Thursday 17th July 2025
Blog Page 588

Anarchy unmasked; Peterloo 200 years on

With the 200th Anniversary of The Peterloo Massacre this month, were the rebels’ objectives truly ever achieved?

Following the end of the Napoleonic Wars in 1815, working-class Britain was manifested by appalling levels of famine and a frightfully low employment rate. Exacerbating these issues were the notorious Corn Laws, which recommended the exclusion of foreign-grown corn until UK prices had risen substantially. The blight of this was, of course, to fall mainly onto the urban poor. With the rapid mechanisation of the textile industry, men, women and children were hurriedly dismissed from work without any forewarning, leaving whole families unable to feed. 

In our 21st century Britain, brimming with rules, regulations and 24-hour McDonalds’, it is almost impossible to imagine such a lapse into disorder. With our damp-proof housing, reliable food supply and relatively satisfactory minimum wages, we are alienated by the idea that a large fraction of our country was once stuck in what would now resemble the developing world. Yet this was the reality, only two centuries ago. The British working-class, deprived of the vote, were left abandoned to the murky shadows.

200 years on from the Peterloo massacre, and it appears that the North is, finally, being paid the attention it deserves. Our new Prime Minister, however questionable his intentions, has traipsed around almost every major Northern capital, assiduously frowning under his blonde mop whilst listening to locals’ complaints. As a Northerner, I can guarantee that this is a very welcome change. But just why and how has it taken Westminster this long to realise the North’s importance?  

When considering this question, I’m struck by the lack of publicity for the 200thAnniversary of Peterloo in the national media. Only last month we saw the 50thanniversary of the moon landing, which saw zealous celebration across the UK, despite being a largely American success. With many historians agreeing that Peterloo played an integral role in creating modern Britain’s liberal democracy, I am baffled that this anniversary is being so massively undervalued. The people of Manchester rightfully honoured their heritage and turned out in their hundreds last Friday, yet most of the country don’t seem to have any idea or interest in commemorating this crucial event. 

Unfortunately, such ignorance is all too common. In the South, the narrative applied to the North/South divide is one of pity, of token concern for ‘the other side’ and its troubling socio-economic history. Yet, the North is no longer impoverished. London may be the preferred location to initiate a career, but in the North opportunity is rife, and its social concerns are often marginal compared to those of London. Whilst the defeated rebels of Peterloo may have been pleased by the concept of the ‘Northern Powerhouse’, their principal political aim has not been achieved; working-class northerners are still not only vaguely undermined, but entirely politically silenced.

I’m referring, of course, to Brexit. The referendum of 2016 saw the North voting overwhelmingly Leave, with the majority in regions such as North East Lincolnshire coming up to just below seventy-percent. This decision – and I believe that it must now be re-iterated that this was a thoroughly considered decision – astounded the political class. Those who maintained the very same naïve mindset as David Cameron were taken aback, unable to construe any reason to vote for such a divorce. They were astonished by the temerity of Northerners in not doing what they’d been told, just as those plump-bottomed Parliamentarians had been surprised 200 years earlier at Peterloo. 

Since 2016, the contempt shown for the referendum result by those politicians, journalists, think-tankers and others ensconced in SW1 has clearly demonstrated that the complaints of the Peterloo rebels are still justified today. In fact, even as I sit here at my laptop fact-checking this article, Google has very pointedly decided to push me in the direction of an article entitled ‘Why the North of England will regret voting for Brexit.’ The idea that this search result has been given pride of place doesn’t shock me at all; Brexit has shown intellectual and political snobbery at its very worst.

