Sunday 27th July 2025
Blog Page 315

Pens, Paper, and Panic: On adjusting to university life with OCD

CW: anxiety, obsessive compulsive disorder (OCD)

Today, I checked to see if I’d locked my bedroom door five times before heading over to the library. I walked down the stairs and was sure not to step on any cracks or gaps in the pavement on my way over. For good luck in writing my first essay at Oxford, I tapped my temple five times with my index finger. 

At the age of 13, after months of waiting, I was diagnosed with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, or OCD, as it is commonly abbreviated. Having originally been referred due to my experiencing tics, which I would later find out were a symptom of my OCD, I was surprised when I found out that the behaviours I had exhibited for my whole life were actually conducive to this disorder. It’s odd to hear that your own personal ‘normal’ isn’t actually ‘normal’ to everyone else; an entire reshaping of my reality and how I had perceived myself occurred in an hour-long hospital appointment. Especially groundbreaking to me was the reconsideration of how I perceived time and numbers; having to perform certain acts at intervals of five and ten minutes for fear of something dreadful happening if I were to be even a minute out was just as much a manifestation of my condition as washing my hands sixty to one hundred times a day was. But at the time, I didn’t consider that either were out of the norm.

Since my diagnosis, I’ve learned a lot about myself and about OCD. It’s not been a matter of learning to live with it, but rather understanding how it is a part of myself and how I can harness it for good. After all, the doctor who diagnosed me told me that I could make my perfectionism and pedantic nature that comes from my OCD an asset for my work, encouraging me to become a surgeon so I could use my precision, which I chose to disregard in studying a humanities degree. Some of my symptoms have lessened over time, for example, though I still struggle with germs and dirt, exposure therapy helped me to reduce the amount of times I compulsively wash my hands in a day, and similarly I can cope with eating from a table rather than having to hold a plate in my hand. 

However, the onset of the COVID-19 pandemic, for myself and many individuals who live with OCD, led to the arising of new compulsions and the worsening of certain existing ones. For example, I found that my hand washing compulsion once again took hold; including the use of hand sanitizer, I probably got back to the levels of handwashing I was exhibiting when I was younger and my OCD was completely untreated. I’m also not alone in this: a US study conducted into the impact of COVID-19 on individuals with OCD, published in November 2020, found that 72% of individuals with OCD that participated in the study reported an ‘increase in OCD’, denoted as the worsening of compulsions, greater severity of OCD symptoms and the arising of new compulsions. Therefore, the combined shift that the pandemic and coming to university is something that I believe has impacted me, as an individual with OCD, in an incredibly unique and at times immensely difficult manner.

I have always struggled to deal with change, as my condition has meant that I rely on having control over my surroundings and what I encounter for my stability. Thus, experiencing possibly the greatest shift I have ever had to deal with in my life has really caused me to evaluate how my OCD impacts not just me personally, but now my life at university and how the next three years will pan out in terms of my academic study. How do I navigate a post-COVID world and the hygiene-related compulsions that I developed due to the pandemic, and how will these impact my experience of university life? How will my perfectionistic tendencies, arising from an OCD-induced deathly fear of failure, interact with my academics?

Through this column, I hope that I provide an insight into life at Oxford whilst coping with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, and document my experiences of my first term in this situation. Understanding the issues surrounding the interaction of mental health conditions and academic study is a vital first step towards improving provisions for those who live with these in their day to day lives.

Image: Jesper Sehested Pluslexia.com/CC BY 2.0 via flickr.com

Arrogant, Offensive, Truth Twisters: The Catastrophic Failings of British Policing

CW: Police Brutality, Sexual Violence, Racism, Homophobia 

On 9th March 2021, Britain shuddered as a morbid, harrowing story flooded news and social media. Kent Police had arrested Wayne Couzens, a serving Metropolitan Police Officer, on suspicion of the kidnapping of Sarah Everard, a 33-year-old marketing executive from South London. Everard had been reported missing since 4th March 2021, and her remains were found the day after Couzens’  arrest in a builder’s bag in Hoads Wood, Kent. Nationwide vigils in memory of Everard took place on the 13th March, against the wishes of police chiefs and incumbent Home Secretary Priti Patel, citing the COVID-19 risk as the reason. Small vigils nevertheless went ahead, notably one in Clapham Common that was attended by hundreds, including representatives of the organisations Sisters Uncut and Reclaim the Streets. This particular vigil soon gained notoriety as footage emerged of the Metropolitan Police attempting to break up the crowd. In particular, a photo of attendee Patsy Stevenson being handcuffed on the ground of the bandstand went viral and soon became a defining symbol of Everard’s case. 

Months later, on 30th September 2021, Couzens was handed a whole life sentence for the kidnap, rape and murder. The trial found that Couzens had kidnapped Everard by falsely arresting her under the pretence of breaching COVID-19 guidelines, before handcuffing and abducting her.

