Wednesday, May 14, 2025
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How to get away with murder: claim she consented

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Warning: this article contains detailed descriptions of violence including sexual violence

Grace Millane, a keen hockey player and recent graduate from the University of Lincoln, was fulfilling a lifelong ambition when she set out in 2018 on a gap year travelling the world. The first six weeks were spent in South America, throughout which she kept in close touch with her parents and two brothers. Next came a stint exploring New Zealand’s North Island. On December 1st , Grace sent her family a picture of a large Christmas tree in the centre of Auckland. The next day, 2nd December, was Grace’s 22nd birthday, and when she did not respond to birthday messages her family became worried. It quickly emerged that she had not returned to her hostel the previous night. Urgent pleas were issued for information on Grace’s whereabouts, and her father and uncle flew to New Zealand to assist police with their missing person case.

The search did not last long. On 9th December 2018, Grace’s body was discovered inside a suitcase, buried in a shallow grave in a nature reserve just outside Auckland.

After sending the picture of the Christmas tree, Grace had gone on a date with a 26 year old man she had met on Tinder. CCTV footage shows the two talking and kissing in a series of bars before returning to the man’s flat. We’ll never know exactly what happened in that flat on the night of December 1st, but a pathologist’s report indicates that Grace was killed by strangulation, forceful enough to burst blood vessels in her nose and eyes, which continued for five to ten minutes, and that she was likely restrained while she was strangled to death. Internet search history shows that the man then watched pornography, took intimate photographs of her body and planned how to dispose of it, and went on a date with another woman while Grace lay dead in his flat. In court, however, his claim was that everything he did to Grace was consensual, and her death was a tragic accident.

The jury rejected this explanation, and the anonymous man was found guilty of murder on the 22nd of November this year. However, this came after a trial in which details of Grace’s sex life were paraded in front of the court and the world press. “Grace Millane was member of BDSM dating sites”, said a headline in the Evening Standard. The New Zealand Herald went with “The girl behind the headlines: Boyfriends and hangovers”.

There are obvious parallels with high profile rape cases, in which the victim’s sex life is publicly pored over for reasons to disbelieve that a crime was committed. The difference is that unlike after a murder, someone who has been raped has consented to come forward, knowing what that entails, and crucially, is alive to give her side of the story.

This is not an isolated case. The campaign group We Can’t Consent To This was set up in 2018 following the death of Natalie Connolly at the hands of her partner. He claimed that Natalie’s fractured eye socket, internal bleeding, blunt force trauma to the head, and bleach poured over her face were the result of consensual sexual activity. He was found guilty only of manslaughter, and sentenced to less than four years in prison. Since then, We Can’t Consent To This has documented 59 similar cases stretching back to 1979. Twenty of these— a third of the total— were in the last five years. The cases recorded by this group involve UK women ranging in age from 16 to 66, many of whom were in relationships already known to be abusive. There has not been a single case of a man killed by a woman where this defence has been claimed.

In a statement for Cherwell, We Can’t Consent To This noted that “just under half the time these claims work in getting a lesser charge like manslaughter, a lighter sentence, or the woman’s death not being treated as a crime at all […] We must stop blaming women for their own homicides.”

Links have been drawn between the increasing frequency of ‘rough sex’ defences and the rising popularity of sex acts inspired by violent and misogynist pornography. For instance, once the preserve only of the most sexually adventurous, strangulation— also known as ‘choking’, ‘squeezing’, or ‘breath play’— is now a mainstream occurrence in pornography. Consequently, many women feel it is expected of them by sexual partners, and a third of UK women under 40 report being non-consensually strangled, slapped, or spat on during sex. Strangulation is a common feature of about two thirds of the deaths recorded by We Can’t Consent To This, and is often seen in rapes and robberies where women are the victims. Women’s Aid reports that a woman is strangled to death by her partner on average every two weeks in the UK, and that non-fatal strangulation in an intimate relationship predicts a sevenfold increase in the risk of later fatal violence.

Labour MP Harriet Harman has recently drawn attention to the ‘rough sex’ defence, asking for a review into whether the sentence of Natalie Connolly’s killer was unduly lenient. Speaking on Woman’s Hour last December, she pointed out that this is not the first time we have seen lawyers arguing that murdered women were ‘asking for it’. Until 2009, it was possible for a charge of murder to be reduced to manslaughter on the grounds of provocation, making a person supposedly less culpable for their actions. Cynically called the ‘nagging and shagging’ defence by barristers, it was often used in domestic homicides where a female partner had been unfaithful, had moved on after the end of a relationship, or had simply got on her partner’s nerves one time too many. One instance in 1997 saw a man sentenced to just three years in prison for strangling his wife to death, after she had allegedly provoked him by moving a pot of mustard to the ‘wrong’ side of the table.

In either case, women are being held morally responsible for their deaths at the hands of their partners. Just as with rape, homicide victims now risk being subject to an incredibly intrusive dissection of their personal lives in the public forum. And just as with rape, we are told that there has been no crime; that she asked for it, wanted it, or somehow had it coming.

Whether or not she did indeed ‘ask for it’ can be difficult to determine, but ultimately this is hardly relevant.

Consider this: in an infamous case in 2001, a German man was found to have killed and eaten software developer Bernd Brandes— with his consent. Brandes had responded to an advert posted by Armin Miewes on an online message board for their shared cannibalism fetish; his willing agreement to the entire process is clear from the video they made together of Brandes’ killing. Despite this, Miewes was eventually found guilty of murder, and jailed for life without the possibility of parole. Evidently there are some actions for which consent is no excuse.

As the crown prosecutor in Grace Millane’s case rightly said, “you can’t consent to your own murder”.

