Tuesday 16th June 2026
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Oxford Union town hall TT26: Meet the candidates 

Cherwell News
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Oxford Union town hall TT26: Meet the candidates 

With polls set to open for Oxford Union elections tomorrow, Friday 12th June, Cherwell spoke to the candidates running to be President in Hilary Term 2027. Milo Donovan and Prajwal Pandey discussed their vision for the society, the challenges facing the Union, and how they would respond to recent controversies surrounding speaker invitations and free speech.

Introduce yourself briefly. Why are you running to be President?

Milo: Hello! I’m Milo, a second-year at Lincoln and the Society’s current Treasurer. 

I’m running for President because I love the Union. I realise this is something relatively rare – most members don’t love the Union. They merely tolerate it. And I understand why. Between the hack messages, the headlines, and the sense that the best perks are reserved for people with the right friends, it’s a pretty hard place to love. I want to change that.

And I think it can be done by reversing a particular change: somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling like a debating society and started feeling like an elections society. It’s really no surprise people are alienated. The debates, the speakers, the socials, which are the things members actually joined for, became the backdrop, while the politics became the show.

I’ve spent four terms on committee, but my best memories of this place have nothing to do with Union politics: they’re the times I danced with my friends at a ball, grilled speakers at the despatch box, or stayed far too late in the bar arguing about a debate that had finished hours earlier. That’s a Union that’s easy to love, and that’s the Union I’m running to bring back.

Prajwal: Hey! I’m Prajwal, Librarian of the Oxford Union and a third year PPEist at New College. 

Before Oxford, I had no extensive background in debating or public speaking. English was my second language growing up, and for a long time I felt shy and uncertain about speaking in public. The Union changed that for me. By speaking in the Chamber week after week, often in front of hundreds of people, I found a place that helped me confront those fears and develop a confidence I had not previously had the opportunity to build. 

I am running for President because I want every member, whatever their background or experience, to feel that same possibility of transformation. The Union should be a place where people leave not only having heard great speakers and debates, but having gained new skills, perspectives, and experiences they could not have found anywhere else. 

Which manifesto commitment are you most passionate about?

Milo: Banning hack messages.

Under the current rules, every candidate faces the same choice: spam, or lose to someone who will. I’ve sent three elections’ worth. I’m not proud of it. That’s part of why I want to change those rules.

This pledge also isn’t really one reform. It’s the thread that, when pulled, unravels most of what’s wrong here.

Right now, you don’t become President by being good at the job; you become President by assembling the largest slate, each member of which messages every friend, coursemate, and person they once met at a bar. Most people who vote for a winning candidate have never met them and couldn’t name one of their policies, they’re repaying a favour to someone further down the ballot.

But the deepest reason is what hack culture costs us with the members themselves. Ask yourself what you’ll say when your college children (or grandchildren) ask if the Union’s worth joining. For too many members, the answer is no,  because their main contact with this place isn’t a great debate or a famous speaker, it’s the termly flood of messages they receive.

And underneath all of it is the simplest reason: hack culture teaches people here to treat each other as votes.

And to be clear about what the ban would actually cover: candidates could still post publicly that they’re running, publish their manifesto, and campaign in the open as loudly as you like. What goes is the private spam. 

Prajwal: I am most passionate about my commitment to create an access membership fund, to allow sponsors to purchase memberships for underprivileged students. Though not a formal manifesto pledge, this is something I am already working on: I have presented the Union’s governing body with a clear plan of action and regular updates, with a view to implement this proposal by Michaelmas. 

What do you like least about the Oxford Union in its current form?

Milo: The Union’s best opportunities rarely reach the members who pay for them. This place has some incredible things to offer: dinners with world-famous speakers, intimate meet-and-greets with people you grew up watching on television. Across my time on committee I’ve watched too many of them handed out as political currency instead, with dinner seats and meet and greet spots filled with the President’s allies, and members’ money spent on so-called “Presidential drinks,” a tradition whose chief beneficiaries are, by remarkable coincidence, Presidents.