The motto ‘serve and protect’ and some variant thereof has historically been presented as encompassing the ethos of the police. It makes sense: the police are supposedly in existence for that very reason. Yet I urge you to pause and reflect on the events just described: at what point, if at all, did the police ‘serve and protect?.’ The nauseating antithesis is, unfortunately, true. A woman was brutally murdered by a serving officer in Britain’s largest and most prestigious police force, whose modus operandi involved abusing his position of power, using a false arrest tactic. Then, when British women, once again made to feel unsafe on the streets of the towns and cities they call home, attempted to grieve and seek solidarity, the very organisation at the root of their anxiety swept in and bulldozed them down in an authoritarian flare. From this one tragedy alone, a simple fact can be ascertained. Britain’s police are fundamentally failing their citizens, and that must change.

When having any conversation about the politics of the police and its reform, one cannot ignore history. As a public body, arguably one of the most powerful and respected in Westminster, it is just as important to look outside of the police at the political, social and economic factors influencing decisions, as it is to look at internal decisions and the actions of certain units and officers. When such history is examined, it becomes clear that many groups have been historically and repeatedly failed by Britain’s police systems, and one doesn’t have to look that far. 

Take, for example, Northern Ireland- arguably nowhere demonstrates better the damaging consequences of a discriminatory police force protected by the incumbent political system. Since the island’s partition in 1920, a significant chunk of Northern Ireland’s policing was left to the quasi-military Ulster Special Constabulary (USC), known colloquially as the ‘B-Specials’, a force that was almost exclusively Ulster Protestant and in fact carried out several revenge killings against Catholic citizens during the 1920-22 unrest. When the USC was disbanded and its functions merged into those of the Royal Ulster Constabulary (RUC), these problems did not go away- yet again the force remained majority Protestant and saw accusations of police brutality, sectarianism and collusion with loyalist paramilitaries, by the Catholic minority. For a large chunk of modern British history, a significant ethno-religious group was left largely without protection from the organisation established to do so.

In the wake of the murder of George Floyd in Minneapolis in May 2020, the Western world ignited in a spur of protests, conversations and activism regarding police brutality and race. Once again turning to history, we can see that in the UK, racial and ethnic minority groups have borne the brunt of the police’s institutional failings and systemic prejudices, despite the assertions of those like Kemi Badenoch to the contrary. There have been several instances of black and mixed race men dying in British police custody: Colin Roach (1983), Leon Patterson (1992), Oluwashijibomi (Shiji) Lapite (1994), Christopher Alder (1998), Sean Rigg (2008), Edson da Costa and Rashan Charles (2017). Black people only comprise 3% of the UK population, yet account for 8% of all deaths in police custody. And, like with the Clapham Common vigil, discriminatory attitudes are so entrenched that forces respond in grossly disproportionate ways to calls for citizens from change. In 1979, Blair Peach was fatally assaulted by an officer of the Special Patrol Group (SPG) during an anti-racism demonstration in London. An investigation into the SPG found that they were in possession of a cache of unauthorised weapons.

It is truly a dire state of affairs where the very organisation established to ensure security and peace for all is failing so catastrophically, that not only is it simply not doing its job, but is instead actively contravening the basic principles of its very existence by posing an active and ongoing threat to the safety and wellbeing of various groups from around the UK. This conversation must be put into a careful context. By no means, of course, is this to say that every serving police officer in the UK, past and present, is a bad person. Many indeed join the police force since they see it as the best way to serve their country by protecting citizens from a host of abhorrent crimes. Nevertheless, even in the wake of cuts, the police remain one of the most powerful public bodies in the UK: the powers of arrest, i.e. depriving a person wholly of their civil liberties, is one of many reasons why the organisation must attract a higher level of accountability. The fact that officers openly sporting racist, sexist and homophobic attitudes are admitted to forces in the first place, and many of these are not dealt with until too late, represents an unforgiveable negligence on behalf of the police, that as aforementioned contravenes their very raison d’être. Everard’s murder has reignited a long running, necessary national conversation, about how the police as an institution acts as a breeding ground for a culture of discrimination, where such views are protected under the guise of the institution’s status[1].

Reform of the police is a controversial subject in British politics- not quite as electrically discussed as our American counterparts, but nonetheless a crucial one, and one that must be had whilst the incumbent government seeks to protect police forces at all costs[2].

Everard’s horrific murder leaves policy makers with a vital question: if large swathes of the public do not feel safe or able to trust the institution whose very existence is ensuring citizens’ security in the first place, how can that organisation continue to exist in its current form?

Image: TheOtherKev via pixabay

Brain Freeze: On learning how to live again

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CW – Cancer, surgery

Over the next few weeks, I want to write about the singular experience of being diagnosed with and getting rid of a tumour in my brain. Readjusting to the world after cancer is a complicated process, one which I will try to put into words in this column.

It was around this time two years ago that I got told about a lump that was not so tenderly nestled at the back of my brain, somewhere between my posterior fossa and my fourth ventricle. An optician told me to go to A&E after it winked at her when she was looking behind my eyes, trying to work out why I’d been seeing double for the past few weeks. I will never forget that moment, chiefly because my immediate response to being told to run to the John Radcliffe Ophthalmology Department was – “I’m going to miss my tutorial!” Yeah. None of us think that we’re stereotypical Oxford students until we come out with a gem like that in the face of brain cancer.

