Monday 23rd June 2025
Blog Page 451

The Ultimate Face off: Vine or TikTok?

Lizzie Harvey and Amelia Wood
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The Ultimate Face off: Vine or TikTok?

Forever in Our Hearts, The Legacy of Vine by Lizzie Harvey

Like it or not, Vine’s legacy is undeniable. Despite shutting down in 2016, its online cultural impact has been huge and is often seen as the golden standard by which to judge new video-sharing platforms. Its premise was simple: videos that only lasted 6.5 seconds. Unlike on other forms of social media, Vine was condensed, resulting in short, sweet, and experimental videos. It was just long enough to get your punchline in, but short enough to keep people’s attention in this hyperactive digital age. This brevity is also, in my opinion, the reason why Vine is so quotable.

The short, looping clips were easy to remember and the absurdist, innovative comedy of many famous Vines meant they were widely shared. In this way, viral Vines were often ‘one-hit wonders,’ in contrast to the trends that seem to dominate TikTok, perhaps as a result of its past, as well as its predecessor Musical.ly, that capitalised off ‘borrowing’ or recycling other people’s content. When success on TikTok seems to be driven by how well someone can capitalise off trends or how attractive they are, it is difficult to see how their videos will enter into popular culture in quite the same way that Vines did.

While Viners could become infamous through the videos they made for fun, TikTok stars, most of whom are teenagers, seek to find fame and fortune. Whether this is something that young people should be aspiring to is debatable. Yes, this is a simplification. Viners like Curtis Lepore, Nash Grier, and Lele Pons were unfunny at best and highly problematic at worst, but others such as Drew Gooden, Shawn Mendes, and Rudy Mancuso used the platform to make some genuinely funny and impressive content and used their popularity gained on Vine to launch successful careers.

Vine’s demise was largely the result of the platform’s inability to make a profit and complete against the likes of Instagram and YouTube. TikTok has no such problems and is often jokingly lauded as ‘gentrified Vine.’ The app has become such a commercial hit that its adverts can now be found on mainstream TV as well as online. While commercialisation isn’t necessarily awful, it does become more nefarious when accusations that their algorithm hides unconventionally attractive people and reinforces social bias by recommending people who look like the user. Similarly to Instagram, many TikTok users present an idealised self, harming young and impressionable users. Added to this are its questionable terms of service, taking ownership of all videos posted on the app, as Viner-turned-YouTuber Cody Ko discovered when his videos mocking the platform were used as ads without his permission. TikTok, put simply, is worrying in ways Vine never was.

It is true that TikTok is bigger than Vine; it currently has four times as many users, with an astounding 800 million active users across the globe. But numbers do not necessarily translate into good content or a lasting legacy. Myspace, for example, had over 1 billion users registered, and yet has faded into Internet obscurity, so the future of TikTok is by no means certain. On the other hand, perhaps rather paradoxically, the untimely demise of Vine solidified its legacy; instead of fizzling out or becoming overly commercialised, Vine being shut down led to a flurry of vine compilations, helping to canonise almost the key set of ‘iconic’ vines which the app is remembered by, rather than by its slightly darker side. This is Vine’s legacy: the best, as decided by the fans. Vine is dead. Long live Vine.

TikTok: The Next Great Roller Coaster of Youth by Amelia Wood

It is definitely a bit embarrassing to admit that I love Tiktok. I know it. You know it. When I told my friends that I was writing this piece, there was a tinge of disgust in the messages I received back. Sure. some of them may peruse the app from time to time, but it’s almost in an ironic way, like they’re always ready to defend themselves by saying “don’t worry, I don’t really like it.”

Many of us have fond memories of Vine. It was that rare gem of zany internet culture that penetrated fully through to everyone our age. I have especially sacred (read: damaging) recollections of the year ten Christmas show at school. One of my friends banged pots and pans together while screaming at the top of her lungs the lines from the vine “I don’t get no sleep cos of y’all, y’all never gonna sleep cos of me!” and then promptly falling off the stage.

The six second limit made Vine fast and electric. Creators had to be imaginative about how they could make the most of the time available. Vines either worked or they didn’t. If they didn’t succeed, it wasn’t a problem, because you were already watching the next one. When they did work though, it could be some of the funniest content on the internet. They achieved a unique sort of humour that was difficult to find or replicate elsewhere. I was sad when Vine was shut down and surprised when nothing else quickly sprung up to fill the void. But now something has.

In the past two years, Tiktok has exploded in popularity. It differs in some ways from its predecessor: the six second cap has been lengthened to a full minute and it usually incorporates a song or filter into the video. Regardless, for me it has been the only thing to recreate that same storm in a teacup energy that vine had cultivated so wonderfully. That is not to say I have no issues with Tiktok. The time limit could be shortened by 20 seconds or so and some of videos can be quite cringy.

A big point made by many arguing against the app is that it is owned by a Chinese company. It has been accused of skimming user data and manipulating the algorithm against certain kinds of content among other things. Frankly, I’m unqualified to dispute any of these claims, even if I wished to. For my part, the feed I receive on the app is diverse and wide-ranging; gay Tiktok is huge and social issues are often the subject of the videos.

On security, I suppose the concerns about Tiktok reflect society’s wider cold war-esque suspicion with China at the moment. I would only point out that it is no good putting down Chinese creations if we can’t come up with anything better. Tiktok sprang up because Vine was shut down by its American owners after all.

Getting older is strange. I’m sure that by this point in our lives, we have all experienced that chilling feeling that arises out of the realisation that we no longer understand what the ‘young people’ are up to, be it Tiktok or fidget spinners or Fortnite. By university, we have detached ourselves from the collective unity that comes from being the ‘young people’. It is sad in a way and I think it’s why we can be reluctant to acknowledge the successors to the things we loved. It is why my friends were horrified at the notion I could even suggest Tiktok could supplant Vine. Vine was targeted at us and Tiktok was not. I also think it is part of why I like Tiktok so much. Just for now, I would like to hold on that feeling of being in the know and that I haven’t grown up and moved on. Being a teenager was a roller coaster, and I’m not quite ready to get off.