In the UK, it has also been established in case law since R v Brown in 1993 that consensual sexual activity is not a justification for causing any injury that is more than ‘transient and trifling’. It would seem then that, by definition, any sexual activity violent enough to have caused death— strangling someone to the point of unconsciousness, say— would be illegal whether or not the victim had consented to it. The trouble though is that the defence will argue that the injuries were only ‘transient and trifling’, that she died unexpectedly during sexual activity which, while rough, was not so violent that her consent would mean nothing legally.

What can be done about this? One possibility would be to make non-fatal strangulation a specific offence, so that injuries resulting from it could not be deemed ‘transient and trifling’. Currently it is classed as a battery, the mildest form of assault; but the gendered nature of strangulation, the number of deaths associated with it, and the fact that it is often sexually motivated in my view warrant an upgrade in severity.

Another possibility would be to revise and strengthen guidelines as to what evidence is admissible in court. For sexual offences, there are rules regarding what questions can be asked on a victim’s prior sexual history, and under what circumstances. The increasing frequency with which female victims’ sex lives are dredged up in homicide cases might suggest that similar rules should be implemented for these crimes as well.

It would also be good to see greater sensitivity in how these cases are reported. The BBC, for instance, ran a headline saying that Grace Millane “died ‘when sex act went wrong’”. It was widely pointed out on social media that we ought to expect more from the BBC than uncritical repetition of the excuses given by accused murderers.

What we really need, however, is a society-wide shift in attitudes towards violence against women. The fact that this defence is used so often, and is picked up so readily by the press, suggests that we are resistant to holding men responsible for the violence they commit, and so their victims shoulder the blame instead. We see it in the phrase ‘sex game gone wrong’, often used to describe these deaths— yes his hands were around her neck, and yes she died as a result, but it was nobody’s fault really, it just ‘went wrong’.

With the increasing eroticisation of violence against women via pornography, advertising, and social media, it is hardly surprising that sex is being used as a justification for women’s deaths. Even back in 2000, the defence lawyer for the husband of 32 year old Mandy Barclay was claiming that she died as a result of “sex that narrow minded people would call kinky”— suggesting that to object to sex that literally left a woman dead was to be prudish and repressed, to not move with the times.

As Louise Perry from We Can’t Consent To This wrote in Standpoint magazine, “Cases like [these] are symptomatic of a wider culture which views violence against women as a normal and acceptable part of sex, and there is no silver bullet for that problem.” For every woman killed by supposed ‘rough sex’, there will be thousands more who have come to expect pain and degradation as part of their sex lives, and thousands of men who are unabashedly aroused by inflicting it. Until we challenge that, the fatalities, and the light sentences for those responsible, will continue.

Review: Macbeth

“I have no spur

To prick the sides of my intent, but only

Vaulting ambition, which o’erleaps itself

And falls on the other.”

If one were to wrap up Shakespeare’s Macbeth with one word, ‘ambition’ would be a good fit. The Renaissance tragedy, first performed in 1606, centrally explores the potential of such ambition and its incessant menace to turn destructive, as well as the intoxicating nature of power – most pertinent themes far from withered today. 

Accordingly, Tom Runciman’s production was ambitious in its creative aspirations for such a classic masterpiece. This was marked by the very start of the play: as the spectator is just starting to get accustomed to the witchy laughter ringing through the studio, the lying body of one of the sisters comes to life on a leafy backdrop, transposing one from the Scottish highlands to a more modern tropical jungle, an overall innovative rendering of the fantastic element of the drama. 

Throughout, the actors and direction successfully conveyed to their audience some of the play’s apogees and ethos. Harry Berry’s performance of Macbeth’s soliloquies, lent authenticity through facial expressivity and impressive clarity of diction, provided a comprehensive insight into the complexity of the character’s vacillating temper. Lola Beal as Lady Macbeth, then, complemented him by her convincingly embodied charm and strength. The crowning of Macbeth with his Lady laying her head on his shoulder in an intimate embrace effectively synthesised the tenderness of their bond, a motif repeated in a more intense form when Macbeth comes back from murdering Duncan. When Macbeth publicly loses his mind and flings his drinking cup down to ground, her firm orders to the banqueters further bring out her characterisation and the support she lends to her dependent husband. The centrality of their fatal tie is memorably underlined once last as Macbeth in his pain and despair upon her death stamps on his crown, presaging his end. 

It was in thoughtful decisions and details that the sound and lighting supported the performances of the actors. The voices of the witches, first with on stage appearance of one but later without any accompanying physical presence, measured well the ascending madness taking possession of Macbeth. In a similar way, having no lighting when the protagonist initially hears that the woods of Birnam began to move and only a dim glow as he threatens his messenger skillfully highlighted his somber descent into the paranoia of tyranny. 

Just as Macbeth eventually suffers the consequences of his ambition, however, the production at times lacked some of its tragic character and vehemence. For some of the arguably defining instances of the drama could have benefitted from some more intention and intensity, such as the “unsex me now” scene. The moments of brilliant height, too, were occasionally undermined by a rather meagre and sudden build up, perhaps a result of the cutting out of a great deal of the original text. Moreover, even though the jungle setting was coherent on itself, it remained a choice unexplained by the general performance; and the red fairy lights were on the verge of kitsch, almost becoming an understatement of the play’s grave themes. 

Still, putting on Shakespeare’s Macbeth is quite a challenge, and in this light Collarbone production was notable. I left the BT studio with the voices of the witches haunting my head and could not sleep at night, a testimony that this production caught the looming and ever-relevant force of the tragedy. 