The next 8 months were comprised of the NHS getting rid of the lump. It involved a coordinated team, deft hands, and high-tech technology. It could very well be compared to bomb defusal – if they cut open bombs three times for a total of over 24 hours and then beam them with protons travelling at 60% the speed of light over the course of 56 sessions, that is. My body did not really belong to me for those 8 months. It was the property of surgeons, oncologists, and nurses – a lot of the time I couldn’t shift in bed or go to the toilet unless someone switched off a drain that was buried in my skull. It was no one’s fault, of course. But when you’re an ill person, a lot of the time you have to let someone else be in the driver’s seat. It was weird to know that despite having inhabited my body for 19 years, a group of strangers now knew it better because it had become dysfunctional. 

Words can’t really describe the intensity of those few months – they chewed me up, tearing at every millimetre of my soul. Then the hungry wolf that is cancer spat me out at the end of it. I was free of the lump. I remember what the (amazing) oncologist at the Christie Proton Beam Therapy Centre said to me after my last session:

“Go and live your life now.”

Okay.

I’m trying to do that now. Live my life. But entering the world again post-cancer feels like coming out of a dark room into the sunlight. Disoriented, blinking, fumbling for direction. Except I’m the only one who finds it hard to adjust to the light. People function around me. And they don’t just function – they thrive. And I try so hard to thrive and grow, but the memory of the tumour has me pinned down.

Friends tell me about their relationship issues.

Yeah, but I had a brain tumour.

I get invited on nights out and told to enjoy myself.

Yeah, but I had a brain tumour.

People relate to each other easily and connect quickly.

Yeah. But I had a brain tumour.

When my head was opened up and they spend hours removing the lump they didn’t just remove the cancerous cells. It was like they let my essence escape, my personhood. So, I’m trying to find it again, piece myself together. I want to know what it’s like to be a person again, because it feels like I’ve forgotten. And I really can’t wait to learn how to exist again.

Auntythetical: On dreams and realities of ‘return’

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20 minutes and 57 seconds. That’s the duration of the most recent voice recording I’ve made of my father trashing my choice of degree (Classics with Sanskrit). There are so many of these recordings that I’ve made a special folder dedicated to them, to show to my relatives when they try to assure me that he would never actually say these things.

Baba- whose parents were born in India- didn’t actually know what Sanskrit was when I first told him, so on numerous occasions has attempted to persuade me to take a modern language rather than Latin or some other “unmarketable” dialect. Something like German or Mandarin, something that I can use in the world of business or law- two fields that he somehow believes I can simultaneously enter post-Oxford. Two fields which I might have implied I would enter willingly were he to allow me to study Classics.

This inevitably leads to the question: ‘what are your plans after university?’ My father asks this with both frustration and glee, knowing what I’m about to say yet hoping I’ve changed my aims. My response that “I want to work in Pakistan on heritage conservation projects” is met with “this isn’t feasible, beta”, and honestly, he might be right.

When I was younger, I used to entertain these fantasies about me and my cousins living in Karachi all together, the way our parents’ generation did. The best memories of my childhood were spent in the marble-floored rooms of my grandfather’s house in Karachi, cultivating my obsession with Kanye’s ‘Graduation’; driving through gulleys looking at the crumbling billboards advertising Pakola; and most of all, being with my family.

I had no reason to think that this should end, not until my bhai moved to England to get a job. Following him, various other cousins began to migrate to the UK and beyond, leaving the house more desolate than I had ever known. It feels like a personal tragedy to see the plaster on the walls cracking and falling away, quickly as have the years for my Phophas and Khalas. As I see them age and grow weaker, my potentially-selfish worry grows: who will be left for me to return to? I don’t think it’s uncommon for much of the desi diaspora, whose links to the homeland can be negotiated through family or other indirect means, to worry that our identities might become estranged from their roots.

I don’t like the way that my father’s tone matches that of my relatives when they disparage their home. The fuel I use for nostalgia- from the welcoming sound of the Azaan to the softness of my Phopho’s hand on my head, and her tears when I leave- cannot surmount my guilt in knowing that it is not me but them who lay a claim to that country. A guilt that arises from the fact that even their most cynical feelings towards that country are more valid than my kindest fantasies. My yearning to belong to the land in the way they do sounds as shallow as clichés about mango trees and sweltering heat.

It’s the hardest truth to accept that I might not have anything to ‘return’ to, because ‘returning’ requires that the home I have there be more than just a ghost made of memories.

More than this, however, is the thought that I might not be able to build a life from the foundations laid by my ancestors. Tasks that might be achieved with one phone call here require a plethora of connections to bypass the minefields of negligence and political complexity (just watch 10 minutes of Geo News and this will become evident).

Life there is hard, harder than I knew when I was too young to savour its apparent simplicity.

A time when my biggest irks with the place were cockroaches in the toilet or getting salmonella from tela-wala ice cream.

So, as my elderly relatives get older and my network there shrinks, my ability to live in Pakistan decreases. But not my desire.

