Sunday 7th September 2025
Blog Page 347

In Conversation With Mae Martin

Isobel Merriman
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In Conversation With Mae Martin

There’s something slightly surreal about emailing someone whose comedy routines regularly pop up on your Facebook feed, whose new hit comedy ‘Feel Good’ got you through the first national lockdown and whose tour for this October (‘Sap’) sold out as you were trying to grab tickets. Frankly, it’s quite intimidating.

I am of course talking about Mae Martin, comedian, writer, and actor. Simply put, they are very cool. Currently in editing for the second series of Feel Good, named one of the best TV shows of 2020 by the Guardian, it’s clearly been a busy year for Mae, and I had loads of questions – about the show, her career and how their thoughts on gender and sexuality in the 21st century impact their work. Here’s what she had to say over email…

IM: So, the first series of Feel Good came out in March of 2020 – right at the start of the first UK lockdown. How has working on the second series been over the last year and what are your thoughts on “pandemic productivity”?

MM: I’ve been so lucky to be able to make series 2 of the show this year, and I’m beyond grateful that I had a reason to get out of my apartment, be around people and be distracted from the hell of the news. Filming in a pandemic presented its own unique problems and it was touch and go sometimes, but we managed to pull it off! However – anyone who pressures anyone about “pandemic productivity” needs to be thrown in the ocean. Just surviving the anxiety of this year is a feat in itself and we all need to take pressure off ourselves. 

IM: Talking about Feel Good, I can’t help but root for Mae and George (hopeless romantic that I am) – but should I be?

MM: I’m glad you’re mulling over one of the central questions of the show! I don’t think there’s a right answer. Mae and George of season 1 definitely sometimes brought out the worst in each other, although they were madly in love, and for them to transform that toxicity into a lasting long term relationship they’re going to have to grow and change, which they struggle to do in season two. We like the ambiguity of whether we should be rooting for them or not, because I think a lot of people can relate to a relationship like that, but ultimately of COURSE we root for them and hope other people do too. We’re hopeless romantics as well.

IM: Your exploration of friendship in the series is often just as thought provoking as your focus on romantic love. What were you trying to say with the often less than ideal friendships in Feel Good?

MM: Thank you! I consider my friends some of the great loves of my life, and value them so much. Mae and Maggie in season 1 were two sides of the same fairly manic coin with no impulse control. I’m really interested in what we “should do” with the people in our lives who aren’t necessarily “good” for us but who we love deeply, and we get into that more in season 2. I also love that Mae has a strong group of straight male friends at the comedy club, because that’s reflective of my life and some of my most precious relationships, including with my co-writer Joe.

IM: The disappointment and sense of betrayal in Feel Good when Mae’s male friend hits on her is really poignant. Why did you choose to include this moment in the series?

MM: I’d say Arnie’s more of an idol in a position of power than a real friend, but I felt it was important to honestly depict the threat of sexual assault/coercion which exists in, let’s face it, many work environments but particularly the comedy world. I hope we did it in a nuanced way. These issues get so politicised and hotly debated, and I think it’s always helpful to show them and explore them in a human way so we remember what it is that we’re actually talking about, maybe.

IM: You mention in your book (Can Everyone Please Calm Down? A Guide to 21st Century Sexuality) the ‘birds and the bees’ talk your mum gave you, which covered all bases, and Feel Good is brilliant at frankly depicting queer sex. How important is well-rounded LGBTQ+ education and representation to you?

MM: Both things are very important, for sure. Some of the most meaningful feedback I’ve had about Feel Good has been “I feel like I saw myself reflected on screen for the first time”, and that means a lot, and I relate because I think I felt that dearth of representation myself. The problem is, when there are so few queer shows, there can sometimes be pressure to represent EVERYONE in the queer community or not to show flawed queer relationships, for it to be aspirational instead. But it’s important, I think, that queer characters are allowed to be flawed and selfish and three dimensional sometimes just like straight characters. 

IM: Why do you think embracing sexual fluidity and rejecting labels like gay, straight and bi is so important?

MM: I don’t think labels are bad, I recognise that the language around sexuality can make it much easier to communicate about these things, and to fight for our rights which are still tenuous. But I do think that labels can bulldoze over the nuances of being a human, and I reject any labels that are projected onto me by others to help them to categorise me in some way… My experience of my own sexuality has been dynamic and evolving and I definitely fantasise about a world in which nobody has to “come out” and we focus more on who we are, rather than what label we are.

IM: So, do you see your writing and comedy as political and do you write with a political message in mind, or is it more of a side-effect of the kind of topics you raise?

MM: It’s an interesting question! I think I write personal stuff, and it just so happens that the topics that rattle my brain and life around – gender, addiction, that kind of thing – are at the forefront of conversations in the media at the moment.  So it feels political. But it’s absolutely never a case of “let’s write something topical and political”. Joe and I just tried to craft honest and complicated characters that drew from our own experiences. 

IM: Your work has a real truthfulness to it – is it cathartic to pursue such honesty? How important is honesty to your work?