Review: American Buffalo

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CW: rape, homophobia, misogyny, addiction

Now is, to put it kindly, an interesting time to put on a production of American Buffalo. Vocal Trump supporter, outspoken critic of “PC culture”, and, most recently, an accused Weinstein apologist, David Mamet is certainly a “controversial” figure – if you’re interested in giving him any leeway at all (full disclosure: I’m not). Particularly, his repeated interest in dealing with rape accusations in his plays, from both the viewpoint of the accuser and the accused (read: rapist) – historically in Oleanna (1994), and more recently in Bitter Wheat (2019) – is one which feels more than a little uncomfortable, peddling the blithely (and quite revoltingly) patronizing notion that all we need to do to work through systemic abuse in the entertainment industry is to get a little bit of perspective. Controversy for controversy’s sake, regardless of who gets shat on, is the name of the game here (and, distressingly, it does all come off as a bit of a game to Mamet).

But what do Stage Wrong make of all this? Their marketing campaign, certainly, has been more interested in posting faux-arty black-and-white photos of random junk-shop objects, or sneaking in wry lil’ snaps of Ross from Friends when they met him at the Bully last Saturday, than in engaging with the complicated cultural moment they’ve chosen to be a part of. “Forget about the context”, they seem to be saying, “it’s just a good play!”. Maybe it’s a stretch to argue complicity in Mamet’s many wrongs, but the willed desire to overlook them definitely raises concerns. One of the actors’ profile picture captions reads, “There’s no reason not to come to American Buffalo next week!” – in the light of the above, I can think of several. 

I find it quite hard to leave all this at the stage door, especially considering the (very, very needed) content warning at the ticket desk advertising “homophobic slurs, guns, and graphic violence” – the exact kinds of discourse I’ve been trying to show Mamet delights in. The play centres around the relationship between three men, Don, Bobby and Teach, who run a junk shop. They accidently sell an “American buffalo” nickel for $90, subsequently realize it’s maybe worth a lot more than that, and so scheme to steal it back. Hate-speech is spoken. Betrayal ensues. 

If anything really stands out, it’s the set and lighting design (Tara Kelly and Harvey Dovell). The towers of decaying junk-shop merch and moody red over-lighting create a brilliantly claustrophobic setting for the actors’ (Arthur Campbell, Henry Calcutt and Nici Marks) astonishingly controlled performances to shine through, and the scrupulous attention to blocking as the characters prowl around the stage works very effectively – especially with Don (Campbell), whose increasingly erratic movements from his desk, set upstage right, to the central table become a fitting analogue to the falling apart of the trio’s schemes. Bobby’s (Marks) nervous energy, and his deeply sad attempts to impress his “friends”, is well-handled and sensitively portrayed.

Despite all its homophobic and misogynistic slurs, the play is most striking for the delicacy of the relationship dynamics between its three characters. The heightening, manic anxiety as the verbal currency of their toxically masculinist value system becomes increasingly slippery, alongside the value of their merchandise, is effectively realized – that is until the final moments, where Teach’s (Calcutt) breakdown comes across more as a childish tantrum than the potentially pathetic revelation of the illusory “American Dream” they’ve all been chasing. This is possibly the result of the decision to downplay Teach’s drug addiction – he’s made very difficult to sympathize with.

The play’s central question thus appears to be the extent to which the characters are the victims or the perpetrators of the toxic value system they take part in, and while Stage Wrong’s production initially deals deftly with it, by the end it begins to falter as its subtleties are rushed (the play feels compressed to fit the Pilch’s two-hour slot). And the result seems less a repudiation of that value system, and more nostalgic glorification: masculinity has been corrupted by capitalism – if only we could purify it! 

To me, this production feels ill-timed and insensitive at best, with a disturbing directorial flippancy about the fact that the language being chucked about the stage is actual hate-speech, that has actual “real-world” consequences (see first paragraph). The performances are near excellent, but why they’ve chosen to perform them is another question. There are things to like here, but they get lost in the distressing mire of the play’s many unsavoury associations.

Review: Malcolm The Miserable

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The sobering black box of the Burton Taylor was lit up by ‘Malcolm the Miserable’ on Tuesday evening.

Alison Hall’s sarky new script peppers a candid depiction of loneliness into a painfully funny portrayal of the relationship between man and his (new) best friend, Malcolm the cat. Combining comedic escapism with this harsh, and little discussed, reality, you are guaranteed to leave both sated with laughter and pensive.

Entering the studio to find William Ridd-Foxton frolicing on the floor in fully feline form, cat-suit included courtesy of Kat Cooper, is a welcome and hilarity-inducing assault to the mundane; and indeed perhaps more convincing anthropomorphism than the new film of CATS is set to offer. In a confident and determinedly ‘catty’ delivery, whizzing off one-liners with the lick of the paw or a bat of his thickly-lined eyes, Ridd-Foxton’s portrayal of the cultured and indifferent animal was a hit.

Ava Sharpe’s sprawling set design provided an apt sensory stomping ground for the furball-coughing, fussy-eating Malcolm but also cleverly doubled as a representation of the disarray of Vincent’s state of mind. Our heartbroken hero slips between lacking sobriety and sense as he deals with loss and the cold-witted advice of his newfound companion. Gus Brown convincingly depicts the vulnerability of the character who is open even to accepting inspiration and wisdom from a cat.

Vincent’s isolation is made all the more poignant through the use of lighting. As we watch day and night intermingle without a single costume change, his solitude is made starkly clear. Arguably, his loneliness is most apparent in the echoing of his ex-girlfriend’s voice-mail, blasted through the sound system. This is the only other ‘human’ that features in the week of Vincent’s life that we are witness to, successfully rooting our empathy and concern for someone who almost proudly admits ‘you know me, addressing my problems isn’t my forte’. In spite of this pervasive and gloomy undertone, the rapport between man and pet impressively manages to buoy the performance to lightheartedness. From the irreverent exchanges of Malcolm asking both Vincent and the audience to ‘f*** off’, to Vincent’s endearingly pathetic plan to become the new ‘children’s laureate’, Hall draws humour and tenderness to the fore of Vincent’s struggle.