Despite the possibility of the grass being greener on the other side of Eurasia, being there or even just-not-here feels more worthwhile. As impossible as it is to do the most basic of things in Pakistan, life in Britain feels no less dysfunctional. Plain to see are the endless tiers of bureaucracy and kafkaesque administration. When we live in abundance but with a deficit of time, things lose their sentimental value; the pleasure one might seek in cooking or seeing family is replaced by quick fixes and duty-driven decisions. I don’t want to be compelled to climb the corporate ladder and join the rat race. I want to go outside and be met with a crowded, odorous, but familiar reflection of the images I keep in my mind, where I can be soothed by the sound of my mother’s language wherever I go.

I want that to be my home, even though I’m not sure how that could be.

Day 1 – Au Paris

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The journey has begun!

London St Pancras – Paris (Gare du Nord): Eurostar. Always a middle-class delight: large, comfy and clean. Watched some Netflix. Sought a train-themed film and found the misjudged Unstoppable starring one of the many Chrises of modern Hollywood. This was on recommendation from Popular Mechanics (an online magazine whose issues are released at the dizzying rate of 6 per year in order to satiate the tastes of the “modern man”, brimming with heady topics such as “Why This Guy Stacked Up 42 Broken PlayStation 4s” all the way to “4 Things to Look For in an Awesome Duffle Bag” – one of which I imagine must be capacity to fit 42 PS4s.

Chilled under the Channel as I watched Chris Pine attempt to stop a hurtling train from disaster. Ate some food. It was an easy start to what I’m sure will be the chaotic marathon of this journey. But I guess the trick with most marathons is to pace yourself (not that I really know from experience – even at primary school the only race I was allowed to attempt on sports day was the novelty obstacle course in which the ‘hurdles’ were things like ‘put on a pair of gloves’ or ‘throw a wellie’ – I can still put on a full hat/scarf/glove look in under 2 seconds).

Paris: Sacré-Cœur! It was only after capturing a full double-page spread of photos that I saw the ‘no photographiesign but of course the IG story was already up. I imagined myself chased through the streets of Paris, Tom Hanks in Da Vinci Code-style, as the secret Church fraternity hounds me chanting “#blessed #AuParis”. Though I doubt any of my 5 followers would turn me in and betray me (despite what my mother says about her sister-in-law). So as a pre-emptory act of defiance, I took a photo of the ‘no photographie sign itself.

A lovely view of Paris from the outside of the Church, sound-tracked by the beats pumping out of the boom-box speakers of the wandering sellers, asking if we wanted a ‘lock for love’ to cuff to the iron railing….attaching something concrete to the irrevocably abstract (I will not call him) both likely however transient to rust (I will not) and decay (I will not). (Maybe I should buy him a duffle bag?)

Food: Wine, crepes, and baguettes. I have never been to the real Paris before. I just want to soak up its culture. My French is laughably poor but it’s technically the only other language other than English I speak (until someone becomes the bigger man and makes drunken sign language across the nightclub floor an official dialect). Something about being in a country with the challenge of functioning alone within it – not as a tourist – is so exhilarating. Overall I’m realising what I am seeking, other than time with my friends, is an atmosphere to thrill and inspire me.

Incidentally I have been toying with a thought all day: those who want to find themselves often spend a lot of time trying to get lost. I am not sure if I’m quite lost enough yet (google maps and all) but I guess I will endeavour to eventually to be found. If all else fails, I can always just go and stack 42 broken PS4s. 

The Watched Pot: On the joys of truffle hunting

Every time you go to the supermarket, open a cookbook or go on social media, you are absorbing contemporary food culture and it’s influencing the way you eat. Remember the dark days of ‘clean eating’, juice pulp crackers and spirulina? Remember those episodes of MasterChef where suddenly everyone was talking about ‘spherification’ because one guy from El Bulli was doing it? Whether we like it or not, the food we choose to put into our bodies is, much like Andy’s cerulean blue sweater in The Devil Wears Prada, a result of decisions and forecasts which we’ll probably never see.

Few ingredients stand the test of time as steadfastly as truffles. When my 74-year-old, ‘I’m-not-a-chef-I’m-a-cook’ dad invited me to see a critically acclaimed documentary on the subject, I buckled in for what I thought would be an hour and a half long hagiographic portrait of what is, in my opinion, an overblown ingredient. I could not have been more wrong about The Truffle Hunters. What directors Gregory Kershaw and Michael Dweck have created is quite simply a work of art.

The film resolutely refuses to focus on the commodity at the centre of the industry it portrays, instead opting to introduce the men (and more importantly the dogs) who are responsible for harvesting the White Alba truffles in the Piedmont hills in Northern Italy. The standout images of food in the film are not the truffles themselves, but the bank of huge, sun-saturated tomatoes being washed by Carlo and his wife, and the bowl of soup shared by an old man and his dog, Birbetta. There are deliciously unsubtle comparisons between the pastoral lives of the truffle hunters and the dealers higher up the supply chain who are up late into the night sourcing and selling (but never finding time to eat) the truffles they base their careers around.

Along with the almost impossibly beautiful cinematography and the sight of an 88-year-old man singing happy birthday to his dog, what stayed with the me the most in the days following the screening was the question of how a gnarled, muddy fungus comes to be so insanely valuable. What we’re usually told is that a) truffles are insanely good (something to do with umami and pheromones?) and b) they’re impossible to farm, difficult to gather and therefore rare and subsequently valuable. But who decides that?