MM: I think people can tell when stories aren’t authentic or authored, and I think there’s a real appetite for that kind of truthfulness at the moment. Also I’m not imaginative enough at the moment to write a supernatural crime caper or something so I’m absolutely still mining my own experiences. I do find it cathartic in some ways, feeling like the things that swirl around in my head have been witnessed and understood. That’s amazing. But I am excited to write something slightly less personal next time!

IM: I’m dying to watch the second series of Feel Good and I know you’re in editing right now, is there anything at all you can tell us about what we’ve got to look forward to?

MM: I am so excited for people to see it. I don’t want to give any spoilers but I think it’s bigger and more expansive, deeper and more personal, and hopefully really funny. And mega romantic because I’m a nerd like that.

IM: And finally, what’s a question you wish you were asked more?

MM: I’d like to be asked “can you name all the countries of the world” because during the pandemic my writing partner Joe and I memorised all 197 countries of the world, just as a hobby to keep our brains active, and I’m worried I’ll never be called upon to test that knowledge.

I’m so grateful to Mae for taking the time out of their busy schedule to answer all of my questions and I’m left, like I’m sure many of you are, counting down the days until Feel Good 2 and scouring the internet for a ticket to Mae’s next show!

The #OwnVoices Movement: Whose Voices Are Being Heard?

Moneeka Thakur
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The #OwnVoices Movement: Whose Voices Are Being Heard?

From abandoning the acronym BAME to placing diversity and inclusion at the forefront of their values, representation has never been so important in the creative industries. It’s about time too, particularly in the publishing world. In the UK, this industry has been notoriously slow to be more representative of its population. The Publishers’ Association admitted that ‘there has been little progress in its […] target of increasing the ethnic diversity of employees’ earlier this year.

This lack of representation in turn affects the books that are commissioned and opinions about the authors who are writing them. For example, publishers have expressed alarming concerns about the ‘lack of ‘quality’’ of books by people of colour. After witnessing the success of works such as Sathnam Sanghera’s Empire Land and Bolu Babalola’s Love in Colour in recent months, it is evident that this is simply not the case.

With the #OwnVoices movement, it seems as though things might finally be changing. Originating on Twitter in 2015, this hashtag refers to a campaign championing the right for authors to tell their own stories in connection to their diverse identities. The author shares diverse or marginalised attributes with their main character, such as race, gender, sexuality, or disability, which reinforces the authenticity of their writing.

The campaign’s potential is evident when observing previous grievances in the commissioning landscape. For instance, the novelist Vikram Seth had to defend the choice of Andrew Davies, a white writer, adapting his novel A Suitable Boy for television last year. Writers such as Nikesh Shukla criticised this choice, stating that ‘so many brown writers are struggling to find work’ before questioning how many ‘opportunities there are for brown screenwriters’. While this issue moves beyond the world of publishing exclusively, it demonstrates the importance ofwriters  representing their own stories as well as their lack of ability to do so.

The movement has additionally had notable success in practice. Corinne Duyvis, who first coined the hashtag #OwnVoices, published her third novel, The Art of Saving the World, last year after the success of her debut, Otherbound, in 2014 when ‘queer YA books were still rare’. In her latest book, her protagonist Hazel is depicted as struggling with anxiety, something she has also personally experienced. The publication and positive reception of Duyvis’s work demonstrates what this movement can achieve. 

However, this hashtag is not without its obstacles. It has often come under criticism for publishers’ decisions on what authors can represent which communities. As a result, writers from diverse backgrounds can be denied opportunities on the notion of not being representative enough. This was the case with the author Tallie Rose, whose manuscript featuring a gay protagonist was recently rejected by Hurn Publications. The publishers believed that Rose did not come from the LGBTQ+ community and misrepresented the community in her work, despite her bisexual identity.

Writers are also increasingly frustrated by expectations to write only about certain communities or subjects. Historical fiction writer Cath outlines how her existence ‘and the existence of our BIPOC characters, are treated as inherently political’. She goes on to point out the ‘shades of either joy or trauma’ that are expected within her characters that consequently transform them into ‘educational tools’ or ‘trauma porn’. Not only do underrepresented authors face obstacles on entering the publishing industry, the material they produce  is under further limitations too.

When observing both sides of the #OwnVoices campaign, it is perhaps useful to turn to a collection that I believe transcends its limitations. Claudia Rankine’s Citizen: An American Lyric has been a powerful literary force in the last seven years since its original publication. Rankine’s collection provides important insight into the psychological trauma stemming from microaggressions, racial profiling and police brutality. As a black woman, Rankine’s voice is imperative in depicting these urgent issues in America.

However, the lack of identifiers in her collection universalises her poetry beyond the Black community in America. Her short, fragmented scenes feature narrators whose race and gender is often undisclosed: ‘You are in the dark, in the car, watching the black-tarred street being swallowed by speed; he tells you his dean is making him hire a person of color when there are so many great writers out there’. The respective races of the passenger and driver are easy to guess based on this brief snapshot of a scene. The passenger’s bigotry further reveals the professional boundaries often experienced by Black people in America as they are continuously excluded from traditionally white spaces.