The Commons’ handling of Brexit has shattered my hope in democracy, and I am confident that I do not stand alone. Blood, tears, toil and sweat have been spent by the public in order to ensure that Parliament hears their voice. I feel an even deeper sorrow for those who lost their lives at Peterloo when I realise with horrible irony that, on the very anniversary of the massacre, the political class were rabidly plotting to overthrow the democratic vote. Sitting pretty in their comfortable London show-homes, the majority of Remainer MPs have repeatedly refused to lend an ear to those they consider to be insolent and idiotic Brexiteers from the regions. As such, they’ve failed to realise that for many voting to Leave was simply a desperate cry for help. Disillusioned by a political class that never alters, whatever we tick in the ballot box, voters used their first real chance at changing something in decades to voice their frustration. To parallel with Peterloo, the Remainers are imitating the stance of the Duke of Wellington: “Beginning reform is beginning revolution.” For those upper echelons who feel at ease in their socio-economic situation, what doesn’t seem broken doesn’t need fixing. 

Yet, Brexit is not the only recent political catastrophe which holds clear parallels with Peterloo. Thatcherism of the 1980s infamously ripped the heart out of Northern industry, leaving old and great cities such as Newcastle and Sheffield to seemingly irreversible decline. The livelihoods of millions were torn away as communities were shattered for an ideological project that began in London. This had consequences much like the textile industry’s mechanisation prior to Peterloo. The physical violence struck against the Northern mining communities shows that, over the intervening 200 years, the suppression tactics of the ruling classes haven’t changed one bit. Recalling Thatcher’s treatment of the miners mirrors how Shelley described Lord Castlereagh’s actions during Peterloo; ‘I met murder on the way – he had a mask like Castlereagh.’ Whilst it would be unreasonable to argue that all of Thatcher’s reign was completely disastrous, for the Northern working classes Thatcher was indeed little more than a masked murderer. Even today, when assessing our current political leaders, it becomes difficult to set them apart from such brutal rulers. The South’s “intellectual” elite still show aggressive contempt if ‘the many’ have the boldness to express a contrary political opinion.

However, the situation is not entirely hopeless. It would be both defeatist and inaccurate to say British politics hasn’t improved since Peterloo. Following the Representation of the People Acts of 1918 and 1928, our country’s political constitution has gone from strength to strength. Those vicious laws put in place following Peterloo, such as the Unlawful Drilling Act, have been repealed, and protests are now more tolerated than ever before. For those on the outside looking in, it must appear as though the UK is a place of unadulterated free speech and absolute equality.

For women especially, life has greatly improved. The Peterloo massacre was notable for its number of female protesters, which included societies such as the Blackburn Female Reform Society and the Manchester Female Reform Society. With now 202 female MPs within parliament, I have no doubt that the women of Peterloo would be more than satisfied with the position of women in society today, and feel that their sacrifice was by no means wasted.

Regardless of your opinions of Margaret Thatcher and Theresa May, it is undoubtedly a success that the UK gave the Western world its first female Prime Minister, and has now seen two in less than a hundred years since all women were given the right to vote. However, there are still significant battles to be fought. Four days before Peterloo, a nasty cartoon was published depicting the Blackburn Female Reform Society addressing an open-air meeting. The cartoon portrays these women as licentious, with their clothing unkempt and their children lying abandoned in the background. On this front, it appears women cannot win. Only two months ago, Stella Creasy, the Labour MP for Walthamstow, spoke out against Parliament’s rules on maternity leave for female MPs, arguing she felt she had to choose between “being an MP and being a mum”. The first female MP to face such a struggle, Baroness Hayman, was treated even worse; she was immediately dubbed a ‘militant feminist’ and bombarded with national criticism.

This is just one of many deterrents women still face on entering the political world. With Trump’s blatant misogyny damaging women’s political ambitions across the pond, such sexism seems to have trickled slowly into our Commons. As a consequence of the gentlemen’s dining-club culture of parliament, any female MP seen loudly vocalising her opinion is accused of ‘whining’. Even today such opinions are often displayed openly, in a nation much less crippled by a gender gap than the majority of the world. It is no secret that, during the PMQs of December 2018, Jeremy Corbyn churlishly mouthed ‘stupid woman’ at Theresa May. With such a culture in place, it comes as no surprise that Maggie Thatcher sought out vocal training in order for her voice to sound more masculine.