In the documentary, the supplier buys truffles for €400-500 and sells them on to restaurants and private buyers for €4,000-5,000. Does he really need to do that to survive financially? The whole thing feels a bit exploitative. Food producers being fairly compensated for their produce is an issue which permeates all areas of food consumption from home cooking to fine dining and fast food. It was striking to me that even in the exorbitantly privileged world of truffle consumption, the communities responsible for the foundations of the industry still aren’t compensated proportionately for their labour.

In the mid-2000s, the New Nordic movement sought to challenge the then understanding of ‘good food’ as classical, labour-intensive French cooking instead offering simply prepared, fresh and local ingredients. Despite the influence of restaurants like Noma in Copenhagen (the birthplace of New Nordic cuisine and World’s Best Restaurant four years running), a couple of episodes of Chef’s Table is enough to remind you that a lot of fine dining in the last two decades is more about theatre and spectacle than it is about the food itself, let alone where it’s come from.

Hysterical Histories: Horrid Henry VI

October 2021 will mark the 550th anniversary of one of the most bizarre, yet relatively unknown, events in human history: the restoration of Henry VI upon the throne of England. Henry, it must be said, was a king of records. Unfortunately for him, as the son of the great Henry V – Shakespeare’s heroic warrior and victor at Agincourt – everyone expected the young king to follow in his father’s footsteps. The results were instead far from similar, and it became apparent that Henry was as fit for government as a fish is for the desert. Indeed, history will remember Henry VI as the sole monarch who got deposed twice. He did hold another record, that of being the only King of England to be crowned King of France, yet he succeeded in making that record redundant by losing France too!

Generations of historians have studied the failure of Henry VI’s reign. Some refer to him as an ‘imbecile’, an ‘inane’ king, or an ‘idiot’. In other words, a crowned cabbage could have done less damage to English society than Henry VI. Henry was severely ill and this reveals a lot about medieval government – the king’s frequent problems could in fact halt the entire administrative structure. The results were such that the kingdom was taken over by factionalism and the country slowly descended into the chaos we now call the Wars of the Roses. Far from being a simple Shakespearean clash between the Houses of York and Lancaster, the wars actually were the result of a real breakdown in central government.

It appears Henry inherited this illness from his maternal grandfather Charles VI of France. Contemporaries made fun of Charles, remarking that the king would bark like a dog or not move for fear of shattering, as he thought he was made of glass. The results of this genetic crossing of the Channel were, however, very profound. Henry’s inability to perform the essential functions of kingship meant that his government witnessed an isolation of England’s allies, pushing them into new alliances with the French. This ultimately led to the English defeat in the Hundred Years War by 1453. His hapless behaviour created a vacuum for powerful factions to compete and struggle, ultimately unleashing into the Wars of the Roses. In the process Henry would lose France once, whilst in England he was deposed, then reinstated, and then killed. As if the story was not already tragic enough, everyone in England knew that Henry was useless as King. The Milanese ambassador wrote that England would be ‘settled and quiet’ once Henry was removed, whilst a rebel manifesto argued that because of the king’s inaptitude ‘his merchandise is lost, his common people are destroyed, the sea is lost, France is lost’! My personal favourite was from a man accused of insulting the king in a small village in Sussex, who allegedly exclaimed that the ‘King is a natural fool’. Hysterically tragic, but true. 

Will Neill’s Real Deal: Tory Conference and the Politics of Inhumanity

Week one of Michaelmas term, and Freshers Flu has swept through Oxford like a tsunami. Hacking coughs, snotty noses, and cold sweats are currently in vogue. And after a week of bucking the trend, I have finally succumbed to the sickness; spending my weekend limping around Oxford, crawling through every Tesco for that rare pack of Lemsip. I have also enjoyed a bout of nonsensical fever dreams. But then again, even my psychedelic visions are nothing in comparison to the fantasy land that our Prime Minister is inhabiting: a Cloud Bojo Land. Britain is facing a gas crisis, a cost of living crisis, an unravelling Union, a struggling healthcare system, and a cut to universal credit that could send millions into poverty – this is a time of a self-inflicted national crisis on several fronts, yet our leader has a grin wider than the Cheshire Cat. 

The political highlight of the week was the Conservative Party Conference in Manchester: an Eyes Wide Shut-esque masquerade for the socially repressed. The conference was a four-day bonanza of half-empty auditoriums, dull panels, tired conference speeches, and endless soundbites. Get Brexit Done, Levelling Up Britain, Build Back Better, all repeated literally ad nauseam. When asked what ‘Levelling Up’ meant, the Secretary of State for Levelling Up Michael Gove stated that it was about allowing everyone to have ‘the best chance to choose their own future… own their own home… and live their best life’. Equally illuminating was Boris Johnson’s statement that Levelling Up meant ‘…offering hope and opportunity to those areas that have felt left behind’. I always thought you couldn’t build government policy around inspirational quotes from a teenager’s Tumblr account; the Conservatives have proved me wrong. 