Yet the unidentified race of the driver also ensures that any person of colour can connect to this scene. When asked about the most unexpected reaction to her book, Rankine reveals that ‘the most surprising thing has been the number of Asian women who have come up to me at book signings with tears in their eyes to say: this is my life you’re writing’. The authenticity of Citizen speaks more broadly to the experiences of people of colour as a whole. This is not to suggest that all experiences are the same, rather Rankine’s writing reveals the power of mutual grief and solidarity. 

It is therefore important that authors themselves get to choose who or what they want to write about. This choice is the key behind impactful writing. Underrepresented writers must be recognised as being able to push literature to new and exciting limits, like Rankine. While the #OwnVoices movement clearly has huge potential, there needs to be more emphasis on the word “own”. Authors need to be trusted to own their stories, whether they are a reflection of their own communities, or an exploration of something new. 

Image Credit: Daniel Thomas via Unsplash, CC0

Review: “Orestes”//Oxford Greek Play @ the Oxford Playhouse

Marietta Kosma
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Review: “Orestes”//Oxford Greek Play @ the Oxford Playhouse

On Wednesday the 28th of April, a live performance of the Greek tragedy Orestes took place at the Oxford Playhouse. This virtual, interactive and experimental production included creative new translations and discussions from leading academics rendering it unique. The online streaming of the little-known ancient Greek tragedy with a modern spin was exceptional. The play explores the ripples of trauma that follows crises of crime and punishment, and the difference between retributive and restorative justice. The setting of the play took place in the rooms of the respective actors, all of whom students at Oxford. The choice to perform in their rooms was significant. Performing in one’s room means performing in a very personal place and suggests very personal space; seclusion, protection. The rooms of the actors were bare but for a few pieces of furniture- instead focus could be directed towards the unveiling of the dynamic and the unfolding ideas of Euripides.  

What makes this ancient myth significant to the present day and worthy of watching is this transition from the archaic to the modern.

It should be noted that the Orestes of Euripides marked the change which had taken place in the thought and intellectual life of Athens since the Oresteia of Aeschylus was performed. The blood-stained story of the house of Atreus and the tale of Orestes echoes the history of the modern Greek state. The tragic myth spans a period from the fall of Troy to the foundation of Areopagus. Oxford Playhouse’s Orestes certainly employs most features of the legend of Euripides’s Orestes yet places emphasis on the studies of contemporary life, subject to the social and political conditions of the twenty-first century.

In Oxford Playhouse’s version we see Orestes killing Clytemnestra, his mother in a brutal act of revenge and forming a same-sex relationship with Pylades. A sexual relationship between two men would violate social norms. We see his particular experiences as a queer male, questioning notions of personal and collective identities. Concentrating on this dramatic twist, this sensitive portrait of a condition and a relationship has the tug of emotional truth. As society collapses, can Orestes and Electra trust the whispers of Helen, Menelaus and the gods?. Even though heroes were not perfect they had within them inherent faults, they still had a certain grandeur about them, however they are now brought low with a vengeance.

The Oxford Playhouse’s Orestes belongs to the tradition of postmodern theatre which plays a significant role in diagnosing the contemporary condition of man through classical texts. What makes this ancient myth significant to the present day and worthy of watching is this transition from the archaic to the modern. This relation between tradition and contemporaneity of postmodern aesthetics is critical in understanding why watching a play of the 6th century BC is still relevant in the 21st century. By deconstructing Euripides’ classical text we invest in the future of an ancient tradition, addressing important contemporary matters instead of reproducing finished clichés. The edge-of-the-seat effect was what made the performance worth watching, with its blend of revelation and withholding. The intense and nuanced performances, the queasy mix of fear and fury palpable with a small glimmer of hope, made Oxford’s Orestes a very capturing play.

Image Credit: Egisto Sani via Flickr/ License: CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

Bookshops are Back: The Joys of In-Person Book Buying

Elena Trowsdale
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Bookshops are Back: The Joys of In-Person Book Buying

It’s that time again folks! Retail has been released from its hiatus and, more importantly, bookshops are back open. Since the easing of the latest lockdown, book sales have risen massively. The hustle and bustle of shoppers has returned to Waterstones and Blackwells, and many independent bookstores are now breathing a sigh of relief. Personally, I’m overjoyed that I am once again allowed to contribute to these businesses, mostly because it means I am encouraged not to buy from the mega-company that is Amazon. I feel much more environmentally friendly buying ‘Oxford World Classics’ from Oxford; it just makes more sense!

However, my love for bookshops extends past just my hatred of Amazon. In my opinion, they are extremely important spaces. There’s something magical about running your fingers across a shelf, gazing over each stack and meandering through a cavern full of works of literature. When it comes to picking a book to read, it’s such a huge help if you can hold the physical thing in your hand. I often feel like I need to read the blurb, piece through the pages and appreciate the cover before I decide which edition of a text to buy, or, as an English student, whether to study that book at all. I often find little moments of magic when I am searching for books on my reading list, slowly gazing down the names only to find that the book I need has an even more interesting book next to it. It feels like having so many books in one place encourages you to make more spontaneous discoveries and develop your knowledge more naturally.

I also find it very helpful to be able to sit in one place and read bits of a book without buying it. When I was younger, my mum couldn’t really keep up financially with my intense reading habit. To remedy this, I used to sit in Waterstones on a selection of beanbags and frantically read the newest Jacqueline Wilson novel in under an hour. 8-year-old me thought that that was the very definition of fun. Since then, I have discovered the joys of café bookshops and have spent many hours perusing newly released fiction over a steamy cup of tea. 