When the perks are the President’s gift, the perks become politics. So take them out of the President’s hands, with random ballots for debate dinners and meet-and-greets, paper speeches for competitive debaters, and Presidential drinks abolished.

Prajwal: What I like least about the Union in its current form is how easily it gets pulled away from its purpose: too often, its energy is absorbed by internal politics, personal ambition, and public drama, rather than by debate, speakers, and the formative experiences it can offer ordinary members. 

That is frustrating because I know how valuable the Union can be at its best: a place where students find their voice, test ideas, and feel that what they have to say matters. I want us to become that Union again.

What do you admire most about your opponent?

Milo: His tenacity. This Society is excellent at exhausting people, and he has conspicuously failed to be exhausted. Years of genuine work, much of it the kind nobody thanks you for. We disagree on plenty,  but his commitment isn’t in question, and I’m happy to say so.

Prajwal: I admire Milo’s composure; he has always been nice to me and conducted himself with dignity.

Give an example of one debate and one speaker event you’d most like to hold in your term.

Milo: For a debate, I’d suggest: “This House Believes Our Children Will Live Worse Lives Than Our Parents’.” I like this motion because it doesn’t split left/right, it splits optimist/pessimist, which is a far rarer clash. 

As for a speaker event, it has to be Zohran Mamdani. He’d fill the chamber on name alone, but that’s not the reason. His politics, agree with them or not, are about the things people actually live with: rent, transport, the cost of living. I’d like a speaker members could argue with about their own lives.

Prajwal: “This House Would Decriminalise Sex Work”.

I would also love to host Nazanin Zaghari-Ratcliffe for an individual event; her story is powerful and especially timely given current events in Iran. 

The Union has recently faced significant national media scrutiny over issues ranging from allegations of antisemitism to debates over free speech and speaker invitations. What practical steps would you take as President to rebuild trust among members who feel alienated by these controversies?

Milo: Members of this Society have felt unwelcome in their own chamber, and they were not imagining it. There is no version of the Union that should have room for antisemitism, Islamophobia, or any other form of hatred. No buts, no howevers. Some things are just wrong, and a President should be able to say so. 

I see no reason at all to invite speakers whose purpose is to cause harm to our members or the Oxford community more broadly. I also see no reason to pose debate motions that question people’s faith or identity. 

But words from a candidate are just words. Members have read plenty of them. Trust isn’t rebuilt by what the Union says about itself. It’s rebuilt when members can watch the place being run transparently and compassionately.

To that end, I’d want to make sure that no invitation blindsides this Society again. Much of this year’s damage came from a booking made behind closed doors that the committee discovered when it leaked. I’d want any high-profile invitations to go to a committee poll before any emails are sent. If an invitation can’t get past our own committee, it was never going to serve the members. And beyond invitations, the fairness measures elsewhere in my manifesto are trust measures too. 

None of this undoes what members have already experienced. But it’s the difference between asking for their trust and earning it back. 

Prajwal: Rebuilding trust means changing the incentives that created these controversies, not just reacting better when they happen. 

At the moment, there is often more leverage in making disputes public than resolving them properly in private. I would implement the many internal reviews into our rules and disciplinary procedures so that complaints are handled fairly and confidentially. 

On speakers, I would improve the speaker approval process, consult the Access Committee before invitations are sent, and deliver on my pledge for greater transparency around invitations, so that members are properly informed before controversies arise 

The invitation of speakers such as Tommy Robinson and Laurence Fox has sparked controversy across Oxford and beyond. Where do you believe the line should be drawn, if at all, between the Union’s commitment to free speech and concerns about legitimising extremist views?

Milo: The line is harm. No speakers invited to harm our members. That’s not a difficult call.

The Robinson event crossed that line, and I oppose it: a motion putting a faith up for debate, argued by a man best known for inciting hatred against the very members expected to sit through it. 

And let’s be clear, the Union has heard from Tommy Robinson before. Nobody could claim his views were going unexamined or that we were discovering a suppressed perspective. Inviting him back added literally nothing to the sum of debate.

Also, free speech is not only about who stands at the despatch box. It’s about whether our members can walk into the chamber and feel welcome to speak up. An invitation that silences the room to platform the guest hasn’t expanded speech. It’s shrunk it.