Boris Johnson was front and centre at the conference, with the Tory leader’s keynote speech being the main event. Johnson’s speech was hyped up as the opportunity to finally sketch out the details of his plans to Build Back Better, to add some meat to the bones of his undercooked domestic policy. In reality, the speech operated more like a stand-up comedy show at Butlin’s. Boris made zany puns, shouting that Britain needed to ‘Build Back Burger’ and laughing at Michael Gove’s, or ‘Jon Bon Govi’s,’ night clubbing in Aberdeen. This was not a serious speech by a serious leader, but a sideshow distraction from the economic and social crises that are striking Britain. In an interview with the BBC, Johnson stated that he was ‘not worried’ about labour shortages, inflation, or the stresses on supply changes. This was all part of the ‘new economic model’ – whatever that means. Keir Starmer referred to Johnson as ‘trivial’ and a ‘showman’ in Brighton last week, the Prime Minister did everything in his power at the conference to prove Starmer right. 

What is unsurprising but still unnerving about Johnson’s speech was the number of blatant lies and falsities. Johnson claimed that the government had done ’sixty-eight free-trade deals’ when in reality almost all of these were existing rollover deals from within the EU. He claimed that ‘we have seen off the European Super League’, although this again had nothing to do with the EU. He similarly stated that ‘we are doing at least eight freeports’ despite the fact that Britain had freeports when it was an EU member. But why let the pesky truth get in the way? Most unbelievably, Johnson claimed that just as he ‘got Brexit done’, his government ‘…is going to get social care done’, as if solving the deep-rooted problems within our nation’s healthcare system was as easy as flipping a switch. Johnson has an eighty-seat majority and a ten-point lead in the polls, the Tories have not delivered and they don’t need to. Johnson promised to fix the ‘broken model’ of the past, without a hint of irony that this model was constructed by his own party.

Possibly the most shameless incident was Work and Pensions Secretary Therese Coffey being caught singing ‘I’ve Had The Time of My Life’ at the conference karaoke. Politicians are human beings, and of course are allowed to have fun. But on the early Wednesday morning as Coffey was boogieing, her Department had closed the £20 uplift on Universal Credit, making 5.8 million people £1000 worse off every year in a decision described as the ‘biggest overnight welfare cut since the Second World War’. Coffey’s decision to dance to such a jovial tune after making such a horrific cut might appear to be bad optics, but optics don’t matter anymore. This is a government that has the survival instincts of a cockroach in a nuclear apocalypse: COVID, austerity, Brexit — all great national crises that the Tories have not only seen off but come out electorally stronger

On July 64 AD, a fire spread in Rome which ultimately burnt down most of the city and left half of the residents homeless. Emperor Nero famously ‘fiddled while Rome burned’, playing calming music and ignoring the flames engulfing his city. Is this a pretentious anecdote? Yes. But the point is that right now we have a Prime Minister sticking his fingers in his ears and his tongue out his mouth, lollygagging as this country falls apart. This country is desperately lacking in leadership that is seriously prepared to respond to the growing crisis and not divert, dance and dither. ‘Crisis, what crisis’: the three words that Prime Minister Jim Callaghan was thought to have said, and served as the epitaph for the ruling Labour government. The Tories may be having the time of their lives, but their luck will run out eventually. 

Image credit: Cheffey via Wikimedia Commons (CC BY-SA 4.0).

‘I’ve read the secret, I know the meaning’: When rap and classical literature meet

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What do Charles Dickens, Alice in Wonderland and Kilburn-bred rapper M Huncho have in common? Quite a lot, as it happens. Two of the most popular rap songs of the last month, M Huncho and Unknown T’s ‘Wonderland’ and Arrdee’s ‘Oliver Twist’, feature famous works of classic literature as their titles and inspiration. It’s a fact that might surprise readers and listeners. Surely Lewis Carrol’s hallucinogenic Wonderland and Dickens’ Victorian slums are a world away from contemporary British rap?


But ‘Wonderland’ and ‘Oliver Twist’ cement a far stronger connection between literature and rap than either discipline has been given credit for. Cultural purists have always struggled with the idea that song lyrics can be considered literary forms equal to novels or poetry, as exemplified in the public outcry against Bob Dylan winning the Nobel Prize for Literature in 2016. What critics often fail to understand is that it is language at the heart of both of these art forms, the thing that connects and unites these two seemingly dissimilar practises.


The resistance to rap as an object of literary analysis from within the traditional cultural establishment is a difficult one to unpack. As well as a fear of non-established forms of literature, there is doubtless an element of racial and social prejudice that obstructs rap becoming as central to culture as it should be. The use of non-standard English in rap lyrics, as well as its reputation as a misogynistic and violent music genre, alienates the traditionally white world of literary criticism. If Dylan’s famous and traditionally ‘poetic’ language causes such a stir within traditional literary circles, what chance do the lyrics of an 18-year-old kid from Brighton have?