I can vividly remember spending my sixth form years tottering down from my college after 3:30 into the city centre. I would spend every afternoon sprawled across a table in Leeds Waterstones Café annotating poems, picking up new books to read and filling out loyalty card after loyalty card in buying white mochas and fruit toast with marmalade. It was my haven, my special place where time stood still. I’m not ashamed to say that I made very good friends with pretty much all of the baristas. However, despite what you may think, I did also have my own ‘bookshop’ crowd; a group of my indie vintage-camera-critique-coffee-buy-ukulele friends. Bookshop cafés were a place where us weirdos could go to meet other weirdos, a place where we all could fit in. 

One particular memory that resonates with me is a barista peering over my shoulder as I painstakingly highlighted my A-Level poetry anthology with unnecessary precision. As he cleared away cups and plates, he complimented my annotations and told me how he believed annotations and scribbles make books more beautiful. I had never thought of it that way, but once I had, it changed my entire view of the reading process. Books are objects to be experienced, so why shouldn’t we change them? Different readings became just as important to me as the physical text itself. Bookshops became epicentres of knowledge that I could leave my own stamp on. (Disclaimer: I always bought the books before I scribbled in them, please do the same!)

Despite this, there is one place I love even more than the bookshop: Public Libraries. Need I say more? While bookshops are quiet places in which you can spend many hours, libraries are the only city centre places you can sit in without the expectation of spending money. I view this as essential to communities and to children. Everyone can benefit from a free inside space, especially one which is created for the experiencing of literature and the learning of knowledge. It’s a travesty that austerity has meant the government has closed down over half of public libraries, an action that will likely impact the education of the next generation and the opportunities available for current OAPs. 

I have fond memories of completing the UK public libraries ‘summer reading challenge’ as a child, a challenge which likely led me here to Oxford to study English as an undergraduate. Whenever I walk past my local library now, I feel a pang of sadness. What was once a calming, friendly place is now a ‘community centre’ where the local council conducts meetings with people on probation, unemployed people and people with housing issues. While this community centre is obviously essential, council cuts have led it to move from the town hall into the library, taking up over half the space and pretty much eradicating the children’s area.  

Now bookshops are back, I demand free public libraries for all. Everyone should be able to experience books, regardless of cost.

(Bonus: Picture of me aged 18 at Waterstones café)

Image Credit: Elena Trowsdale and Pixabay.

Judging books by their covers?

Iona Neill
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Judging books by their covers?

Think of your favourite book cover. It might be one that is sentimental to you – perhaps it was the first novel you read whilst growing up, perhaps it reminds you of your childhood, perhaps it belongs to a famous author or a timeless classic. Now think, what is it about that cover that draws you to the story? It could be the bold, brazen image of a dinosaur skeleton slapped onto the cover of Jurassic Park, the playing cards whirling around Alice’s head in the Penguin Classics edition of Alice in Wonderland, or the teary-eyed stare of Francis Cugat’s epochal illustration for The Great Gatsby (which he was paid a mere $100 to design back in 1925).

I can confirm I have read none of these in full – I know, I have a lot of classic novels to catch up on – but from their covers I feel as if I have in many ways experienced them already. After all, many stories can already be summarised by the imagery which later comes to define them. What is the essence of Franz Kafka’s Metamorphosis if not the feelings captured by its original jacket – horror, mystery and intrigue. A man covers his eyes in fear, whilst behind him is an open door to a room in which darkness conceals an ambiguous creature within. This open door invites us into the world of the novella without explicitly showing us what is inside. As with much of literature, it is upon this first glance at the cover that the story begins. But what is it that makes a book cover so memorable? Is it the colour scheme, the graphics, the font? Furthermore, why have some of them stood the test of time whereas others have been reimagined or redesigned, or simply faded into obscurity?

Despite the popular saying, I am sorry to say that I often judge books by their covers. When browsing the shelves of a bookshop, what I am most drawn to is art. I hunt for the brightest colour, the most striking typography, a good-looking image with which to decorate my bedside table. On Instagram, a quick search for the hashtag #bookstagram confirms that I am not the only one. From the 57.8M posts under this category, all but a few of them are concerned with achieving a certain aesthetic, displaying books against a backdrop of flowers, fairy-lights, library shelves, coffee cups, houseplants. It is clear that literature is not only meant to be thought-provoking and interesting, it is meant to be visually exciting too. Book covers can use their beauty to their advantage, or even as a form of rebellion.

As the recent surge in popularity of e-readers has threatened to replace hard-copy books, designers have fought back, with even flashier fonts, fluorescent colours, even interactive designs. In brief, anything short of bland. Take Chip Kidd’s design for IQ84, Haruki Murakami’s multi-layered novel in which a Japanese woman one day enters a parallel universe. This features a semi-translucent jacket which provides a contrasting overlay to the image on the book’s cover, allowing two parallel worlds, and two parallel designs, to exist side-by-side.