A final image that sticks in the mind is that of the two characters curled asleep on the sofa towards the end of the play, a clear and tenderly felt progression from their jabs taken at the start, ultimately offering a hopeful perspective on the silent killer that is loneliness and a laugh-a-minute in the meantime.

Review: Oxford Contemporary Opera Festival

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For a fan of opera, an art form so often defined by elitism, tradition and outdated cultural norms, it was a refreshing change to see three short student-composed operas, about themes as diverse as the rise of the far right, workplace harassment and the Hong Kong crisis, performed at the first Oxford Contemporary Opera Festival at St Hilda’s earlier this week. Organised by Exeter music finalist Zerlina Vulliamy, the festival has the goal of ‘presenting a spectrum of what modern opera can offer’, with a focus on ‘contemporary, accessible storylines’.

Indeed, from the opening of the night’s first opera, Hani Elias’ Camus-inspired The Outsiders, it was clear that this festival would push the boundaries of what opera could offer as a genre. Some striking red lighting cast the audience’s attention upon the protagonist Moselle, a falsely accused female defendant and descendant of Simone de Beauvoir, and an offstage male voice ominously described the charge against her, with the defendant herself pointedly remaining silent. These same themes of patriarchal alienation were again brought to vivid musical life in the chaotic vocal trio made up of Moselle’s girlfriend and a second loyal advocate, and an ominous male ‘Judge’, emphasising powerfully the isolation of women and the impenetrability of political power – this effect was enhanced by some imaginative staging, with the women mixed in with the audience and the man high above on a balcony (and also conducting the band). A memorable, comic yet sobering feature of the opera was the insertion of several spoken Trump quotes into the Judge’s arias, such as the ‘nasty woman’ speech, giving the opera a refreshing grounding in reality and extending its scope to include the general isolation felt by those alienated in any way from a far-right political climate.

The idea of using opera to comment meaningfully on contemporary issues was continued to great effect in Vulliamy’s own composition Susanna, a modern transferal of Mozart’s The Marriage of Figaro, the classic tale of oppressed servants standing up against their amoral aristocratic master, to a modern office. Susannatransferred the powerful-powerless dynamic to a typical #MeToo situation, with Mozart’s Susanna now an ambitious office worker receiving unwanted sexual advances from her boss and being subsequently blamed by her co-worker and love interest Figaro for being ‘the boss’ favourite’ and using sex as a means to power. Though perhaps the most traditional musically speaking of the three operas, Susannademonstrated the unique ability of the operatic aria to convey a character’s vulnerability and emotional journey; Susanna’s final aria, carried beautifully by Tamsin Sandford-Smith’s expressive and versatile soprano, believably depicted the all-too familiar emotional narrative of a victim of sexual harassment, from despair and questioning her own autonomy (‘my body, my career, how much of it was mine?’), to realisation that she is not to blame for others’ action and resolve to change her situation with the aid of Figaro. Also striking in the piece was its able transferal of the source material’s themes and characters to a modern setting; Susanna’s exuberant energy and Mozart’s frantic musical motifs were epitomised in Susanna’s bouncy statement in the opening scene that she is ‘the last one left’ in the office, and Figaro’s foolish-yet-endearing persona opposite Susanna’s ‘straight man’ was a dynamic which came across as strongly in this opera as it does in Mozart. Moreover, it would be remiss not to mention that Vulliamy did not do away with the comic value of Mozart’s original, but rather updated it – an operatic soprano’s reaction to receiving a dick pic was a surprisingly yet very welcome and unfortunately familiar moment to see depicted on stage!

Perhaps slightly less convincing was Israel Lai’s Bou6, a reflection on the current crisis in Hong Kong and on dictatorship and rioting in general. Though the themes were a powerful and appropriate fit for the genre given the dramatic moments that opera can easily portray, and the singers very talented, especially Zhao Ng’s formidable personification of Tyranny, the range of scenes and ideas that the composer tried to incorporate (namely the clash of idealism and authority, the reaction to the death of a young protestor and the ‘wake-up call’ received by a tyrant about the reality of youth rebellion) were perhaps too ambitious for such a short piece. Additionally, while the philosophical ideas expressed in the libretto were often eloquent, most notably the climax of ‘there is no riot, only tyranny’, a quote from a real Hong Kong protest banner, sometimes the orchestrations were so heavy as to overwhelm the audibility of the singers expressing these ideas. 

Nevertheless, all three operas were sophisticated musical reflections on contemporary issues, and strong promotions of opera as a socially relevant and emotionally powerful art form.

A Meaty Dilemma

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In the penultimate episode of his infamous TV show, Who is America?, Sacha Baron Cohen successfully convinced wannabe food critic, Bill Jilla, to eat human flesh. The delicacy served was, in fact, nothing more than a nondescript cut of pork or chicken, but the implications of Jilla’s decision to consume it under a false guise were catastrophic. His reputation was ruined, his job prospects were shattered, and all traces of his existence were duly removed from the Internet. Why all this fallout? Because we humans have almost universally deemed the practice of anthropophagy inadmissible.

It is not, however, just cooking up our fellow men that we seem to take issue with. Many of us, in addition, would not dream of tucking into dog, horse, or swan meat, nor would we willingly consume the unorthodox body parts – brains, hearts, testicles, etc. – of otherwise ‘acceptable’ animals. Whether for cultural, religious, or ethical reasons, it seems that even the most carnivorous among us have their limits, and yet to have these preconceived notions of what is right and wrong seems blatantly speciesist. A domesticated labrador may earn the title of ‘man’s best friend’, but does that really justify our decision to regard it as more intellectually advanced, and therefore more worthy of protection, than, say, a fish swimming freely in the ocean?