Black trauma porn, slacktivism, and chicken soup for the activist soul

Kanengo D
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Black trauma porn, slacktivism, and chicken soup for the activist soul


TW: racism, police brutality, racial violence

The torrential online aftermath of the murder of a black man: posts mourning fallen black victims, names added to a growing list, and a disturbingly large amount of hits that videos and photos of a slain man can garner while making rounds on the web. This part of the revolution will be televised. But it will also be live, and internal. 

I can’t begin to piece together the disgust that’s been mounting inside of me for the past week – going on years; for both the systems that scorch black people and for the insensitivity that rises from its ashes. Every. Single. Time. By the time this article is uploaded, the Instagram stories would have died down a little, and the media would have been partially quenched. But for many black people, the anguish that we continue to live through is pushed down to a familiar place of throbbing dullness, and it’s hard to swallow. We’re tired of explaining why we deserve to be alive. With heavy hearts, conversations about racism continue to carve out our most intimate relationships and most public interactions. 

I’ve seen many debates circulating about virtue signalling – that is, posting about BLM, and white privilege when you’re not black is performative and helps ease a sense of white guilt that’s inevitably bubbled up. Perhaps you’ve said a microaggressive or racist comment in the past (‘I’m colourblind ahaha’, ‘we’re all people, so race doesn’t really matter to me lol’, ‘can I touch your hair?!’, thought it was okay to say the n-word when you aren’t black, ‘you’re so well-spoken!’, etc.). It’s dawned on you, and you are fearful of the way that your silence may be perceived today. Good. Now do something about it. While an Instagram story on its own is not activism, it’s damaging to assume that all those who post on social media are solely searching for a way to assuage their guilt or morally posture themselves. Silence and neutrality are exercises of privilege and are dangerous forms of complicity. For many of us, social media is the most accessible way to gain and spread knowledge. Still, this debate raises another critical issue: everyone should involve themselves in dialogues about racism – because everyone is involved – but for white people, there are appropriate ways to go about it. For one, sharing alarming and sensationalist posts on social media is incredibly insensitive, and ultimately desensitising. I’ve had to scroll through stories of George Floyd’s body blasted into multidimensionality, his execution is public and reposted for clicks and likes, and the act of this is vile. A knee pressed to his neck and pleas for air were Floyd’s modern-day lynching, and these images are haunting, forcing many to consider them as possible outcomes for the black men in their lives. As countless others have pointed out, if it takes a violent picture to rouse your awareness, reflection, and interest in researching systemic racism, that’s a huge problem. My heart goes out to 17-year old Darnella Frazier who bravely filmed the whole ordeal, and it aches deeply for Floyd’s family and community.

Showing brutal footage of black bodies being harmed or killed is a form of ‘black trauma porn’, and its effects are devastating. Zanta Nkumane writes in more detail on the issue, and articulates its premise very well: the ‘structural autonomy of whiteness seems to derive a warped pleasure at seeing black pain shared’. This claim isn’t to erase this violence from the media, far from it actually. Alongside cultural appropriation, tokenising black activist voices, and fetishising black people, but then never speaking up about racism in a meaningful way, black trauma porn ranks way up there on the list of ways that people abstract real human lives from devastating acts. It’s voyeuristic and strips a person of dignity, casting them as a necessary martyr for the education of the public. There are more humane ways to raise awareness without prolonging the grief of those affected by Floyd’s death. Share meaningful posts, talk about it, donate if you can. Listen and read.

More than anything, black trauma porn feeds into a broader discussion on the media’s curation of black stories: blackness is violent and a death sentence, and can only be depicted as so, it seems. I ask you to scrutinise your social media feeds, how many black figures do you follow? How much of your feed is permeated by violent images when instances of police brutality occur, but otherwise remains free of humanising, mundane stories and pictures of black people? Really observe your consumption of media and check whether it’s white-washed outside of direct discourses on race. This is part of the problem.

There’s one last thing that I’ve noticed: an embarrassing amount of shallow research. Instagram is an excellent place to begin your search for more information on police brutality, but dinky, colourful ‘RIP’ or ‘#Blacklivesmatter tag 10’ posts aren’t going to cut it. They’re not informative and are far from exhaustive on the matter. If you’ve posted or read one of these, and then proceeded to move on with your day as if normal, never having to think about these issues until the next instance of brutality, that’s privilege. There’s so much more to this, and I still don’t know as much as I’d like to. Police brutality runs deeper and further back before the inception of the seminal Black Lives Matter movement. It severely affects black women (you should really search up ‘misogynoir’), black trans people, black disabled people, black queer people, black children – I could go on, and on. These identities are also harmed, and often, never filmed or brought to the media’s attention. Let’s extend this issue into other systems. Pregnant black individuals are almost four times more likely to die from pregnancy-related causes than their white counterpart. They are less likely to have considered medical care and monitoring because of the belief that they can painlessly and resiliently push babies out like production lines (stemming from the ‘black women are so strong!’ claim). Or by echoing other news, we can look at the adoption system, where stories like Huxley’s reveal a darker side to transracial and transnational adoptions; the potential for white families to ‘save’ ethnic minority children from poverty, but at the slightest hint of more inconvenience than bargained for, funnel them straight back into the system. 

Please don’t call activism a trend. To be black and an activist means that the racist incidents that we raise awareness for can very well be used as templates for our lives. It’s devastating and reflects how the world has fundamentally failed us. When Amy Cooper yelled ‘an African-American man is threatening my life’, she stressed and heaved out ‘African-American’ because she knew exactly what it meant in America’s racist justice and law enforcement systems. She weaponised her whiteness, and even Christian Cooper’s ‘exceptionalism‘ as a Harvard grad, couldn’t shield him from this. This, alongside Trump calling the Minneapolis protesters ‘thugs’ – that when the ‘looting starts, the shooting starts’ – reveals an insidious layer of the binary ‘good vs bad victim’ afterthought that pervades racist incidents: that these killings are somehow justifiable as retribution for the ‘thuggish’ behaviour of black men. It’s laughable.