The cover of a novel is not only a space onto which to project the core idea of what is inside, but it is also a space to explore and interact with art. In the 1960s, Penguin Publishing’s art director, Germano Facetti, began pairing science fiction novels with the works of various modern artists, allowing book covers to become the canvases for Dadaism, Cubism and Op art. The result of this are the haunting, often overly surreal images we encounter of the covers of novels such as J.G Ballard’s The Four-Dimensional Nightmare and George Orwell’s 1984. Another trend which emerged during the later half of the twentieth century was publishers using the works of old masters to illustrate their book covers; unlike the works of modern artists, these paintings belonged to the public domain and were therefore practically free to use. Now, even the most humble paperback has been transformed, and any member of the public could buy their own copy of an artwork which would otherwise only be available to view in avant-garde galleries or art museums.

The dawn of the twenty-first century brought with it a new artistic style and a new approach to designing book covers. Classics from the sixties and seventies were re-marketed to the public after having been given shiny new minimalist makeovers by their respective publishing houses. An example is Anthony Burgess’s A Clockwork Orange, whose iconic, brightly coloured cover featuring the ‘cog-eyed droog’ had become hard-wired into pop culture since its release in 1972. In 2005 it was given a total revamp by photographer Véronique Rolland to feature only a glass of milk against a white background. The latest edition, revealed in 2021, takes it one step further on the path to minimalism as well as abstraction – it features the words ‘a clockwork’ followed underneath by a radically simple orange circle. The cover is therefore almost useless in terms of artistic value – it says nothing more than simply ‘this is a Clockwork Orange’.

 This journey towards minimalism strikes me as, in many senses, unnerving. With many publishers choosing stock images or text over an artistic commission, could the era of art-gallery worthy book covers be coming to an end? Will Kindles, iPads and other e-readers eventually usurp hard copy books, no longer necessitating an enticing cover that jumps out at browsers in a bookstore?  Or could it be that the book cover is a dying species, destined to become more and more minimalist until everything is as austere and weird as that cover of A Clockwork Orange?

 Whilst e-reading is useful it certainly holds nothing against the beauty and tangibility of a paperback or a hardback book, especially when many e-readers are not built with colour displays. After all, when you think back to your favourite book cover, it’s most likely not even the cover that you like the most at all. Because let’s face it, nobody really remembers the cover of Frankenstein, or The Kite Runner, or the Twilight series (OK I lied, I do remember that one). There have been too many iterations and redesigns to count, and many books were first published without elaborate cover art. What we normally remember about our favourite book cover is the story it represents, and the attachment we have to that story. Of course, we can try to aestheticise books, to pair them with art or make them the star of a social media post. But the truth remains that our parents, teachers and the motivational quotes on Facebook were right. It’s what’s on the inside that counts.

Image Credit: Flickr (Licence: CC-BY-2.0).

Review: Lana Del Rey’s Chemtrails Over The Country Club

J Daniels
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Review: Lana Del Rey’s Chemtrails Over The Country Club

Lana Del Rey’s seventh album, Chemtrails Over The Country Club, suggests a new sense of assuredness in the singer and builds on some of her favourite themes – nostalgia, exhaustion with fame, delicate femininity and, of course, America.

Chemtrails leans even more deeply into the 70s feel of her previous album, Norman F*cking Rockwell! but is distinctly more folk in feel and production than any of her previous work. The tracks are filled with trailing high notes and soft synth beats, both of which often seem to simply dissolve into the song. The bridge of track eight, ‘Yosemite’, evokes an even more bygone era, mentioning a 40s film and ‘television static’ – which is mirrored by Del Rey’s voice suddenly sounding echoey and slightly crackly, as though being recorded on old equipment.

Almost as if mocking the controversy she faced after her infamous ‘Question for the culture’ Instagram post where she complained of being ‘slated’ for being her ‘authentic, delicate’ self, Lana Del Rey opens her latest album testing the limits of her feathery soprano in ‘White Dress’, reminiscing about a time before fame when she was just ‘a waitress wearing a tight dress’. This nostalgia is linked to her dissatisfaction with fame, especially in the sixth track, ‘Dark But Just A Game’, which has a particular focus on the latter: Del Rey sings ‘I was a pretty little thing and God, I loved to sing/But nothing came from either one but pain’. Track ten, ‘Dance Til We Die’, offers a sort of solidarity between women in music who have experienced the same fame rollercoaster as Del Rey herself. The track contains some not-so-original lines, such as describing herself as ‘burdened by the weight of fame’, but opens with references to some of her female inspirations, including two folk singers who were particularly influential to this album. The final track on Chemtrails is actually a cover of Joni Mitchell’s song ‘For Free’ – a sort of lament on a career-orientation consuming perhaps purer artistic motives in creating music. Lana Del Rey has evidently not ceased her soul-searching and may still be contemplating her retirement from the music industry.

“she walks this peculiar line of being both stronger and more self-assured but within that, being more unapologetically delicate and sentimental.”

