagram (what else is the app for?). However, I do think that recontextualising my nostalgia, and reflecting on the more challenging times of term, when I have more space and time, has been incredibly beneficial to my relationship with Oxford. As I look forward to the last two weeks of term before I set off on a year abroad, I want to preserve these slightly challenging and conflicting feelings. I think they are what allow us to cherish our true experience of Oxford.

Do ‘day in the life’ videos make us hate our own?

Jessie Jukes
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Do ‘day in the life’ videos make us hate our own?

An alarm flashes on a phone screen: it’s 5am. A hand reaches out to turn it off, and then there is a freshly-brewed coffee, a session at the gym, a perfectly balanced lunch. Before midday, the creator has done a workout, attended two lectures, completed their to-do list, and managed to film it all. “Day in the life” videos are everywhere. Whether on Instagram reels, TikTok, or even YouTube shorts, every day I am met with a barrage of content showing the perfectly curated lives of their creators. I see things like: “a day in the life as a busy student”, “a productive day in my life”, or “clean girl morning routine”, where in the course of just a minute, we get a glimpse into a person’s life – or at least the version of it that they want to show us. 

These videos can be entertaining, and there is something inherently captivating about watching others live their lives. But they also create the perfect breeding ground for comparison. We watch them while we’re doomscrolling reels, or eating junk food, or procrastinating our essay, and it’s hard not to think: “I should get up earlier”, “I should go to the gym”, or “I’m not revising enough”.

But no one reaches for their camera when they’re exhausted, or eating takeaway in bed. Our mundane days pale in comparison with someone else’s curated highlights – their best moments pulled together under the guise of reality. It’s rare to see an unproductive ‘day in my life’, or videos where their creators seem unmotivated or sad. 

The resulting unrealistic standards for productivity are only exacerbated for Oxford students, who, already in an environment characterised by high expectations and academic pressure, have their own version of these videos to compare themselves to: the “day in the life of an Oxford student”. Between lectures, tutorials, societies, and deadlines, it is already easy to feel like we should be doing more, and an endless stream of videos showcasing students at their most productive, busiest, and most motivated can be somewhat disheartening.

There is also a voyeuristic quality, and with it a genuine safety concern to these videos: there is something undeniably fascinating about watching how others live. With the ever-increasing prevalence of technology and surveillance in our lives, the lack of privacy that comes with it is starting to feel progressively more normal. In the past, a desire to see into the personal lives of others would remain just that, but now we can actually do it. And beyond the pressure, and comparison this encourages, it can also cause genuine dangers – sharing every intimate detail of a routine leaves creators vulnerable. What might seem like a harmless clip of a morning walk can make it surprisingly easy for strangers to work out where someone lives, studies, or spends their time. 

And then there is the “what I eat in a day” content. There are countless videos online of influencers presenting restrictive or disordered eating as wellness. A perfectly arranged smoothie bowl or low-calorie breakfast is not inherently harmful, but for younger, more impressionable viewers, creating standards of what is and isn’t acceptable to eat can lead to their normalising these unrealistic standards, and the construction of unhealthily obsessive mindsets when it comes to food. 

And yet, despite all of this, we continue to watch these videos. They do have an appeal, and that’s why they continue to get so many views: I’ll admit that I myself enjoy this content. It can be as motivating as it is sometimes demoralising, and sometimes, when I’m scrolling TikTok instead of writing an essay, seeing someone else’s eight-hour revision day helps to encourage me.  

There is something undeniably fascinating about watching how others live, and the short length of these videos makes them even more addictive. I also wonder if part of their appeal lies in the fantasy that they show to us: we know that it isn’t realistic, that their creators have chosen which parts of their day to leave in, and which to leave out. We know that it isn’t possible to live like this all the time, and yet we continue to watch. We continue to compare our messy bedroom to the perfectly arranged one on our screen, our procrastination to their productivity, and our ordinary days to their highlights. 

“Day in the life” content isn’t going to disappear, and nor should it (for the most part) – after all, it is genuinely entertaining. I think that is worth remembering, though, when we see these videos, that the reality they present is not actually as real as it seems, and that a life well-lived is not necessarily the one that makes it onto social media.

‘The Harrowing of Hell.26’ reviewed

Arun Lewis
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‘The Harrowing of Hell.26’ reviewed

Medieval mystery plays are something of a lost art today. Born of an era of limited literacy – and when ‘literacy’ meant a basic understanding of the scriptures, calculus, and how to write your own name – they were part of a broad arsenal of tools to instil belief in the laity. Such biblical stagings were part of the rich visual culture of medieval and early modern Christianity, a staple of religious holidays and festivals and a clear, succinct way to communicate the core meanings of faith to a population preoccupied with survival. Mystery plays have not had an easy ride – whilst they are still performed in parts, it is almost in homage, a respectful acknowledgement that, yes, in ye olden times, before the advent of such wonders as the Kindle and the megachurch, the best way to speak to the unordained masses was through the stage. It is for that reason – the sheer scale of attempting to transmute an English mystery play into a modern black box theatre – that I respect the director, Meryl Vourch, for adapting this medieval theme, The Harrowing of Hell.26, for the stage. It is running at the Burton Taylor studio from the 2nd until the 6th of June, with curtains drawing at 9:30pm, and then in Week 7 at the crypt of St-Peters-In-the-East, from the 9th till the 11th of June, beginning at 8pm.