For fellow black activists, it’s a difficult time to feel safe and stable. Look after yourself, and sometimes that means taking a break from social media for a while and removing yourself from triggering conversations. Self-care can also mean visibly engaging in important discourses, sharing your personal stories, and protesting. All of these can feel very cathartic and restore a sense of agency. There is no right or wrong way to deal with this collective sense of trauma. Do what you think is necessary and soothing and stay safe.

For white people and non-black PoC, first sit in discomfort if you think you’ve been complicit in discrimination towards black people, let your skin crawl and then do something about it going forward. Don’t log out from social media. Let all of this saturate your timeline. Combat anti-blackness and your implicit biases, talk to young white children about race, check your privilege, check on your black friends, ask questions if you don’t understand, and discuss them with other white people. Stop applauding ‘good cops’ for doing their job. Call out the racist remarks of your non-black friends even when there aren’t black people around. You’ll make mistakes, but don’t make it about you. It’s easy to feel immobile, as though there’s nothing you can do to make a sizable difference. There is so much that you can do. Educate yourself on the appropriate ways to engage in conversations about race (i.e. less social media slacktivism and a lot more researching, listening, and meaningful interactions). Really immerse yourself. Uplift black voices but don’t leave race discussions up to us – it really does fall on everyone’s shoulders. 

I’ve linked a lot of great resources throughout the article if you’d like to learn more, and a few more are attached below. Use these as starting points for dialogue:

Oxford- A Modern Institution?

Ryan Mamun
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Oxford- A Modern Institution?

When one is part of an institution whose leadership of ancient white men is so receptive and open to change, one can often forget that the University of Oxford is, in fact, rather old. I often think we as students fail to recognise how modern our dear institution has become.

Perhaps this modern revolution is best illustrated in the joie de vivre with which our university has embraced social media. When criticised by MP David Lammy for a subpar intake of BAME and working-class students, the University displayed it’s adeptness at 21st century communication, genially responding by liking a random tweet that described him as “bitter”. I have heard similar glowing reviews of geniality from fellow BAME students, who assure me they are stopped and cordially greeted by a porter every time they attempt to enter the threshold of a college.

Obviously, as one of the world’s best universities, Oxford and its colleges have also shown a truly modern and progressive attitude in confronting their racist past. One needs only to look at Oriel College’s handling of a campaign demanding the removal of a statue of Cecil Rhodes. As we have come to expect, Oriel gracefully began a consultation process, no doubt involving the opinions of it’s incredibly diverse and representative governing body. Although Oriel stood to lose £100 million in gifts should the statue have been removed, who are we to doubt their claim of “overwhelming” support for the statue in their consultation process? Instead, as members of the university we should be proud of our institution’s allegiance to those famous modern values of partaking in open debate, expressing divergent views, and refusing to condemn colonialism. 

In a world where institutions of power emulate only COVID-19 in their repeated and disproportionate targeting of BAME communities, it is perhaps unsurprising that Oxford’s students follow the stellar example of our university’s leadership. The committed adherence of some JCRs to constitutional policy despite appalling racist comments truly shows how far into the modern age Oxford has progressed.

I shall leave you with my hope that Oxford as an institution will modernise further. Often, we as students quietly inspect the caring and considerate actions of our university and colleges. We wordlessly watch the staunchly democratic actions of our JCRs, silently listen to the divergent views of our student body. We join the revolution through a quick status update on Facebook, make racists cower from the black squares of our Instagram posts. And the world changes. For two weeks.

Dear reader, I must admit that I had originally intended to end on an allegory. I do hope that you will forgive me, but I was simply incapable of the creative thought required to compare trivial events to an innocent man’s murder. Silly me.

Classic Letdowns: Vanity Fair

Devanshika Bajpai
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Classic Letdowns: Vanity Fair

Googling the words Vanity Fair brings up a popular publication, a 2004 movie starring Reese Witherspoon and a 2018 BBC show, and finally, the novel by William Makepeace Thackeray.  Reese’s scheming face and dramatic (possibly anachronistic) high collar popped up one too many times on my Netflix recommendation queue, and living by the “book is better than movie” adage I decided to read the intimidatingly thick book before I watched its film adaptation.  It’s the kind of classic that you’ve heard of in the sense that it’s famous enough to spark recognition but not for its plot to be widely known, or for its characters to be the kind of ‘no explanation needed’ Halloween costume that gets you extra candy. But we all expect famous books to be famous for a reason, and that reason is usually (ask English Literature students anywhere) that they stand the test of time, they achieve the same effects across generations. I’d like to preface with the fact that I do not denigrate Thackeray’s skill or the novel’s pathbreaking nature, but consider why it doesn’t work half as well in the 21st century cultural imagination as it did with its original audience. Vanity Fair is fundamentally satire, which somewhat traps it in its own social context in the first place, but to me– in light perhaps of the storytelling tropes and mechanisms I’m used to– it often felt like too much of a stretch to find it genuinely funny, layered or relatable. 