Prajwal: The Union has endured because of its commitment to free speech; our platform has shaped discussions both in Oxford and beyond because of this principle. However, if we are to maintain the integrity of that tradition, we must not allow it to be reduced to provocation for its own sake. So long as our members are safe, respected, and able to challenge speakers properly, we should be willing to platform controversial figures – but only where they are rigorously held to account and where there is a productive purpose to their visit. 

The Union hosts debates and events for their educational and intellectual value, not for spectacle or pure entertainment. Each debate has a limited number of guest speaker slots, so inviting someone means we are implicitly saying that their voice is worth hearing over the many others who could have spoken in their place. We must therefore platform those who can substantively contribute to debate, not simply those who generate outrage or headlines. 

Any other comment you wish to share.

Milo: You’ve tolerated this place long enough. Vote for a Union you can #LOVE instead.

Prajwal: The most important consideration for every President is how they use their platform. The key question voters should be asking candidates is which speakers and issues they wish to give a platform to. I hope I have shown that I would use our platform with a clear purpose: to defend free speech, broaden who is heard in the Chamber, and ensure the Union is a force for good. 

Find the candidates’ manifestos here:

Long Manifestos: https://oxford-union.org/resources/rules-regulations-and-policies/123/trinity-term-2026-manifestos-long 
Short Manifestos: https://oxford-union.org/resources/rules-regulations-and-policies/122/trinity-term-2026-manifestos-short 

Room on the pitch: Football fans and feminine fashion

Emma Heagney
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Room on the pitch: Football fans and feminine fashion

With the FIFA World Cup 2026 having just begun, I’m reminded of a question a friend once asked the group chat: “If I buy a Lionesses shirt, do you guys think I’ll be called a pick-me?” Her words, though coloured by her sense of humour, nevertheless speak to a real problem within football. From the hardcore Gooner to the casual Bellingham admirer, female fans of men’s football often fall victim to being categorised into one of two derogatory camps: the ‘pick-me’ or the WAG. A fashion choice as simple as donning a football shirt can push the unassuming wearer into either side.

Despite the immense success of the Lionesses in recent years, culture has not caught up with reality, and football is still seen by many as a man’s sport. Misogynistic harassment of female fans at men’s football matches has been well-documented, and women are also the victims of a horrifying pattern in which domestic violence spikes during international fixtures, even when England wins.

Many women, including myself, had very similar experiences to boys growing up – we were surrounded by male family members who were diehard fans, we constantly had matches on TV, and we had dads playing in and coaching Sunday league teams. Maybe we didn’t play the sport or collect Match Attax in primary school, but football culture has always been around us, and a sport which, in principle, is ‘the people’s sport’ is bound to be enjoyed by women as well. But the sport hasn’t always received female fans warmly. Just last year, Sky Sports launched and quickly deleted its women-oriented TikTok page, Halo, following criticism of its patronising and misogynistic content. If encouraging female interest in football was the goal, then dumbing down the sport to pink, sparkles, and matcha was not the way to achieve it.

Is there a danger in knowing too much about football as a woman? On the surface, of course not. If anything will truly ‘unite the kingdom’, it will probably be football, especially if England brings it home at this year’s World Cup. But this camaraderie, bolstered by many a pint in a beer garden, offers no protection from accusations of performativity. The assumption is that football is necessarily masculine, always perceived through a masculine filter, to the extent that women who show an interest in the sport seem to do so for the male gaze. With this mentality, held not only by men but also by many women with internalised misogyny, football remains an exclusive club, whose entrance is guarded by the question: “name five players”.

But positive strides have been made in recent years with the increasing overlap of football and women’s fashion. Does anyone remember ‘blokecore’? Think vintage, or even designer, football shirts (thanks, Dad, for the 2001 Liverpool shirt), Adidas Sambas, and baggy jeans. Adapted into a further microtrend, the short-lived ‘blokette’ introduced bows, frilly skirts, and hair ribbons to the ensemble. A microtrend, yes, but women were nevertheless included in a football-inspired trend, and treated as equals rather than ‘male-centred’ or ‘pick-me’. For every guy dressing like prime Beckham, there is now a girl wearing the same outfit, albeit with a feminine flair, perhaps.