The atmosphere upon entry into the BT is heavy, the air is still. In an unfortunately sparsely populated audience, several literally ashen-faced cast members sat amongst us, before the play burst to life. Its opening section, with Satan, played by Thomas Arensen, contorting and struggling before a harsh cry pierces the air, is the most gripping section of the entire play. Its wordless appeal, Arensen’s impressive physicality, and the sudden shock of the shriek all meld perfectly to entrap the audience. The sound design and lighting were dynamic, lending themselves fittingly to a haunting depiction of hell, with the whispering of lost souls and the particularly striking sight of Christ’s silhouette behind a thin pall. Simplicity was the motto of the costume department, as The Harrowing of Hell.26 deliberately eschews ornate decoration to maintain focus on the performance.

The basics of the story, of Adam and Eve suffering in Hell at the hands of Satan and his devils before Christ rescues them from it, are performed well. The two devils, played by Elizabeth Henderson Miller and Sonny Fox are, again, incredibly well portrayed, with both giving everything to the role, including some manoeuvres that looked rather painful. Caleb Silverglied and Anastasija Vidjajeva both deliver strong performances as Adam and Eve, respectively, two wretches imprisoned in hell for so long that, despite their desire for salvation, they cannot bring themselves to take the steps towards it once proffered. Equally impressive is Patrizia Hinz, an authoritative narrator who holds the play aptly in her hands and maintains faithfulness to the nature of a mystery play. The bare space of the Burton Taylor, sparsely staged for the production, further lent to the unappealing afterlife depicted on the stage – save for an impressive demonstration from Arensen when he splits an apple in two.

However, despite the fine acting and good production quality, the play has a deep thematic flaw: it can never seem to decide on whether it is a modern take on a mystery play, or a faithful recreation of one. The former can be seen most clearly in its Paradise Lost-like Satan – who is not a total entity of evil but rather an individual with their own mores and desires – and keenly in its depiction of Christ. Whilst Jesus did cry out on the cross and doubted before his arrest, by the time of his earthly passing in the scriptures, he appeared to accept his sacrifice as necessary for the salvation of man. Yet the play’s Christ, played by Ian Machalek, lacks this acceptance. Instead, he wails and protests as if he has not already gone through his Passion. Once Machalek steps beyond the pall and confronts Satan, his Christ appears a curious blend of Son of God and Jared Leto’s Joker. The play resolves with a clear indication that Satan has lost, but is equivocal in its conclusion on the emancipation of man from eternal damnation. This issue is particularly heightened because of those elements of the play, the torturous nature of hell, the pestering demons and the clear indication from the narrator that Satan’s loss is a victory for good, which stick to the traditional mystery play framework.

It is not a bad play – it does not arouse any real upset or moral objection. As stated, The Harrowing of Hell.26 has many strong points, and the work of its cast and crew can’t be doubted. But after the enthralling first ten minutes, the play simply bored me. To bore an audience is worse than to offend or to shock – at least there lies engagement. Spending the remainder of the performance counting the minutes made it hard to enjoy.

Fundamentally, The Harrowing of Hell.26 is a finely acted, well-produced play which was enjoyable enough to watch, but its conclusion is unsatisfying. The play ends with an abrupt jolt – so abrupt that it cuts itself off before it can actually decide what it is saying.

It’s impossible not to be Romantic about football 

Natalie Tan
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It’s impossible not to be Romantic about football 

It’s impossible to not be romantic about football, and by that I mean Romantic with a capital R. Turns out the literary canon of the Romantics and the sporting world share an unexpected similarity: they’re both home to a unanimously agreed-upon Big Six. 

In this day and age being able to discuss both versions with an elementary level of proficiency grants you similar amounts of cultural capital (albeit in very different circles). Think football is the domain of the intellectually challenged? Could you recite the entire Premier League standings but not a single poem? Doesn’t matter – these parallels go either way, and hopefully at least one side of the equation will be recognisable. 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge – Manchester City

Coleridge’s most famous work – ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner’ – works best when read as a summary of City’s journey:

The titular mariner’s ship (Manchester City) gets stuck in the icy waters of the Antarctic (relegated in 2001). An albatross (the United Arab Emirates) appears and leads the ship out of the ice jam (provides an injection of money), into clearer waters and better winds (breaking the British transfer record and spending over £100 million pounds in a summer). Despite things going splendidly as the albatross is fed and loved by the crew (that Aguero goal), the mariner shoots the bird (for cohesion’s sake, read “With my cross-bow / I shot the Albatross” as “With my Abu Dhabi money / I breached the FFP rules” instead). 

To no one’s surprise, this brings down the wrath of spirits and supernatural forces, and the mariner is forced by his crew to wear the albatross’s dead body around his neck as a sign of the burden he must bear. The rest of his crew perish one by one, but the mariner is consigned to eternal life: though the albatross eventually falls from his neck, he’s still doomed to wander the earth, telling his story to those he meets. 