This is in part due to its focus on Rebecca ‘Becky’ Sharp– its scheming, scamming, sorely-morals-lacking protagonist. The fact, however, is that she isn’t a very layered or appealing central character because her ‘evil’ is just a little too textbook.  Although its working title was “a novel without a hero” and the narrator reminds us of this often, the clearly protagonistic nature of Rebecca raised questions about the idea of the literary hero and made Thackeray revolutionary for breaking conventions. Since anti-heroes didn’t exist at the time, the subtitle was supposedly Thackeray highlighting her morally gray nature. It’s thus understandable that Rebecca was deeply intriguing at a time when giving her actions any sympathy was unheard of, because she lies, cheats and mythologises herself without any qualms but earns social merit in the process. But today, Rebecca’s characterisation seems reminiscent of your older relative who’s so desperate to seem cool and edgy that she’s on TikTok and winks conspiratorially at you before making tasteless jokes. She isn’t that remarkable now that we live in a world with no shortage of stories about people who are famous or socially elevated for strange, self-manufactured reasons– think Kardashian– or the villain whose work you appreciate but can’t condone, like Wolf of Wall Street’s Jordan Belafonte or Ocean’s Eleven. Sure, Rebecca’s schemes are vaguely interesting as a fascinating case study in 19th century social mores and sometimes her comebacks are satisfying– but her motivations aren’t examined deeply enough to be relatable and make her two-dimensional. Social climbers are fun only when you can sympathise with them; yet every time you want to give Becky the benefit of doubt she does something more repulsive and almost uncharacteristic considering her need for social acceptance, such as hitting her son. She’s too mildly written to be truly shocking today and too inexplicably evil to actually be mysterious or layered as a character.  

Some claim the subtitle was used because she is technically a heroine, and If you want to read Vanity Fair as a feminist work, there’s no doubt that Becky has more agency than most men in the novel– but the foil to Rebecca, Amelia Sedley, disproves this suggestion and feels trite. This comparison is a reflection of the classic “not like other girls” trope, where women are valued by men for displaying ‘manly’ traits like cunning, courage and aggression, as is seen in the fact that all the male characters including Amelia’s husband like garrulous Becky more than shy Amelia. Those who conform to the stereotype of a submissive, domesticated individual, as Amelia does in her obsessive parenting and inability to scheme her way out of social downfall, are automatically seen as worse than the other. As literary critics Owen and Knowles have explained, “many readers of 1848 were inclined to regard the novel as having a simple moral design” in contrasting the virtuous woman with the ambitious one. By the last few chapters, the point feels like it’s being hammered into your skull: sympathise with Becky, who makes every effort even if it is illegal, and feel jealous of Amelia who gets what she wants even though she only whines. The Guardian, in its placement of Vanity Fair at #14 on “100 Best Novels”, praises its “gaudy theatricality”, and of course, satire as a rule exaggerates character traits. Yet Amelia’s sheer submissiveness and blind love feel a little too ridiculous, just as Rebecca’s endless, increasingly problematic (her last act is actually implied to be murder) string of fraudulent endeavours do. Maybe the point is to highlight how absurd these people are, in which case I doff my hat to Thackeray– but reading hundreds of pages of it is difficult.  

The narrator is the one part of the book that seems fresh and enticing, subverting your expectations with the kind of sass and light teasing that Rebecca constantly tries to emulate, a voice with fourth wall-breaking opinions and exposition. Contrasted with examples like Nick’s attempts at pointed objectivity in the Great Gatsby, this felt engaging and reminded me positively of Jane the Virgin’s biting humour or the deeply relatable voice in Too Hot To Handle.  There are scathing comments about class that very clearly underpin the different character arcs, and it would be harsh to fault the novel for using this to achieve its purpose, sketching 1790s English society for the enjoyment of an audience in the later half of the same century. Class critique was once a part of its tongue-in-cheek charm, having for the modern reader the same effect as in Edith Wharton’s work where the background prejudices and issues are openly laid out. When you know whom to look down on, or whom to envy, you feel included enough in the social milieu to laugh along.  

Surprisingly, issues of race are handled in a very unique way for a work of this era, especially where George Osborne– one of the main characters– is encouraged by his money-hungry father to marry a woman of Caribbean descent for her money. Only vitriolic Becky thinks she is “a thousand times cleverer [than] that Creole”, but most of the characters do not seem to consider her race a reason to shun her, even Rebecca grudgingly admitting her “fine pedigree”. This is just one of the ways in which the novel surprised me, and perhaps in disappointing my expectations Vanity Fair performed the same role Thackeray sketched out for it back in 1848, making the audience aware of the conventions they expect works to follow and thus forcing them to realise that there’s no such thing as “the perfect story”.  

‘Please to buy my apology’

Hattie Blackman
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‘Please to buy my apology’

If you follow as many foodie accounts on social media as I do, then seek help you’ll no doubt have heard the furore generated by U.S. food writer Alison Roman’s latest interview. Describing her reluctance to further her career by developing a product range, Roman derided owners of lifestyle brands Chrissy Teigen and Marie Kondo for doing so, claiming that their expansion ‘horrifies [her] and it’s not something that [she] ever want[s] to do’. She suggests that Kondo, the tidying guru who developed her own range of products, ‘f***ing just sold out immediately’, imitating a cheap ad: ‘“For the low, low price of $19.99, please to buy my cutting board!”’. That ‘to’, which Roman later asked to be removed from the piece, is where things really get sticky: although she claimed otherwise (apparently it was an inside reference to an Eastern European cookbook), it sounds very much like she was mocking Japanese use of English. She goes on to criticize another Asian-American businesswoman (Teigen’s mother is of Thai descent), as she claims that ‘what Chrissy Teigen has done is so crazy to me. She had a successful cookbook. And then it was like: Boom, line at Target. Boom, now she has an Instagram page that has over a million followers where it’s just, like, people running a content farm for her’.

I do wonder what makes Teigen’s success ‘so crazy’ to Roman, whose own Instagram followers run into the hundreds of thousands, who also built her career on a ‘successful cookbook’, and who mentions, in the same interview, the development of her own range of products. Is it because she doesn’t expect to see an ethnic minority woman gaining such prominence as a food writer, especially when she isn’t cooking ‘world’ food, but the same range of variously-influenced foods as Roman? I would be reluctant to explain the whole scandal in this way, and it should be said that Roman has made a full apology acknowledging that her interview was ‘insensitive’ and recognizing all of the issues that it has raised. But there is no escaping its implications. Roman’s comments are crude, to say the least, and have brought to light some of the issues lurking in the food community: its snobbishness, the white privilege supporting many of its most prominent members (although this isn’t just the food community) and the issue of cultural appropriation.