This is one of the questions that Jonathan Safran Foer attempts to answer in his riveting bestseller, Eating Animals. In the end, he argues, it all boils down to egocentrism: ‘we care most about what’s close to us, and have a remarkably easy time forgetting everything else’. Nor does it all come rush-ing back to us when we’re faced with buying such products. The meat sold in supermarkets is plucked, sliced, minced, and breaded beyond all recognition, and only the most daring of butchers will have the nerve to hang lacerated carcasses in their shop windows.

The truth – as those in the meat industry are well aware – is that none of us omnivores wants to be reminded of the reality of our dietary choices. There’s a reason that most of us haven’t done much research into the meat industry, or even spared a couple of hours to watch the hard-hitting Earthlings documentary: we’re afraid of the grim details that we’ll uncover. Instead, we sit wolfing down our roast dinners, telling ourselves that we’re not bad people, because, well, at least we don’t eat horses.

That is, until unwittingly we do. One evening last spring, while I was on my year abroad, my Italian host mother served up what I thought was beef tartare. I polished off my plate quick as a flash, and keenly accepted a second helping. Only halfway through this portion did I discover that the food I was eating was of equine – not bovine – origin. My companions hadn’t thought to warn me of this, and quite rightly too, because their horse was my chicken, and it hadn’t even occurred to them that I might have banned it from my list of ‘acceptable’ animals.

A trip to Malmö’s Disgusting Food Museum later that year saw me expand my palate further. After walking past displays of nauseating specialities from across the world – ranging from the stomach-turning casu marzu (a Sardinian cheese ridden with live maggots), to the famously pungent durian fruit – I was invited to come up to a tasting bar and sample some for myself. ‘1 DAY SINCE LAST VOMIT’ read a blackboard; I didn’t have high hopes. However, over the course of the session, my notion of what constituted a ‘disgusting food’ – and, in turn, a ‘disgusting meat’ – was challenged. As it happens, even if you’re a self-proclaimed insectophobe, you can still enjoy the occasional roasted cricket.

My intention in writing this article, then, is neither to implore you to give up meat once and for all – Christmas is fast approaching, and I understand that, like me, not all of you will be ready to transition from turkey to nut roast – nor, conversely, to encourage consumption for consumption’s sake. I ask simply that you be mindful of what you eat, that you remember where it’s come from, and that you regularly check in with your moral reasoning. Ask yourself ‘why this meat and not that?’ and see if your perceptions don’t shift somewhat. If, after some active reflection, you decide to branch out and start dining on kangaroo and porcupine, that’s your call, but if, on the other hand, the cognitive dissonance gets too much, just remember: there’s no meaty dilemma a Quorn substitute can’t solve.

The Ivy Oxford Brasserie review

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Immediately upon arrival, it’s clear that The Ivy is ‘running the game’ when it comes to Oxford’s fine dining scene. It’s 6:30 PM on a Tuesday evening, and the restaurant is already humming with diners. My companion and I arrive at the front desk, our coats are taken, and immediately The Ivy’s signature flair for outstanding service begins. Our waiter Karim delivers us the best service I have ever experienced – along with a side of anecdotes about his sons’ love of the fair to compliment my ‘Candy Floss Fizz’ Cocktail. A crucial part of delivering ‘luxury’ is ensuring guests feel special and valued, and in this respect, we couldn’t have asked for anything more.

While a full 3 course meal for one with drinks might easily total up to over £60, the set menu offers a very fair price, at an incredibly reasonable £21 per head for 3 courses. The Ivy also takes bookings to be seated at the bar, where you can enjoy the ambiance and a drink if you are more interested in spending money on liquid treats. The vast menu means you can effectively tailor a meal to both your palate and purse strings.

On first impressions, the restaurant is simply beautiful. The old-fashioned mirror panelled bar is a beacon of alchemy in the main dining hall, and the attention to design detail means it stands out by a velvet padded, golden wall-papered mile. Take the Ladies washrooms for example. Karim told me they were his wife’s favourite part of the restaurant, which at first seemed slightly odd, but I immediately saw why.  Rose quarts wash basins? Pink toilets? Deep velvet padded stools with golden mythical figures lining the walls? Yes, to all of these, with the added touch of ambient 1920’s soft Jazz. Even the toilets of this restaurant would be at home among the editorial pages of House & Garden.

As for the main dining area itself, I was slightly sceptical of the delivery men wheeling a small rainforest into the building just before opening, but the ‘1920s tropical jungle’ vibe really works. The decor is eccentric while remaining tasteful, and the richly floral palm lined walls set the scene for an indulgent dining experience. The 18th century prints of Oxford scattering the walls are also a nice touch, alluding to the restaurants historic location without veering into the tacky. The copious location tags on Instagram are a testament to how photogenic the space is.

This extensive menu left me torn between at least 3 options at every course. We started with cocktails to aid the decision process (unique compared to anything I have tried before), and Karim brought us Truffle Arancini to nibble on while we decided. Truffle is often used in toxic quantities in the name of ‘luxury’, but here the balance was mastered and they were utterly delicious. I eventually chose to start with the scallops, which for a food I greedily eat whenever I get the chance, were served in a refreshing way unlike anything I had ever tasted. My friend’s choice of the Rosti and Wild Mushrooms actually made me jealous (despite a plate of scallops being before me), and again showed how the Ivy have mastered the use of truffle which proliferates the menu.