But Chemtrails presents a Lana Del Rey more sure of herself as an artist and a public persona than in previous albums. She revisits an image used in previous albums, but describes herself now as not being a wavering ‘candle in the wind’; throughout the album, she walks this peculiar line of being both stronger and more self-assured but within that, being more unapologetically delicate and sentimental. In a duet co-written and performed with Nikki Lane, lyrics reference Tammy Wynette who is best known for her hit song ‘Stand By Your Man’. This song lauds the same kind of dated woman-as-refuge-of-man supporting character role that Lana Del Rey has been accused of celebrating, and which she seems to have evoked some of the spirit of in ‘Let Me Love You Like A Woman’ where Del Rey sings ‘Let me love you like a woman/let me hold you like a baby’.

A love of her country is usually present in her albums, and Chemtrails is no exception. The geography of her music once again reflects her own moves (after early songs like ‘Brooklyn Baby’ coming from her New York days and Norman F*cking Rockwell! focusing heavily on California after she moved to Los Angeles). Lana Del Rey has been spending time in the Midwest, and this also helped to prompt her shift towards country and folk sounds in this album. She sings with her typical, almost saccharine relish for Americana of ‘suburbia, the ‘Louisiana two-step’, ‘getting high in the parking lot’ and, of course, the ‘white picket chemtrails over the country club’.

Fans of Lana Del Rey will have nothing to complain about (except perhaps it being a few songs shorter than her other recent albums), and those who have yet to come around to her music might find this slightly different sound more to their tastes. I personally have always been a far more casual than committed Lana Del Rey fan, but if any album could, Chemtrails Over The Country Club might be the one to change that.

Image credit: Beatriz Alvani via Flickr & Creative Commons/License: CC BY 2.0

Review: Ben Howard’s Collections From The Whiteout

J Daniels
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Review: Ben Howard’s Collections From The Whiteout

Ben Howard’s fourth album, Collections From The Whiteout, marks, not quite a new direction, but a new adventure for the folk singer. Many of the songs were co-written by its producer, Aaron Dessner, who has recently garnered more acclaim through collaborations with Taylor Swift on her albums folklore (winner of the Grammy Album of the Year Award) and evermore. I confess to enjoying 2011’s indie-folk album Every Kingdom more, but while I was previously unfamiliar with ‘folktronica’, Howard has introduced electronic elements to his folk music more successfully than I would have thought possible before hearing Collections From The Whiteout. Howard’s trademark poetic lyrics are combined by turns with pure acoustics, discordant electronic experiments and meandering arpeggios, and, surprisingly, it works.

“Howard has somehow transformed the usually significant divide between the ominous and the amusing into a fine line.”

Collections takes a great deal of inspiration from real-life events and people, frequently recounting dark tales, but also incorporates a sort of irreverent whimsy which Howard would surely be pleased to hear comes across distinctly as he has previously expressed his fear of taking himself and his music too seriously. This is particularly evident in ‘Finders Keepers’, a song inspired by a friend of his father’s anecdote about finding a body floating in a suitcase. Howard transforms this into a darkly humorous exploration of the adages ‘be careful what you wish for’ and ‘curiosity killed the cat’. With the melancholy but also irreverent lyric ‘Why am I stood here up to my knees?/Isn’t there a birthday, a place I should be?’ and the rest of Collections, Howard has somehow transformed the usually significant divide between the ominous and the amusing into a fine line. Howard’s sombre words: ‘I picture you suffocating/In last tulip polytunnel’ from the tenth track, ‘Unfurling’, are another example of this striking technique.

On paper, Dessner and Howard might seem almost too well matched, but nevertheless they have jointly produced a record that is distinctly experimental from both collaborators in much of its sound. Unfortunately, this isn’t wholly successful – I find the scratchy, grating loop in ‘Sage That She Was Burning’ too distracting and unrelated to the song. It is altogether superfluous as becomes clear when the song temporarily abandons it halfway through in favour of a melodic guitar with a dreamy quality that better reflects the lyrics. Interestingly, the two elements do marry up much more harmoniously in the final segment of the song, but this does not fully absolve the jarring opening. However, the pairing’s successes far outweigh their foibles in the album. My personal favourite is the penultimate track on Collections, ‘The Strange Last Flight of Richard Russell’. For those unfamiliar with the tale of Richard Russell, he is ill-famed for shocking his friends, family, and much of the world in 2018 when he stole a commercial plane and managed to fly it surprisingly proficiently for a time before deliberately crashing the aircraft and ending his life. Howard’s song appears to be from the perspective of Russell’s widow, and combines soft percussion and electronic echoes to create a calm but almost otherworldly sound, as if it came from a different plane (if you will forgive the unfortunate pun). The words are beautifully mournful and offer a resigned, if tongue-in-cheek, philosophy in the form of my favourite lyric from the album: ‘Some threads/Don’t fit the loom’.

While the sonic experiments are not, in my opinion, always pleasing, the album as a whole is a triumph. Howard’s lyric is as powerful as ever and he demonstrates adroitness in retelling stories taken from news and infusing them with both the personal and the universal, giving listeners both an insight into the artist himself and a chance to learn more about themselves through their own interpretations of the music. His song inspired by the exposing of fake socialite Anna Sorokin, ‘Sorry Kid’, offers both a warning and almost an exoneration with the lines ‘To be a magpie in the safe/Sure must be a tempting place’. Collections From The Whiteout is an exploratory but not overly dramatic departure from his earlier work, and its closing track ‘Buzzard’ in particular will be familiar to fans of his other albums – its atypical brevity notwithstanding.