This brings us back to the last time Roman ‘broke the internet’, only back then it was because of a recipe, not an offensive interview. ‘#TheStew’ was one of a series of Roman’s recipes to go viral (‘#TheCookies’ probably being the most famous). Roman may criticize Kondo and Teigen for using their image to expand their business, but what are these hashtags if not strategic marketing? By prefacing her recipes with the definite article in this way, Roman tells us that her recipe is the ultimate version: this isn’t a stew recipe, it’s the stew recipe. It lets every reader know that there’s a phenomenon they need to catch up on. The gossip. The Stew. Think of it as the culinary equivalent of ‘the It bag’, only more rustic. Because that’s also important: these recipes are supposed to seem no-nonsense and down-to-earth. As the puff on her NY Times-bestselling book Nothing Fancy promises us, ‘it’s unstuffy food paired with unstuffy vibes’. Roman knows her market. This back-to-basics approach is everywhere in the food world at the moment – even Yotam Ottolenghi, a man whose recipe for roast potatoes involves caramelising Agen prunes, has a book titled Simple – and it’s the ethos behind Roman’s stew.

It seems like the most controversy the recipe generated at the time was over whether it should be classed as a stew or a soup. (If you were looking for evidence of how reluctant to discuss serious issues food writing can be, then yes, I did find an entire article debating this). But Roman’s recent haughtiness towards Asian women in the food industry seems to have encouraged a racially-aware re-consideration of her work, and many have seen ‘#TheStew’ as an example of the kind of cultural appropriation on which white celebrity chefs thrive – what journalist Roxana Hadidi, in one of the most vehement criticisms of it, describes as ‘colonialism as cuisine’. Based on coconut milk, chickpeas and turmeric, it is loosely similar to dishes found in several different cuisines, including chana masala and Caribbean chickpea stew. Admittedly, Roman briefly and vaguely acknowledges these influences in her New York Times column, but nowhere else where the recipe is mentioned, leading to accusations of her trying to pass off ‘a watered-down curry’ as her own creation, gaining popularity from it while covering up its cultural heritage.

This controversy isn’t as clear-cut, I don’t think, as Roman’s more recent remarks. The blurring-together of cultures is a prevalent, and sometimes very productive force in cooking: it’s why one of Europe’s oldest culinary traditions is gingerbread made with West Indian spices, and why chicken korma is a uniquely British speciality which you can order in a chippy with a buttered bap and a cup of cha. (And is that a Mandarin loan-word I see?) We shouldn’t forget that foods like this came to us as a result of slavery and colonialism, and we shouldn’t complacently assume that slavery and imperialism are historical artefacts which have nothing to do with the food we eat now. But equally, I don’t think that eating a chicken korma makes someone a neo-colonial overlord – I don’t think anybody thinks that. I am all too aware that, as a white British woman, I am in no position to give a final verdict on cultural appropriation or the authenticity of food, unless, perhaps, I’m defending the Yorkshire parkin (another product of the spice trade) – which I will always do. We should of course engage with the history of food, and the political factors which inevitably influence it, but that doesn’t mean keeping it in rigidly fixed categories, and it is inevitable that cultural contact will shape the way people cook. It should go without saying that Western cultures needn’t always be involved in this – Indo-Chinese cuisine, for example, has been popular in Kolkata for centuries. Innovation like this is happening constantly, shaped by immigration now where it was by colonisation before, and in the best situations the culinary exchange is mutual – the brilliant Meera Sodha, for example, adopts ingredients from Lincolnshire, where she grew up, to make dishes using the flavours and techniques of her parents’ Gujurati homeland. This kind of cooking is exciting and, most importantly, delicious.

The way Roman presents ‘The Stew’, though, leaves a bad taste: firstly, giving what is essentially a fusion dish a homely, all-American-sounding name in an attempt to promote it amongst a white audience (whether or not Roman thought it through like this) is rather uncomfortable, and reveals the suspicion the public are presumed to hold towards ‘ethnic’-seeming food. Then, the conversation surrounding the recipe (which Roman is admittedly not solely responsible for) presents her as something of a trailblazer, discovering how well these ingredients go together – turmeric is praised for giving such an Instagrammable golden colour, chickpeas for providing cheap substance to the meal, as they have been to people around the globe for centuries – to make a simple supper which is now the definitive ‘Stew’. This raises the question of whether an Indian chef who developed a recipe for ‘The Chana Masala’ would gain the same internet fame. I think not; people in Western countries don’t see chana masala as a staple, a classic, in the way they do with stew. I’m not saying they should; what I am saying is that it can be problematic to view Western dishes as culturally neutral somehow, the way Roman does by giving us ‘#TheStew’, in an act of chickpea absolutism. It’s the same thinking behind the comment that she made, when asked about the influences on ‘#TheStew’, that she ‘has no culture’. Like all of us, Roman does have a culture, and she should acknowledge that it is one of many, rather than the definitive one. 

It all comes down to authenticity. Roman’s brash, expletive-laden remarks in her interview are part of her attempt to cultivate a straight-talking persona, a self as ‘unfussy’ as her recipes; but, of course, it’s as much of a brand as those developed by Kondo and Teigen. She recognizes that authenticity is what people seek in food: we want to see ‘the real version’ of a chef’s personality; we want a fast, easily-identified stew; or we want every rendition of a dish to remain true to its original culture. But there will never be a chef who isn’t developing their image through what they cook; there will never be an ultimate stew-to-end-all-stews; and there will never be a recipe that isn’t influenced by different cultures and cuisines. Food is messier than all that. And I’m fine with, I even like, these complications and spillages, provided we don’t ignore them. We can have our stews turmeric-stained, as long as we leave out the hypocrisy.