But if knowing too much about football is the hallmark of a pick-me, then knowing too little is just as ridiculed. Herein lies a social history of the WAG, or the ‘Wives and Girlfriends’ of football players, often seen in an incredibly fashionable ensemble but perceived to know nothing about the sport. While America had Britney and Paris rocking Juicy Couture tracksuits and Dior saddle bags, the UK had Victoria Beckham and Cheryl Cole doing the same with a British twist – often with a figure-hugging England tank top. WAGs, while at the time commonly seen as gaudy, are retrospectively viewed with the Y2K nostalgia that dominates the aesthetic of the 2020s. They’ve even had a resurgence in recent years, with modern English WAG style being adapted to the modern woman: it-girl Tolami Benson, fiancée of Arsenal’s Bukayo Saka, was often seen in the stands of the 2024 Euros donning a corset, crop top, or leather jacket adorned with the Three Lions badge.

But the term ‘WAG’ has been criticised heavily, especially by those the label has been placed upon – even the Equalities and Human Rights Commission (EHRC) described the term as sexist in 2010. Let’s not forget that Victoria Beckham and Cheryl Cole were successful in their own right, being members of the Spice Girls and Girls Aloud respectively, and were just as brand-conscious as their modern counterparts, including Little Mix stars Perrie Edwards and Leigh-Anne Pinnock. Technically, even Taylor Swift is a WAG, though her fashion sense may not live up to the connotations of the term. The trickled-down use of WAG to describe any girlfriend of a football-loving man is similarly derogatory, and reduces a woman to the interests of her boyfriend. Instead of enjoying the sport herself, by wearing his Liverpool shirt she merely participates in the man’s world.


In truth, this article began in my Google Doc as a fun list of World Cup pub looks – think flag-inspired nails, cultural hairstyles, and cute summer skirts – but I simply couldn’t ignore the inherent politics of being a female fan in a football kit. The worlds of football and fashion overlap in several ways, from ‘blokette’ to the immense influence football has had on men’s street style (I’m constantly thinking about 2010s Balotelli and, currently, Noni Madueke). Girls, let’s promise to wear our kits proudly this summer, and not let the judgemental old men at the pub get to us.

‘Our House’ in the middle of Beaumont Street

Gavriella Epstein-Lightman
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‘Our House’ in the middle of Beaumont Street

Cross Keys’ production of Our House at the Oxford Playhouse is an ambitious one. With a 30-strong cast, no shortage of intricately choreographed musical numbers, and the challenge of sustaining a dual timeline narrative, it attempts a great deal. It largely succeeds. Whimsical, high-octane, and joyfully irreverent, the performance brims with heart. Uniquely, Our House, a musical first written by Tim Firth in 2002, manages to effortlessly combine wit with tragedy, the heights of joy with the depths of grief. 

Set in Camden in the 1980s, the musical, directed by Madison Bouchta, follows Joe Casey (Alex Innes), who makes a split-second decision which changes the course of his life. The play opens on Joe’s 16th birthday. His father, once imprisoned for his criminal exploits before dying young, looms large over Joe’s life – “a loser and a scumbag”, Joe bitterly calls him. Trying to impress his new girlfriend, Sarah (Maya Flint), he breaks into a flat to show Sarah a viewpoint overlooking his home on Casey Street. As the police arrive, Joe’s life fractures into two parallel paths. In one, he stays and accepts responsibility for the break-in, ultimately being sent to a correctional facility. In the other, he flees the scene. “I thought I was a good judge of character”, Sarah tells him afterwards in this second storyline, disillusioned by his cowardice, and the two break up.

From there, the musical follows the divergent trajectories of Joe’s life. We watch as the two versions of Joe move increasingly further apart: one remains fundamentally honest and true to himself, but suffers for it; the other evades accountability and descends deeper into moral compromise. “I’m a reformed young offender”, Joe insists in the former timeline. “This isn’t crime, it’s enterprise culture”, Joe claims in the latter, having fully embraced a corrupt corporate world.