The fear of popular culture integrating into so-called ‘high culture’ is, of course, totally ironic, given that contemporary critics rarely have a good view of which books will endure in popularity and which will not. For example, Alice in Wonderland failed to be named in an 1888 poll of the publishing season’s most popular children’s stories, despite its popularity with adults and children alike. Similarly, the original Oliver Twist was not published by a prestige print house but, like most of Dickens’ novels, serialized in the popular magazine Bentley’s Miscellany from 1837 to 1839. Two books which had no place in higher literary circles of the period have become two of the most famous and popular books ever written, both with numerous important manifestations in contemporary culture of which Arrdee and M Huncho’s music are only recent additions. What these songs represent is the merging of popular culture and traditional culture that questions the very foundations of these arbitrary terms and encourages the validation of both as legitimate culture.


In a recent interview, Arrdee took on a giant of the culture establishment: Capital Xtra’s Classical Kyle. The classical saxophonist has interviewed some of the biggest rappers for Capital Xtra’s Youtube series, but the look of pure joy on his face as the name of Ardee’s single is revealed to him—”Dickensian!”- is unparalleled. “That’s the whole concept of the song”, Ardee replies coolly. Although Classical Kyle appreciates the classical violin that echoes through the song, the language gap between the two musicians makes for embarrassing viewing. “I don’t think that Charles Dickens used the words ‘take the piss’” he tells Ardee primly, before quizzing him on the meaning of lyrics such as “thot” and “Adeola”. Is this interaction between popular culture and traditional culture a step in the right direction, or does it simply illustrate the impenetrable gap between them?


Unlike Classical Kyle, I think that ‘Oliver Twist’ is a masterful lyrical adaptation of Dickens’ original. The whispered “gimme some more” refrain that seems to haunt the song like a ghostly Miss Havisham along with the strains of the classical violin echo not only Dickens’ book but also Carol Reed’s 1968 musical adaptation and its subsequent stage production in a way that cleverly fits the song into a long line of successful Dickensian adaptations. Ardee clearly sees himself as a modern-day Oliver Twist, having “taken risks to get to this sitch”, weaving Dickens into the classic rap narrative of ‘nothing to everything’. However, it’s also a universal theme that has captured the attention of readers, viewers and listeners for centuries, as Ardee notes in his classical Kyle interview: “We always want more- us as humans, we all want more”. If Dickens’ Oliver Twist is a story of wanting the bare minimum—food, a home, a family—Ardee won’t stop there. “You want more you don’t get their pleading, bruv, fight for your cause kicking and screaming” he tells listeners. How would Dickens’ original have been different if Oliver Twist had kicked and screamed, instead of pleaded? This is an Oliver Twist reimagined as a tale of anger and resistance.


Ardee and Dickens’s concern with poverty and social justice links book and song together even more closely. Dickens would famously walk the streets of London’s East End for hours, observing the extremes of Victorian poverty and spinning some of his greatest characters out of it. Oliver Twist is one of his most politically damning novels, exploring the vicious cycle of poverty through Oliver’s tragic narrative and also that of Nancy, forced into a life of prostitution and domestic abuse. Ardee restages this exploration of poverty in his native Brighton: “Cos I come from the shore, but the poor part, all you see is crackheads fiendin”. For those who think Brighton is all vintage shops and pebble beaches, Ardee reveals its seedy underworld in a way parallel to Dickens. It’s a theme that preoccupies much of his music, including his other major single 6am in Brighton. Just like how Dickens’ Oliver Twist is an irrevocably London tale, Ardee places an ungentrified Brighton at the heart of his music, using it to explore themes of poverty and drug addiction that perhaps exemplify how little society has changed since Dickens’ era.


As well as adapting Dickens’ themes for his own purposes, Ardee’s ‘Oliver Twist’ shows a real interest in literacy as a concept central to rap. “I’ve read the secret/ I know the meaning” he claims in the song’s lyrics, exerting a power over language that is key to his success. What is the ‘secret’ he has read? Is it Dickens’ Oliver Twist, which he has understood in ways that other readers can’t? Or is it something else? The line seems to recall Saussure’s system of semiotics, in which the sign is divided into the signifier (‘sound-image’) and the signified (‘concept’). Ardee has seen the sound-image and grasped the concept in a manner out of reach to those around him. This self-conscious literariness is even more evident in M Huncho and Unknown T’s ‘Wonderland’. Rather than referring to Lewis Carrol’s classic directly (although its heady, hallucinogenic atmosphere does recall the book itself), the song is centred around the independent magazine Wonderland in which M Huncho was a cover star in 2021. Journalism, classical literature and popular music thus converge in an explosion of language.


The song is not just a reference to M Huncho’s presence in established literary culture, however, but a deeply ironic satire of standard and nonstandard language. The song’s refrain—”I took some pics for a magazine, Wonderland/With an extended clip in the magazine” – plays on the meaning of ‘magazine’, a slang term for a container used for holding rounds of ammunition. High culture is juxtaposed with the violent, messy reality of the streets. It’s an in-joke that runs not only throughout the song but also in Suave’s music video, which switches trippily between gothic dining rooms, magical woodland spaces and west London driveways, blending fairy-tale and reality together. Similarly, the lyrics play on Carrol’s cultural symbolism: “How can I trip ’bout a bitch that I never had?/She must think I’m living in Wonderland”. Just as Carrol’s Wonderland is an alternate reality where the unexpected always happens, the song establishes a ‘wonderland’ where its singers are in love, as opposed to the commitment-phobic and violent world that they actually inhabit. It’s a masterful inversion of Alice in Wonderland’s traditional connotations, once again demonstrating how classical literature can permeate popular culture in unexpected and innovative ways.