I would say the main course was for both of us the lull of the meal. I ordered the Roast Salmon, and while certainly among the best I have ever had, it felt somewhat unoriginal after the Scallop concoction of the first course. My friend had a steak and felt the same way. Both were obviously delicious and comforting, but we just expected a little bit more after the fantastic opening to the meal. I think the key to cracking in the menu here, is making sure you have enough sides to compliment the main course, if like we did, you opt for a more standard main like meat or fish. Next time I think I will just go for a more unique plate altogether to see what they can come up with.

Walking in, I had expected the food on the whole to be good, but I hadn’t expected to be so enamoured by the deserts. Both my friend and I have eaten a significant number of puddings in our time (so much so a punnet of treat tubs pushed her into her overdraught) and therefore are well placed to say that both our choices were truly among the best desserts we have ever eaten. A very bold claim indeed, and one I do not make lightly.

My own bowl of tarte frozen berries and creamy yogurt sorbet, was finished by a generous and theatrical drizzle of hot white chocolate source by the waiter. A grating of Vibrant green lime zest softly rested on top of the whole ensemble in an utterly genius combination. I am now very tempted to dust everything I ever eat with lime zest if only it makes all food taste that blissful. My friend also proclaimed the Malted Banana desert the ‘best she had ever eaten’. Just a few days earlier I had been gushing to her about a banana ice-cream I had eaten in Rome which could ‘never be beaten’, and to be honest, I was pretty shocked that The Ivy managed to supersede the Italians with this sweet icy banana heaven in the middle of Oxford. Both deserts were utter perfection, and I would be more than happy to next time just sit at the bar working my way through another bottle of the Sicilian Rose we were drinking and one of their celestial puddings.

The Ivy Oxford Brasserie has brought a touch of 1920’s retro glamour to the high street, both in terms of good old-fashioned service, and retro decadence. It seems to have taken prime spot as the ‘it’ location for dining out, and deservedly so. It feels exclusive without being uncomfortably stuffy, and despite its grandeur, the personability of the staff (especially our waiter) immediately eased us into our push window seats and primed us to enjoy the experience to the full. In a town packed with some really good places to dine, The Ivy has found the perfect balance between old school luxury and comforting ‘trendy’ gastronomy.

Food: 8.5

Atmosphere: 9

Service: 10

And Others’ Stories

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A massive portrait of Ashley Walters looms over Kingsland High Road. Plastered across the second storey of a retail block, it gazes serenely over chicken shops, artisanal coffee houses, strip-lit barbershops, sourdough pizza restaurants. The Netflix logo nestles in the shadow of his chiselled jaw, alongside the release date for the new series of Top Boy.

Netflix has not erected any massive portraits of Ashley Walters in Chelsea.

Such targeted advertising is testament to the specificity of Top Boy, which aims to portray a very particular real world experience. “In this gritty, stylish drama series,” Netflix informs us, “two London drug dealers ply their lucrative trade at a public housing estate in North London.”Like Black Mirror, this is a show which drew critical acclaim with a limited run on Channel 4, before finding a larger audience- and budget- on Netflix. But it’s no universal dystopian sci-fi; the show has been widely praised for its authenticity in representing real life issues, and features an almost entirely black British cast, including grime star Kano. Walters, who stars as Dushane, recalled that taking the script “was a no brainer, because it dealt with [serious issues in low-income communities in London]”.

He also recalled that reading it, he didn’t know it was written by a white person.

A Telegraph review from 2011 pointed out that “Walters, once of rap group So Solid Crew and with real-life arrests for firearms crimes, knows the world he is portraying”. Despite its pearl-clutching tone, the comment highlights the expectation for writers to have some experience of the worlds they depict. So how was an ‘authentic’ representation of a black British experience created by a white Irishman?

Top Boy might be viewed as the latest and most evolved form of writing about an experience that is not your own. The show is the latest development in portrayal of the cultural ‘other’, which has grown from the status of one-dimensional plot device to a more collaborative and authentic effort.

‘Something is rotten in William McKinley High School’: culture as plot device, from Hamlet to Glee

Literary and theatrical depictions of other cultures have long functioned as a smokescreen for commentary closer to home. This method has shored up pillars of the English stage from Shakespeare to Gilbert and Sullivan; although it allows for dramatic fireworks and evasion of censorship, it also throws authenticity to wind, reducing the ‘other culture’ to a plot device. Hamlet’s Denmark is an obvious iteration, recalling Elizabeth’s court and contemporary fears about succession. The ‘setting’ of Denmark has scant cultural or racial implications, however, especially compared to Shakespeare’s depiction of “The Moor” in Othello. Rather than using Othello’s ‘otherness’ as shorthand for negative stereotypes, as per Shylock, Shakespeare tries to depict the character’s struggle to balance racial and cultural exclusion with his role as a statesman; the use of race in the play says less about Othello’s “Barbary” culture than it does about the white Venetian society which repays his service by calling him “the thick-lips”.

The glimmer of British interest in authentic depiction had guttered out again by the 19th century, particularly with the rise of ‘Japonisme’, an obsession with Japanese culture woefully prescient of the modern ‘weaboo’. This bout of cultural yellow fever saw librettist W.S Gilbert hail the Japanese in 1907 as “brave, wise, amiable to excess, and extraordinarily considerate to each other and to strangers”. Although the sentiment was quelled by the outbreak of WWII a few decades later, it produced public exhibitions of Japanese people; raging demand for Japanese decor; and a staple of the modern opera repertoire, The Mikado.

Like Hamlet, The Mikado uses an ostensibly ‘foreign’ culture to depict British affairs with impunity. For all its Nanki-Poo’s and Pitti-Sing’s, the opera is riddled with references to archbishops, stockbrokers, and Madam Tussaud’s. The supposedly foreign setting is necessary in a plot that hinges on the criminalisation of ‘flirting’, a coded criticism of Victorian sexual puritanism; this a clear example of one culture being absorbed to mirror and titillate another. While Shakespeare presents Othello as a character struggling with his own exoticism in a white Venice, The Mikado uses Japan primarily as an exotic punchline. Gilbert and Sullivan operas are known for their ‘lozenge plots’, in which a supernatural talisman transforms people into what they are pretending to be; Gilbert was forced to use Japan as a ‘lozenge’, as Sullivan refused to write any more supernatural operas.