Image via Wiki images

Tales of the pole: building strength and self-love

Susannah Ames
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Tales of the pole: building strength and self-love

Sharing a video with my grandparents of me pole dancing over Sunday Lunch was not an experience I think either party envisaged. There was my grandma, fork speared with roast chicken, watching her eldest granddaughter perform a chair spin. To her credit, there was only mild horror in her expression when I announced my new hobby, her reaction more underwhelmed than anything. Progress, it appears, has been made. No longer is pole dancing rooted in visions of seedy clubs and dollar bills, its image now blooming into one where the artistry and skill required is respected (even by my grandma). When I chat to people about my experience in OU Pole Sports, more often than not the reaction is one expressing appreciation, especially among the girls.

After all, what other sport would tell you that the key to progression is ‘destroying the nerve endings in your thighs’? I assure you that my first class starred me as the flailing fish out of water, clueless and practically stamping around the pole, whinging about the smallest of chafe marks. Even the most basic trick requires immense core strength, elegance, flexibility, and grit, only one of which I can lay claim to. My body has suffered more bruises than I can recall in the most unlikely of places, but this is the cost of perfecting a skill. Perhaps the only injury I am ashamed of is the ‘carpet’ burns I received from trying to sexily crawl along the floor in an exotic class. I can assure you first-hand that there is nothing sexy about red scrapes on your kneecaps, or about my sexy crawling in general actually.

The sexualisation of pole sport is finally eroding, and the immense take up in recent years has been a testament to the efforts of the sport to escape that taint. OU Pole Sports is one of the fastest growing societies in terms of membership at the University, with classes becoming increasingly popular and almost always fully booked. And that is largely due to the efforts of the society themselves to ensure it is an inclusive, diverse, and welcoming community. 

This leads me to what I think is still one of the most challenging and most underappreciated elements of pole. No sport I have encountered thus far forces you to accept yourself quite the way pole does. When you enter that room, there is no judgement. It is somehow easy to get talking to people you would otherwise never have encountered when you can bond over falling on your butt repeatedly, and it is easier still to want them to succeed. The environment is one of total encouragement and praise; never in my classes have I experienced any negativity, teasing, or even an ill-humoured joke. To the contrary, pole dance classes are one of the most empowering activities I have participated in.

It may seem counterintuitive that by stripping down to fairly skimpy clothes and trying to look sexy in front of strangers can do anything for your confidence. And yet, it does. Somewhere among the laughter and tips and chitchat, a camaraderie formed. It is a sisterhood of men and women alike that feel beautiful, even with flexed feet and gritted teeth. Although I cannot quite place my finger on why and how it developed, I think it was through each other. When you give nothing but love and support to someone who is trying to achieve what you wish to achieve, when you laugh off each other’s failures and support the success, when you see the beauty in the effort of every individual, how can you not begin to see some of that in yourself? The once sexualised sport, synonymous with stunning, sensual women, has become a sport wherein you feel beautiful for trying. For an hour a week, we are all good enough.

I can only hope that as the sport continues to be normalised, this attitude carries forward. There is something inherently powerful in claiming a label given to you as your own; pole dancers do not need to be ogled to know their beauty. And I do not mean a superficial, surface kind of beauty, but one far more impressive and lasting.

The beauty of self-acceptance. Of self-love, forged from the warmth of loving others. Of appreciating and loving a sport disguised as an art (or perhaps vice versa, I can’t decide). Of total respect of anyone that is brave enough to give it a try, and a mutual respect for yourself as a result.

My grandma may have been underwhelmed by my chair spin, but I like to think she’s proud of everything else pole sport has taught me.

Cherpse! Eve and Thomas

Cherwell Life
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Cherpse! Eve and Thomas

Eve, German and Spanish, LMH, 2nd Year

First impressions?

He had a very impressive bookshelf!

Did it meet up to your expectations?

I am no good at blind dates so I was fearing the worst, but I did really enjoy it – a nice break from essay reading!

What was the highlight?

A particularly enlightening conversation about rival drug dealers who used ice-cream vans as a front for an all-out turf war.

“He had a very impressive bookshelf!”

What was the most embarrassing moment?

When he didn’t show up the first time round and I thought I’d been stood up (turns out he just got the times mixed up).

Describe the date in 3 words:

Wholesome, chill and funny.

Is a second date on the cards?

Considering I’m about to go on my year abroad it would probably just have to be as friends!

Thomas, History, Catz, 1st Year

First impressions?

Given that I’d misread the invite link email the day before and accidentally missed our time slot, initially I was just relieved that she hadn’t given up on me.

Did it meet up to your expectations?

“I’d watched one of her YouTube videos before my Oxford interview.”

Talking on Zoom to someone you’ve never met in real life is always going to be a bit strange, so I wasn’t really sure what to expect. I’d say I was pleasantly surprised, although everything we talked about did inevitably seem to come back to the topic of coronavirus. I suppose neither of us have much else going on in our lives at the moment.

What was the highlight?

In all honesty, the best part about it was just talking to someone new.

What was the most embarrassing moment?

Probably afterwards when I looked her up on Facebook, and realized that the reason why her name seemed familiar was that I’d watched one of her YouTube videos before my Oxford interview.

Describe the date in 3 words:

Chill quarantine chat

Is a second date on the cards?

She’s going on her year abroad in the next few months, so it seems unlikely.

Opinion – Why the use of police horses needs to stop

Abigail Howe
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Opinion – Why the use of police horses needs to stop

Vera Nibbs’ 104th birthday was charmingly marked by a special visit from mounted officers. She was allegedly thrilled by Norfolk’s placid and beautiful police horses. A day later, Jessie Tieti Mawutu, a teenaged nursing student, was traumatised after being trampled by a police horse at a largely peaceful Black Lives Matter protest in London. She claims that “after a few days, bruises have appeared, the whole right side of my body has become stiff and painful…I have been experiencing non-stop headaches”. The chasm is clear: on one side, a sweet old lady getting an old-fashioned surprise. On the other, a young woman faced with potentially life-changing injuries after a police horse panicked while at work.