Yet even as the moral distinctions between the two versions of Joe become increasingly pronounced, the production avoids reducing the story to a simplistic lesson. Instead, it presents both paths as responses to the same underlying insecurities, allowing the audience to understand even Joe’s most questionable decisions. The dual narrative, therefore, becomes more than a straightforward morality tale: it is a sharp exploration of class, loyalty, and the dangerous allure of wealth and social ascent.

As a jukebox musical, Our House is a nostalgia-filled celebration of 1980s ska-pop band Madness, reviving classics including ‘Baggy Trousers’, ‘Embarrassment’, ‘Night Boat to Cairo’, and, of course, ‘Our House’. The musical also includes one song, ‘It Must Be Love’, written especially for it.

Alex Innes delivers a standout performance as Joe Casey. Though at first I struggled to differentiate between the different courses of Joe’s life, Innes’ subtle acting, aided by costume changes, soon made it clear. He projected an affected confidence as the Joe who has ingratiated himself with the corporate elite, before pivoting effortlessly to the anxious vulnerability of the struggling offender. Innes portrays Joe with impressive complexity, displaying his endearingly exuberant charisma and confidence bordering on brashness, but also his insecurity.

Maya Flint’s Sarah is similarly nuanced. There is the ambitious Sarah, determined to attend university and become a lawyer, increasingly at ease within a more educated social milieu. Yet there is also the Sarah who cannot fully let go of Joe Casey, who returns immediately upon hearing of his arrest and remains, despite everything, compassionate and loyal. Flint captures both aspects beautifully.

Beyond the central couple, the supporting cast is consistently strong. Joe’s friends Emmo (Peter Hardisty) and Lewis (Luke Carroll), alongside Sarah’s friends Billie (Lottie Hutchison) and Angie (Imogen Bowden), exude a camaraderie that genuinely feels real. Harriet Wilson, as Kath Casey, vividly conveys the anguish of a mother forced to watch her son repeat the mistakes of his father. Meanwhile, Becca Harper’s Reecey is all swaggering aggression and brash, in-your-face confrontationality.

The second half of the play introduces hard-nosed upmarket property developer Mr Pressman, played to perfection by Beth Hunt. The slick superiority of Pressman, coupled with his callous heartlessness, brings a chilling effect to every scene he’s in. 

Even fleeting performances leave an impression. Mr Pressman’s receptionist, for instance, subtly differentiates between the two timelines in the contrasting ways she treats suited businessman Joe and offender Joe – a small but highly effective detail.

One of the production’s most emotionally compelling devices is the frequent presence of Joe’s father (Tristan Hood), who silently observes events unfolding onstage. His presence becomes a powerful reminder that Joe’s choices are inseparable from the shame and insecurity inherited from his father’s failures. Running through the musical is a compelling paradox: Joe is driven to escape the humiliation associated with his father, yet in trying so desperately not to become him, he gradually follows the same path.

The production reaches its emotional peak in the final stages of the narrative. Standing silently at his mother’s funeral, Innes reveals a young man overwhelmed by guilt and regret. His carefully constructed corporate confidence drains away; his shoulders sag, and what remains is not a successful businessman but a frightened young man who has lost sight of himself. It is one of the production’s most devastating scenes.

The musical is full of extravagant, exuberantly choreographed set pieces – Joe’s last day of school and Joe and Sarah’s paradise wedding – during which one can only marvel at the complex dance sequences performed by the ensemble. Yet my one reservation is that these dazzling sequences occasionally threaten to overshadow the play’s deeper emotional core: its exploration of grief, love, family, coming-of-age, and difficult decisions.As the play drew to a close, the most powerful element of the play for me was its exploration of a young man’s crippling insecurity. Beneath Joe’s veneer of confidence is simply a terrified 16-year-old boy trying desperately to do the right thing without the guidance of a father. Our House ultimately becomes not just a story about crime or morality, but about the vulnerability of growing up and the frightening uncertainty of trying to decide who you are.

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.

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