These pillars of English dramatic tradition find an unlikely parallel in Glee, a more recent example of inauthentic use of another culture. Portrayals of gay people in mainstream American media have long been criticised for relying for two-dimensional stereotypes, where characters are visibly different in behaviour and appearance. Glee has drawn such ire for reducing its queer characters to trope: a 2014 monograph on “Raising Gays On Glee” complained that “queer woman of colour” Santana Lopez was not only poorly developed but oversexualised due to being Latina. 

‘Sauvage’ before Johnny Depp

The all-too-recent conclusion of Glee is not to say that portrayals of other cultures have not evolved since the Victorian day. In fact, the 19th century also saw significant progress, as the unbridled exoticism of interacting with other cultures started to wear off, and authors began to develop an awareness of them as actual people.

19th century America was obsessed with the ‘savage’. Native Americans had loomed large in the cultural imagination since the start of mass settlement; fear and obsession with them peaked during westward expansion in the 1840s, when millions of settlers followed the trail blazed by Lewis and Clark and essentially stole all the Native American land. ‘Injuns’, with their tomahawks and scalping, became a key element of the ‘Wild West’, a clear ‘other’ to the self-righteous, Christian ‘manifest destiny’ claimed by the settlers. However, some 19th century authors proved capable of producing writing which, although dominated by the figure of the western narrator, has some self-awareness and aims to give a more authentic voice to other cultures.

Herman Melville is one such writer: going to sea in 1839, he gained an insight into non-Western cultures, and an outsider’s view of the West, both rare in people of his ‘genteel’ class. Melville tried to use his literary platform to share these perspectives: having witnessed the conditions endured by Irish immigrants on the New York-Liverpool circuit in 1839, he asserted in Redburn that “if they can get here, they have God’s right to come.” The crew of the Pequod in Moby Dick comprise at least 13 nationalities, from Chinese to Icelandic. Having worked, ate and slept alongside such diverse crews for 5 years, Melville’s portrayals aim to acknowledge their differences without fetishising them. Arguably, he does a better job of depicting modern non-white homosexuality than Glee: American critic Steven Hermann claims that “the Ishmael-Queequeg “marriage” in Moby Dick is the first portrait of same-sex marriage in American literature”.

Along the “search for the great Phallic Sperm Whale and his unending, unceasing, unlimited supplies of spermaceti oil”, Ishmael and Queequeg- a South Pacific islander and a cannibal- develop an intimate bond. Ishmael awakens in Chapter 4 with “Queequeg’s arm thrown over” him “in the most loving and affectionate manner”, adding that “you had almost thought I was his wife”.

The dividing line between homosexuality and homospirituality blurs to suggest a transcendent unity, offered by same-sex intimacy. This intimacy also allows the narrator to acknowledge cultural differences between himself and Queequeg with casual familiarity, rather than exoticism: Queequeg’s cannibalism even offers comic relief, when he recalls a bout of indigestion after eating 50 slain enemies.

Despite the efforts of Melville and contemporaries such as Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, the one-dimensional treatment of Native Americans as exotic and savage is alive and well in Dior’s recent Sauvage campaign. Billed as “an authentic journey deep into the Native American soul”, the campaign drew heavy criticism for its stereotypical portrayal of indigenous people, seen dancing in the background as Johnny Depp strummed an electric guitar.

‘Einstein on the road’: from Satyagraha to Summerhouse

These examples suggest that a degree of real experience is necessary to create a multi-dimensional, let alone authentic, portrayal of another culture. But even in the case of more ‘woke’ authors like Melville, it is only some degree of experience. Their accounts try to represent cultures which were not given a voice in western writing, and although they made efforts to collaborate- Longfellow’s epic The Song of Hiawatha drew on conversations with Ojibwe chief Gaagigegaabaw- the figure of the western narrator still looms large.

Philip Glass’s portrait trilogy of operas- Einstein on the Beach, Satyagraha andAkhenaten- draw on other people’s experiences to explore themes of science, politics, and religion respectively. All are inspired by someone else’s life, but they never pretend to a literal portrayal. Glass distances his works far enough from reality that although other cultures provide inspiration, he does not make pronouncements about them. Satyagraha looks at Gandhi’s life and philosophy, but lacks a linear plot, moves between myth and reality, and has a Sanskrit libretto constantly disrupted by the minimalist patterns of the music. These portrayals of other cultures are not repackaged to be comprehensible to a western audience. Like Melville depicting the ‘marriage’ of Ishmael and Queequeg, Glass combines different experiences to produce a transcendent depiction of the spiritual.

Top Boy is different. It’s been praised by the cast as well as by critics for its active representation. Little Simz, who plays Shelly, remembers “feeling like there’s something on television which represents us and where we come from, our culture… we were all hyped and super excited for it, it was so close to home, and we could connect and relate to it”.

Like his 19th century predecessors, Top Boy’s writer, Ronan Bennett, has some experience of the culture he depicts. “One brilliant thing about him that you have to respect is that he lives right in the centre of [Hackney], so he knows the community, he knows what’s happening there, he knows how people feel,” said Walters. Bennett attempts to translate the ‘feeling’ he has observed into a collaboration, where the author’s experience doesn’t overshadow that which he seeks to represent.