If acolytes of ‘high culture’ and traditional literary criticism are prepared to broaden their horizons to popular culture, then rap is a genre that can enrich our understanding of classic literature and language itself. Through its literary self-consciousness and reinvention of established themes, songs like ‘Oliver Twist’ and ‘Wonderland’ bring Dickens and Carrol’s works firmly into the 21st century and ensure the endurance of their literary legacies in a myriad of unexpected ways.

Image Credit: Aleksandra Pluta.

Behind the Screens: Power, Sex, and the Male Gaze in Cinematography

Content warning: rape and sexual assault, violence and death

Unlike life, when we watch a film, we have no choice in how we view it. A film’s camerawork makes that decision for us and shows us only the things it wants us to see – this idea is fundamental to any film with a mystery aspect. In this way, the camera is used much like tenses in literature; its manipulation is a way to connect readers to a story and characters and to withhold information for the sake of a plot. What makes the camera truly important, however, is the way in which it influences an audience’s perception of an event by presenting it in different ways. Finding out how precisely we, the audience, are being manipulated can help us understand a film more deeply, in particular the biases it may possess.

First, let’s look at how the camera portrays the interaction between Beth and Allston in episode six of The Queen’s Gambit; in it, we can follow their argument’s dynamic by simply observing how the camera moves. The camera starts still on both Beth and Allston. As Allston becomes more involved and emotional in the debate, the camera zooms into him, to heighten the agitation and focus on his every twitch and gulp. The camera on Beth, who remains calm, remains still to reflect this. Then as Beth becomes annoyed, the camera starts to move down on her and up on Allston. Thus, emotionally and literally (with the camera), Beth appears to look down upon Allston, and he is therefore framed as weak to the audience. It seems without any dialogue, a viewer understands the scene by the camera’s movements alone, and all together, a viewer feels and lives the argument far more vividly.

Cinematography can transform the audience’s relationship with a character, especially if it helps immerse into their narrative and experience. 1917 was famously shot to look like one long take (it wasn’t actually filmed in ‘one-shot’ of course, and it’s a fun exercise to spot where exactly they hid the cuts). The relentless camera gives the audience no moment to relax, just like soldier Will who the camera follows. There is no respite from the tension created, no ability to escape the character’s struggles and battles with the harsh reality of World War 1, which both wears the audience out and attaches them more solidly to Will and his life. His goal becomes the entire movie. Through perspective, the camera forces a very literal simulation of walking in someone else’s shoes.

In Jojo Rabbit, when Jojo discovers his mother has been hanged, the camera never leaves Jojo’s eye line. Instead of making the scene grotesque and shocking by showing the body, audiences are forced to see it from Jojo’s perspective – innocent and devasted at the loss of his mother. We focus on the reaction of Jojo and his attempt (and failure) at tying his mother’s shoelaces, a metaphor for taking responsibility and his maturation. Presenting death through the reaction of a loved one forces audiences to go through their pain and experience.

As the camera decides how the audience is to feel about certain events and characters, it is certainly not a neutral agent. It will have biases. For example, an audience’s reaction to a sex scene can change drastically depending on whether they view it from inside the action, outside or even outside the room – the first often encourages arousal, and the latter often makes the scene uncomfortable, as the camera forces audiences to become a voyeur. On paper, a sex scene is a sex scene, but they have the potential to be portrayed in very different ways and to different effects. Then, we can think about how a film represents a rape scene. Does it film it in the same way as an arousing sex scene or as an act of violence? If so, what does that indicate regarding the film’s view on rape? You would be surprised at the number of rape scenes during which the camera focuses on the pleasure and power of the perpetrator, rather than the violence as felt by the victim. This has led some to say that if we cannot extract sexualisation from the camerawork then rape shouldn’t be portrayed on screen at all. There is a social responsibility even the subtlest of choices from the camera, and these connotations matter in the wider world.

We often hear of the idea of the male gaze being thrown about conversations, but it actually originates from feminist film theorist Laura Mulvey. She explores the ways in which film and the camera portrays women and how pervasive this portrayal is in our society. If we think of the classic ‘hot woman’ shot sequence used time and time again – the camera pans up from her feet, taking in her body before finally landing on her face – it immediately presents women as an object of sexual desire, and something to be considered as, above all else, sexy. As the camera determines the perspective of the audience as well, the audience also participates in her objectification. These are the sorts of implicit influences our media asserts, and it makes us think about how other groups of people are portrayed. Indeed, the camera isn’t a neutral agent because the world it films and the people who film it aren’t either. It adds human emotion and pain, but it also adds the biases and problems that come with society.

Next time you watch a film, you should ask yourself – who does the camera afford power, who does the camera create sympathy for, and who is made into an object of somebody else’s story?