Image credit: Abigail Hoekstra via Wikimedia Commons: CC BY-SA 3.0

Oxford University state school admission intake reaches record high of 68.6%

Sasha Mills
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Oxford University state school admission intake reaches record high of 68.6%

The University of Oxford has released its annual admissions report, collating data from 2016 to 2020, with the proportion of state school students reaching a record high of 68.6% at the University. In her foreword to the report, Vice-Chancellor Louise Richardson highlights that the data suggests that the student body is becoming more diverse, with the proportion of BME students increasing by 7.78% in the last five years, and the number of students from the most deprived areas increasing by 7.7%.


The data broadly suggests an increase in the number of state school students being admitted to the University, with an increase from 58.0% to 68.6% in the proportion of state school students admitted between 2016 and 2020. These figures vary across college and course, with colleges such as Christ Church admitting only 54% state school students between 2018 and 2020, and other colleges such as New College and Lincoln College having similarly low state school representation. Approximately 93% of the UK population is state school educated.

Figures also vary across subjects. Classics is the only subject which has admitted more private school students than state school students from 2018 to 2020, with only 35.6% of students admitted coming from state schools, and Mathematics has admitted the most state school students, with 78.4% of the course made up of those from state school backgrounds. 

The report also offers figures for BME representation on courses and colleges across the University, with a breakdown into different ethnic groups including UK students with Black African or Caribbean heritage, Asian students, and mixed heritage students. Representation across all groups included in this section of the report has increased between 2018 to 2020, although the proportion of BME students at the University remains lower than the national average of 26.9%.

Professor Louise Richardson, Vice Chancellor at the University of Oxford, said: “While the pandemic has, in many ways, changed the way we operate, it has not weakened our commitment to diversifying the make-up of our student body. The progress evidenced in this, our fourth annual Admissions Report, is a testament to the dedication of our Admissions Teams, the support of school teachers and, of course, the many talents of able and ambitious young people.”

“Notwithstanding all the adjustments and adaptations required by the pandemic we remain committed to ensuring that every talented, academically driven pupil in the country, wherever they come from, sees Oxford as a place for them.”

Dr Samina Khan, Director of Undergraduate Admissions and Outreach at Oxford University, said: “The pandemic will continue to hit the least advantaged students for a while, hence we remain resolute in stamping out inequality in access to Oxford. Working together with schools across the country, we are increasing our focus on reaching regional ‘cold-spots’ where the most talented young people are still under-represented at Oxford – driving down the risk that we are missing out on some of the UK’s brightest students.”

Image Credit: Jill Cushen

Review: Catullus: Shibari Carmina by Isobel Williams

Grace Bartlett
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Review: Catullus: Shibari Carmina by Isobel Williams

The poetry of the late Roman Republic does not immediately move the mind to think of shibari – a Japanese rope bondage art – and yet Isobel Williams manages to blend the two in a singular fashion with her vibrant new translation of Catullus.

The first thing you notice about reading Catullus’s poetry is that he tends to surprise you. His poems range from the curiously endearing ‘da mi basia mille’ to the notoriety of poem 16, which was sufficiently scandalous as to be frequently censored in translation until the late twentieth century. He’s a poet of immense range and versatility, a man in love, a man scorned, and a man constantly at sea in the uncertainties of Roman public life. It’s hard not to like him, and it’s even harder to translate him properly.

Williams’ translation alone is fascinating, ranging from desperate sadness with the Catullus who ‘can’t go on but does/Can’t be borne, but must be’, to the outright pettiness of Poem 42. The solemnity with which she has rendered Catullus 101 is particularly touching. Often Williams strays daringly far away from the original Latin and yet almost always strikes the perfect balance. Her art is simple, bold and evocative, and serves to draw out the frank sexuality of many of Catullus’ poems.  

On the one hand, shibari allows for an excellent demonstration of some of Catullus’ main talking points – he’s a man, and a talented one at that, but he’s hopelessly in love with a high-status married woman (who might just like her brother better anyway…) and trying to prove himself in a world that doesn’t always take him seriously (note poem 16 again to see what he thought of that). It’s a world of shifting power balances, perpetual give and take, which is perhaps why Williams selected shibari as a ‘context’ for exploring the same power dynamic shifts and subversion of traditional social norms. However, while Catullus might be a highly skilled poet with points of reference that people can empathise with across the world, he’s still a Roman. It feels a bit odd that an art form sometimes accused of misappropriation and exoticisation is being utilised to furnish Catullus’ words, especially in this context and when personal connections vary.

Her translations offer an excellent introduction to the Latin poets of the real world, although some of her more modern influences may need further examination.

Think Pink

Marnie Ashbridge
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Think Pink

I could sit here and leave you in awe with cancer statistics and scare you half out of your mind with story upon story that would break your heart. Instead, I want to share with you stories about the incredible people I have met while working with Oxford Pink Week, who have taught me that the conversations that we shy away from are the ones most worth having. 