After some protestors reportedly threw bottles, flares and other projectiles at police officers near Downing Street, mounted police attempted to drive demonstrators away from the site. One horse collided with a traffic light, throwing its police officer off. This horse then ran onto the street in Whitehall, hitting Ms Mawutu. The Daily Mail has blamed violence from protestors for this incident but it’s a natural consequence of putting anxious, powerful animals into such situations. It’s easy to see horses as sweet pets, trotting round their stables and accepting sugar cubes, but in a fight between you and a horse, the horse will win. Protestors may (or may not) have aggravated the animals. Police officers, though, put them in the situation in the first place, knowing the risks of agitation.

There is, of course, an irony to police monitoring protests against police brutality. While this is most clear in the US protests, the UK has similar issues. While Black Lives Matter protests in the UK were sparked by the death of George Floyd, they have expanded to consider police brutality and institutionalised racism in the UK too. Disproportionate amounts of stop-and-search, as well as the deaths of Kingsley Burrell and Sean Rigg, have fanned the flames of protest for years; the use of police to keep the peace is clearly inappropriate. The aftermath of Ms Mawutu’s injuries demonstrate this: when she attempted to complain,  “the officer said that this was a complaint that he could not process as it was a protest that had resulted to violence leading the horse to react in such a way,” she told PA, despite the apparently peaceful protesting until horses arrived.

The College of Policing claims that “research in public order situations has shown that horses have a pacifying effect on crowds and officers can better monitor crowds from their vantage point. Horses have been shown to disperse crowds and reassure residents and may bring a swifter end to public disorder”. However, when used in conjunction with kettling (the very opposite of dispersing crowds), they cannot have a “pacifying effect”. Horses needlessly escalate an otherwise peaceful situation through their pure physicality. While hurling bicycles at horses is never appropriate (although I do want to know whoever managed its gym routine), this is prompted by their placement within a tense situation. The intuitive need to defend oneself comes before a sense of animal welfare. If anything, it’s the police who put their horses at risk rather than finding alternative methods of controlling protests.

The US police’s use of horses as battering rams is clearly horrifically inhumane. While the UK ‘only’ kettles protestors using horses and then chases them down the street (2m social distancing be damned), this is clearly cruel to the animals and – more importantly – to the protestors. Mounted police should be relegated to wishing old ladies happy birthday.

Opinion – Britain’s education system must break its silence

Issy Kenney-Herbert
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Opinion – Britain’s education system must break its silence

TW: Racism

During the six months I spent in Australia in Year 9 I learnt more about the history of imperialism, the atrocities committed against indigenous communities by white colonialists and its lasting impact than I did in my ten years of education in the UK.

I was born in Australia and spent the first seven years of my life there. Since moving to the UK, I have always had a strong tie to Australia, spending holidays with family in Sydney, as well as moving back for six months. I’ve experienced the different systems of education and their respective attitude towards colonialism, as well as the difference more generally in society. In Australia, the majority of my family and friends regularly bring up injustices relating to Indigenous communities; my great-aunt even used her influence to ensure the Aboriginal Flag flew on Sydney Harbour Bridge on Australia Day, as a symbolic acknowledgment of their original custodianship of the land and the sufferings they have endured (which for them began on Australia Day). As much as I learnt through formal education, I have learnt in equal parts through open conversations with my family and friends over the years.

I am now a first-year undergraduate doing History at Oxford – this year was the first time I have experienced any formalised education in Britain about its history of colonialism, slavery and the abolition movement. Even my A-level in Tudor history had only a few pages on ‘Exploration’ in the Tudor reign, with a total of one sentence dedicated to the beginning of the slave trade in Elizabeth’s reign in its entire 254 pages: “In 1562 John Hawkins went to Africa, with brightly-coloured cloth and trinkets to sell, captured some locals and took them as slaves to West Indian islands.” The reduction of the beginning of one of the most horrific events in human history to this one sentence shows the extent of the erasure of Britain’s imperial past in education.

The silence on Britain’s imperial history and glaring gap in most student’s knowledge on this subject is at the very least problematic. In actuality, it is dangerous when considering the political climate in which this silence is constructed. Britain’s colonial history continues to be a discursive matter amongst many politicians, with the glorification of aspects such as the railways, rather than the focus on the Bengal famine or the extended massacres of Indigenous Australians. It appears that the positive aspects of the Empire the UK can take credit for, but the atrocities are too far in the past to have anything to do with Britain now.

This political climate sees Michael Gove make headway with his proposed education reform in 2013, in particular his “history as celebration” curriculum designed to instil pride amongst students, by studying specific heroes who made their name specifically in relation to Britain’s imperial mission, as they subjugated people of colour to hand new territorial acquisitions to the crown. It’s the same political climate that sees Boris Johnson publish an article in which he states the issue in Africa is “not that we were once in charge, but that we are not in charge anymore.” Despite the fact that this article was published in 2002, this same mentality can be seen in a number of other statements that Johnson has made since, most notably in his 2016 Conservative party conference speech in which he extolled the virtues of the Foreign Office’s imperial origins, bragging that “178 nations of the world we either conquered or invaded.”


I am not saying that Australia being more open about the issues of colonialism has meant that Australia is a utopia of civil rights – far from it. Aboriginal people are 15 times more likely to be imprisoned than non-Aboriginal people. Aboriginal women are 20 times more likely to be in prison than non-Aboriginal women. Systemic racism thrives in Australia still. This can be seen in the election and re-election of Tony Abbott (thankfully no longer in office as Prime Minister), and in the lack of acknowledgement of Australia’s past. Abbott described pre-invasion Australia as “extraordinarily basic”, claiming that precolonial Sydney was “nothing but bush” before the arrival of the First Fleet in 1788, and suggesting white invasion was a positive, “defining moment”. It is clear that Australia’s openness about talking about the impact of colonialism on aboriginal communities, as well as education on imperialism, and the atrocities committed, needs to go further. But it is a start at the very least. A start yet to be made by the British education system.