“Imagining it is one thing, getting it right is another. The depiction has to be authentic,” wrote Bennett in The Guardian. Bennett recorded interviewees, then wrote dialogue that was amended by his friend (now story consultant) Gerry Jackson. During rehearsal and filming, actors would replace words if they thought of a better one. The clearest sign of Bennett’s personal experience is the kneecapping introduced by Lizzie, the Irish drug dealer/property developer in Summerhouse; arguably, she veers the closest to racial stereotype in the season, chatting about the IRA and using her mystical Irish wisdom to intuit that Jamie’s lost a parent.

Top Boy is the end product of centuries of people not getting to tell their own stories. It’s a true product of globalisation- not least in that it was only revived thanks to the intervention of superfan Drake. Despite the multiplicity of voices involved in its creation- American and Canadian producers, an Irish writer- it is purely and primarily about a real-life London experience. Bennett sees his role as simply putting a narrative together, one comprised of the real-world experiences of others. The show aims to platform black British talent, from actors to directors, giving them the industry establishment to continue strengthening their cultural voice. The widespread approval it’s drawn- from real-life roadmen and Radcam rudeboys alike- is proof that people want to listen.

Photo: Drake and Ashley Walters on the red carpet (Picture: REX)

L’endive au jambon: Northern French and Belgian winter comfort food

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Have you heard of the endive? If you know what I’m referring to, or have indeed eaten an endive, you probably saw it raw on a salad. If you have no idea what an endive is, that’s completely understandable. The endive is a vegetable that is very popular in northern France and Belgium, but rarely sampled by the majority of Britons. Essentially, an endive is a long leafy vegetable that can be boiled, grilled or baked, usually accompanied by other ingredients or sauces. 

In British restaurants a ‘gratin’ tends to be an expensive dish consisting of heaps of meat with a rather ungenerous sprinkle of cheese on top. A French gratin, however, certainly isn’t as as elaborate or refined as in UK restaurants; the origins of Endives au Gratin are rather humble. Often called ‘chicons’ by people in Northern France and Belgium, l’endive au jambon was traditionally eaten by people in rural and industrial areas in the Nord-Pas-de-Calais department of France and in Belgium. The dish was originally made with maroilles, an extremely pungent cheese from northern France, however, most people just use gruyere today.

In the case of ‘L’endive au jambon’, our endive is wrapped in ham and submerged in a thick pool of cheesy bechamel sauce until it is completely covered. The dish then requires a rather liberal sprinkle of gruyere before being put into the oven to crisp over and to make the endive soft and tender. When out of the oven, the endive has the consistency of pak choi, and the molten bechamel forms a delightful thick and cheesy sauce on the plate. Served with thin French chips designed to dip in the cheese sauce, it is the perfect meal on a cold, rainy or windy day. 

If what I just described doesn’t sound wonderful enough, in Belgium, rather than serving it with chips, they cover the top of the dish with mashed potato and yet more gruyere before placing the dish in the oven to crisp over. This is the ultimate winter comfort food; it’s hot, thick, filling and delicious and is certainly worth a taste, either in France or Belgium, or on your own dining room table. 

Review: The Importance of Being Earnest

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When Lady Bracknell burst onstage, with the magnificent condescension of Connor Fox in a coral pink dress, the audience was ‘quite exploded’ like dear Bunbury – but with laughter. Teddy Hall Drama has gifted us a performance this December that is crowned by an admirable cast, dedicated to raising money for the LGBT rights charity Stonewall. 

This is a production that delights in gleefully testing and conflating the boundaries of gender, potentially suggesting conformity to gender norms to be necessarily restrictive. Connor’s triumphant Lady Bracknell is the most vivid illustration of flouting traditional gender binaries. With a trilling tones and flamboyant gestures, Lady Bracknell at times teeters towards absolute caricature, yet just about manages to retain her position as a dignified and often frightful figure. The decision for Lady Bracknell’s to be a cross-dressing role is an interesting one, drawing closer attention to her role and complicity as the voice of the patriarchal establishment. At the same time, the Lady Bracknell of Teddy Hall is purely comic, and her absurd facial contortions at the baby-in-handbag news is simply too precious to miss.

Special mention must go to Algernon, that splendidly fantastical creation who is given full justice and more by Alex Gunn’s quicksilver acting skills (which do not exclude the impressive speed at which cucumber sandwiches can be devoured). Eminently convincing, Alex occupies the role of childish dandy with an easy vivacity that endears, even to the reluctant Jack (Selina Lynch) who excelled in displaying a whole spectrum of exasperation, from baffled to despairing, which he certainly needed when dealing with his capricious friend.

Such an exuberant first act naturally heightens the audience’s anticipation for the next. This, for a little while, falls sadly short. The initial conversation between Cecily and Miss Prism is somewhat deflated after the energetic impetuosity of Jack and Algernon. While the character of Miss Prism is perfectly justified in seeming dull, she disappoints in the lack of chemistry between herself and the Rev. Chasuble – though she might be partly forgiven in consideration of poor Chasubles’ near-absence of charm. Without the restrained yet deeply sentimental attraction between the unlikely pair, the audience loses the important contrast between this older couple and the passionate defiance of the young, and thus some of Wilde’s subtle social commentary on the cold and perhaps unnatural stringency of religious morality. This lack of chemistry does, however, make the sight of the good Reverend abruptly dropping down on one knee all the funnier at the end (albeit at the expense of being funny elsewhere). And Cecily, fittingly enough, becomes more mischievously complex with the arrival of Algernon, with whom she quickly establishes an enchantingly playful dynamic.

The possibly over-scrupulous observations above may be attributed to the marvelousness of the rest – aside from some issues with props all was well. The wonderful appeal of this performance arguably rests with the brilliant rapport between the members of the cast, and the directors (Amy Hemsworth and Dhea Bengardi). They did Wilde proud.