Oxford Pink Week aims to raise awareness for breast cancer, and this year we are raising money for five incredible causes: Breast Cancer Now, Coppafeel, Walk the Walk, Sakoon Through Cancer and The Leanne Pero Foundation. This project came about in 2007 as a result of Guardian journalist Dina Rabinovitch’s mission to raise money for cancer research without the need to run a marathon. Her philosophy asks fundraisers to think outside the box when raising money for a cause — and now, more than ever before, adaptation and change have been necessary. Ordinarily, each year we arrange a Pink Ball sometime in February, which is where most of our proceeds come from. However, this year we made the tricky decision to move Pink Week to the middle of May and embrace it as a few weeks of awareness rather than one single night.

Cancer is associated with great sadness, which can put a lot of people off from speaking about it. Nevertheless, organisations such as Coppafeel and Walk the Walk find light in something that is so often shrouded in darkness. With their quirky memes and colourful marketing strategy, Coppafeel are not saying that cancer is something to joke about. Instead, they know that this is the best way to get information out there to save people’s lives — which definitely is something to smile about. Recently, I had the opportunity to interview founder of Walk the Walk Nina Barough for the Pink Week podcast. Built on Nina’s dream to walk the London Marathon in a pink bra for breast cancer, Walk the Walk’s ‘moonwalks’ are now hosted across the world each year and have raised a whopping £131 million in total. We spoke about her organisation’s advocacy for a holistic approach to cancer, epitomised in their encouragement of individuals to get out walking and to live a healthy lifestyle. Her organisation has been involved in a recent social media campaign #onecancervoice, which is the collaboration of 46 cancer charities demanding the government to put cancer patients at the centre of pandemic recovery plans. According to an analysis by the Epic Health Research Network, screenings for breast cancer have dropped by 94% from January to April this year. In an article in The Lancet they stated that the “substantial increases in the number of avoidable cancer deaths in England are to be expected as a result of diagnostic delays due to the COVID-19 pandemic in the UK.”

This is why I am writing today: to tell people that now more than ever it is essential that you check yourselves and tell your friends and family members too — and I’m not just talking to women here. Breast cancer is something that affects people of all genders and backgrounds. In another episode of the Pink Week podcast, I spoke with Giles Cooper, one of the 370-400 men in the UK each year to be diagnosed with breast cancer. Whilst this figure is significantly lower than in women, the percentage of those diagnosed who pass away is 20%, whereas in women it is 2.6%. When trying to raise awareness, Giles felt a strong backlash, and knows first-hand how challenging it is to face breast cancer as a man without the support of other men. Thankfully, progress is being made and he described to me the sensation of walking into a room for a men with breast cancer support group and no longer feeling alone.

The two trustees of Sakoon Through Cancer, Iyna Butt and Samina Hussain, further attest to the importance of community in cancer networks, having created their organisation to aid other South Asian women like themselves who are affected by the taboo of cancer. Samina met Iyna in a waiting room and was struck by the sight of a young mother going through cancer all alone, so she wrote down her number, telling her to call if she ever needed advice or a chat. As a person who understood her struggle, Samima’s support network helped Iyna through her journey.

The imagery associated with breast cancer often suggests that it affects only white cis women, but many of the charities being supported by Oxford Pink Week aim to dismantle this deadly misconception. Leanne Pero’s Foundation aims to empower BME people going through breast cancer in their ‘Black Women Rising’ campaign, which provides support groups and spreads information through their podcast and magazine. Leanne Pero, who set up this organisation, realised that the NHS lacked cancer support packages for BME cancer patients and felt that her community was being excluded from the UK’s mainstream media outlets and cancer charity campaigns. Misdiagnosis and a lack of mental health support have left many in the BME community to feel excluded and unhelpful myths and taboos surrounding cancer for some individuals in the BME community may have prevented them from speaking out about their ordeals. This has led to many members of the BME community lacking awareness about breast cancer, resulting in late-stage diagnoses and higher mortality rates than in their white counterparts. Connecting with one another and sharing experiences is an essential part of Leanne Pero’s objective. 

Our key mission at Oxford Pink Week is to get people talking about breast cancer. It is often that when something makes us feel uncomfortable, like cancer, we want to look away. Our stiff upper lip kicks in and we find it best not to talk about it. When I tell people that we are raising awareness for Breast Cancer they are often confused. They tell me that pretty much everyone is already aware of what breast cancer is, it is the most common cancer to affect women, after all. However, this is not the point. People still need to check themselves each month and we need to start normalising conversations about cancer. I know it can be very upsetting, but we need to talk about it more and more. This way, those voices that often go unheard can finally be heard. Talking about it can save lives. So, what are we waiting for?

Join us on the fortnight of 3rd and 4th Week of Trinity (10th – 24th of May) for a multitude of different events and activities ranging from a 10K walk, a debate night with Femsoc and a picnic in the park, to a boys versus girls lacrosse match, karaoke night at the Oxford Union and Pink Night Finale on the 23rd of May at Freud with live music and cocktails. We are also selling a variety of merchandise: t-shirts, earrings and facemasks. You can go to our website (https://oxpinkweek.wixsite.com/) to shop and to find out more about our Pink Week podcast mini-series. Follow us on Instagram or Facebook where our term card will be released.

Image used with permission from Oxford Pink Week

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