What’s more damming is that the attitudes that Michael Gove, Boris Johnson and Tony Abbott hold towards colonialism seem to bear similarities. These can to some extent be explained when you look at their education – all three men were educated at the University of Oxford, with Abbott being a Rhodes scholar. Cecil Rhodes, I am sure, would feel his legacy successfully maintained in the figure of Tony Abbott.

We see the basis of continuing colonialist thinking being supported by an education system that does not successfully address Britain’s imperialist past. It shouldn’t take doing history at an undergraduate level to be taught about Britain’s colonialist past (and even then, attitudes towards teaching within this degree are incredibly Eurocentric, often looking at imperialism through a British lens, rather than focusing on the effects on indigenous populations or other countries). Britain’s education needs reform – at a primary, secondary and higher level – it’s that simple. Is this the only thing that needs reform? Absolutely not, and as Australia demonstrates, even beginning to educate on these issues will not immediately solve systemic racism. But Britain’s lack of education on this, and its unwillingness to acknowledge its imperialist heritage is distinctly felt in the political situation in this country, and many others. Our silence speaks volumes. As Maya Goodfellow wrote in an article in the Guardian: “Relative quiet in our schools is paired with politicians glorifying empire as its realities are erased.” Britain’s education system needs to no longer be silent.

If you agree with what I’ve written, here is a petition that you can sign to call the government to debate changes to the curriculum: https://petition.parliament.uk/petitions/324092

NEVER fail to call out racism: the devastation of silence

Melanie Onovo
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NEVER fail to call out racism: the devastation of silence

TW: Racism, sexual assault 

British society and campuses continue to live in denial of racial inequality entrenched in our communities. Removing the burden of racism from the rest of the international community is unjust and a besmirchment on the progressive principles by which we live. Racial injustice is a global problem, with particular resonance here in the United Kingdom. While many people seem to have only woken up to the realities of racial oppression now, this has been my reality from the very beginning of my life. The Black community has been fighting what feels like an endless battle against racism and we will have failed if our concern for racial prejudice disappears because George Floyd is no longer the number one news story and the news cycle has moved on.

White guilt should not be downplayed. It is valid to feel emotional distress and anxiety when you have to have to understand and accept your biases and bigotry. Due to the significance of White guilt, centuries have failed to give the correct priority to race issues in education and have simply pretended that it isn’t there. This is a miscarriage of justice for every Black person who must suffer racism without proportional consequences in order to protect the comfort of their White peers.

In my short time at Oxford, I have experienced too many racially inappropriate encounters. I have not always spoken about them because it is upsetting and exhausting; I should not have to constantly explain to people why I deserve respect and why they should have a personal regard for my existence as a Black woman. 

Here is what I have experienced as a Black woman in romantic settings:

  • I have always felt like the less attractive option and the lesser preference of my peers who comprise  my dating pool.
  • I have had my hair pulled, and was forcefully flipped and called violent racial slurs whilst someone  thrusted inside me with rage. Sexual harassment and assault is most prevalent in the Black community, but no one talks about it.
  • I am constantly the “booty call” and never the girl wanted for a serious relationship due to the hypersexualisation of Black women historically.

Here is what I have experienced as a Black woman in social settings:

  • I have had my box braids compared to Medusa’s snake hair
  • I have been asked if I have a health condition that prevents me from growing hair because I wear wigs
  • I have been called a slave on multiple occasions by supposed close friends

Here is what I have experienced in an educational capacity at Oxford:

  • I have been told by a tutor not to worry about my grades as my place at Oxford is more about being able to have “intellectual conversations about Hobbes and Aristotle”
  • I was gaslighted into believing I was unintelligent when I had a genuine invisible learning disability
  • I was told by a tutor that my handwriting was a reflection of my academic potential and that I should not allow this to be another “disadvantage” I must face
  • It was assumed that my dissertation on the Biafra war would be difficult due to a lack of sources in English when Nigeria was literally a British colony and has a prosperous educated elite… 

These are only a few instances and continuous cohorts of Black students have suffered a lot worse.

Wearing protective hairstyles at university means preparing for uncomfortable and agonising interactions. I must approach romantic relationships with caution due to the fetishisation of my skin. Equal expectations by my academic support system, relating to my potential to succeed, seem out of my reach. These issues should not only be important now that another Black man has been murdered by the police. This discourse is important and should continue – we must be vocal in correcting racism and all instances of implicit bias. Everyone must be working to educate themselves on the severity and pervasiveness of racism and anti-Blackness.

I grew up and went to school in a predominantly Black area, so I was less familiar with instances of racism, microaggressions and implicit bias when I arrived at Oxford. The hateful and baleful remarks against me and the evil racist attitudes being released into the world must NOT go unpunished. The burden should not be on me and other Black people to get used to racism and numb to the suffering. As an ally, you cannot and must not stay silent in times of injustice, in moments of racist hatred and ignorant disregard for the seriousness of the circumstances that Black people live through everyday. It will be uncomfortable, it may be in response to people close to you — friends and family — but choosing a position of neutrality is to allow such dangerous and harmful perceptions and structures to continue unabating.

One crucial lesson must be learnt from this: being “not racist” in silence is not enough. Failing to call out instances of racial discrimination is not just validating the hatred, evil, and ignorance behind racism, but it actively contributes to a dominant culture of dismissal and disregard for the plight of Black people everywhere.

While social media has been flushed with posts expressing solidarity for George Floyd, and support for those protesting racial justice and putting their lives on the line in the process, students and campuses need to go a step further. Real progress will require a deeper understanding of the ingrained oppressive power structures. It will require my fellow students to assume a more proactive allyship and become comfortable with confronting everyday instances of racism and prejudice.

“The beauty of anti-racism is that you don’t have to pretend to be free of racism to be anti-racist. Anti-racism is the commitment to fight racism wherever you find it, including in yourself. And that is the only way forward.” – Ijeoma Oluo

Image credit: Daria Koukoleva

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