Like the mariner, a shadow the size of 115 charges hangs over City’s unprecedented success – the continental treble and four consecutive Premier League titles. An elephant in the room might as well be an albatross around the neck. One must imagine Pep Guardiola a mariner aboard the golden ship of his club’s crest. 

Percy Shelley – Manchester United 

This is the easiest comparison of all to make. Incredibly divisive among their peers, but indisputably influential in determining the landscape of the era: the man or the football club? Both have famously swung between extremes of ecstasy or despair and experienced prolonged periods of personal crisis: put being expelled from Oxford and eloping with 16-year-old Mary Shelley as a married man up there with paying Ruben Amorim 10 million Great British pounds to leave. 

But the thing that seals the deal is that they both share the same defining narrative: a tale of the ruins of a man who thought himself and his legacy eternal. It’s so fitting you could be forgiven for thinking Shelley predicted the trajectory of Manchester United with ‘Ozymandias’, written a solid 60 years before the club was even founded. I met a traveller from an antique land (apparently Manchester received city-status in March 1853, which places it quite firmly in the realm of antiquity) who told me about a statue with frown, and wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command (Ferguson was already rather old when they immortalised him in bronze, and his visage has a real degree of condescension to it.) 

My name is Sir Alex Ferguson, manager of managers. Look upon what my prodigal players have gone on to be, ye mighty, and despair. The Theatre of Dreams isn’t exactly a “colossal wreck” yet, but what with the well-known reports of rat infestations and waterfalls pouring down through the roof, they don’t seem to be too far off. 

Lord Byron – Arsenal

Cosmopolitan, rebellious, countercultural: Byron gained this reputation from scandals that ranged from bisexuality to a rumoured incestuous affair with his half-sister, Arsenal from being the first English top-flight team to field an all-foreign starting XI and becoming synonymous with a space for black cultural expression. 

It’s probably bold to compare a nobleman playboy who drank wine out of his ancestor’s skull to a white-haired bespectacled Frenchman who dressed like a stern professor, but Byron influenced European Romanticism in much the same way Wenger revolutionised the landscape of English football. Their lasting legacy has come to define them to the layman: Byron with the literary archetype of the Byronic hero – brooding, torn, romantic – and Arsenal with their Invincibles. 

Byron was a connoisseur of leaving and the difficulty and complexity of goodbyes recur again and again in his poetry; of Don Juan, leaving Spain, he wrote: “First partings form a lesson hard to learn […] there is a shock that sets one’s heart ajar”. What he would’ve written about Wenger’s departure. 

John Keats – Tottenham Hotspur

A questionable inclusion in the Big Six for some: during his lifetime Keats wouldn’t have been placed in the company of the others mentioned above. He had a relationship of mutual distaste with Byron in particular, who thought Keats an annoyance beneath his social and literary standing; in turn, Keats simultaneously envied and disliked Byron’s fame and aristocracy, and thought his literary prowess overrated (convinced yet?) Both have had a few distinctly memorable hits: Kane, Son, Ode on a Grecian Urn. 

Most fittingly, Keats coined the concept of “negative capability” – the ability to “be in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any reaching after fact and reason”. Such a phrase has never captured Spurs better. While Keats originally envisioned it as a poet’s ability to sink into the objects or characters he was writing about without fitting them into rigid structures of logic, the absolute incomprehensibility of being Spursy is perhaps the prime example of modern negative capability. 

To be Spurs is to be negatively capable, to be negatively capable Spurs – that is all ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. 

William Wordsworth – Chelsea

A clarity to the earlier years that has become compromised in later life. Wordsworth had a “Great Decade” of life in which he produced some era-defining works, chief among them the poem ‘I wandered lonely as a cloud’ (probably the bane of most GCSE students’ existence) and The Prelude, his great autobiographical work. There was something undeniably beautiful about Chelsea’s older days – their own Great Decade, if you will: Lampard, Terry, Mourinho’s 04-05 side whose record of 15 goals conceded in a season still stands unmatched. 

Every rise also has to have a fall. Later in his life Wordsworth’s decline is mostly attributed to his excessive self-editing; he transformed his lines, once famed for their simplicity, into something more affected, losing the core of his work. Todd Boehly’s Chelsea have spent ludicrous sums of money on squad-building to no avail and fired ten managers in the last ten years (interims generously excluded). Hopefully they can find a force to follow that might provide the same stability Christianity brought Wordsworth in his middle age. 

William Blake – Liverpool

Best known for ‘Tyger, Tyger’, Blake’s work carries a distinct feeling of mystical intensity, of seeing remarkable things in very ordinary places. A creative visionary who crafted a mythology of his own in his prophetic books, you can’t help but think he would have loved Anfield, the domain of a fervent working-class that has become imbued with a fervent mysticism all its own. (Blake should have spoken to Bill Shankly, who once reflected: “It’s a religion to them. The thousands who come here come to worship… it’s a sort of shrine.”) 

That aside, the experience of truly understanding Blake and of being a player under Jurgen Klopp’s gegenpressing system are about as similar as it gets: notoriously difficult to grapple with and incredibly tiring.

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