Yet, whilst women remain undermined in the political sphere, and the desires of the Peterloo rebels have still not yet been wholly achieved, I am confident that a situation similar to Peterloo could never re-occur. Eighteen innocent citizens were killed at Peterloo, with up to 700 others badly injured. Although the English Bill of Rights of 1689 should have prevented the military’s cruelty, the absence of free speech and unbiased media sources meant that local authorities were able to easily cover up their actions. Prior to the creation of The Guardian newspaper, governmental control of news media enabled a complete disregard for human rights. With recent bills and treaties such as the 1948 Universal Declaration of Human Rights and the 1998 Human Rights Act, it is reassuring to know that legal barriers are now in place to prevent another Peterloo staining British soil. 

Unfortunately, it becomes difficult to maintain such optimism when faced with the open partiality of the mainstream media. Although The Guardian was designed with the simple task of addressing this issue, I am unsure I could name one modern media outlet that doesn’t reek of inexcusable bias. In 2017, only 48% of Britons said that they trusted the mainstream media. Another regrettable trend to spread from across the pond is so-called ‘fake news’, which appears to be at an all-time high. Even social media outlets such as Facebook aren’t innocent, with the Tories paying out millions for Facebook advertisements in the run-up to the 2017 election. The outrageous lies of the mainstream media are regularly a cause for dismay and, on this front, I am unsure that this area has had any drastic improvement since Peterloo.

With no party in place to represent the people’s vote, I feel a sense of dismay surely not dissimilar to how the survivors of Peterloo felt, when they would have to wait thirteen years before any legislation would admit them onto the tedious road to political reform. Yet, Peterloo must be celebrated. It must be celebrated because the fight for true democracy is far from over. In such a turbulent political climate as this, we must honour those who fought at Peterloo, and recognise their sacrifice now more than ever before. 

War Horse – Coloured by Love and Hate

It seems ironic that the most undesirable part in a school play is the role of rear or front of a horse, second only to that of a tree, or perhaps a lonely cloud floating in the background. In Warhorse, however, the actors that breathe life into the mechanical horses, particularly Joey and Topthorn, are the stars of the show. 

​There is no attempt to make these animals look realistic, in the sense of them having flesh, eyes, etc., with the overall appearance consisting in a lattice and mesh design. But this is what makes the production so moving, because the studious way in which the actors inside the construction move Joey gives him a timidness and gentility that makes the audience immediately fall in love with him. The designer, Rae Smith, mentions how he opted for ‘poetry’ over ‘documentary realism’ – a decision that would have perhaps improved the recent Lion King film. One of the most poetic and beautiful instances in Warhorse is when a horse dies, and the actors that had been fuelling it stand, and slowly step away. Directors Marianne Elliott and Tom Morris do not try to hide the fact that there are people beneath the horses’ skeletons, and during this scene, it feels as though it is not the actors leaving this horse behind, but its soul. 

​Albert (Scott Miller) brings tremendous energy to the stage, and injects undeniable verve to every scene he is in. This could perhaps have been reigned in when we first meet him, just to tug at the sympathy strings a little more and underline his role as the downtrodden son, who finds solace and growth in his companionship with Joey. 

​The unsung hero within all the action is the Songperson (Ben Murray). His lyrical croons are interspersed into key moments in the plot, and add to the sense of tragic foreboding that accompanies the poignant decisions made by the characters. He acts out his mini-ballads with enough nonchalance so as not to take away from the main scene, but through this he also conveys a feeling of apathy, of defeat, as though because he is removed from the central action he can see the futility of it all. 

​In the play notes, Micheal Morpurgo states that he was inspired to write the original book because of his experiences with family members who had been involved in the war, as well as the touching story of a boy he met on his farm who had a terrible stutter, and had consequently refused to speak altogether at the age of seven. However, one day Morpurgo saw him talking to one of the horses, because he knew it would not judge or mock him, and what’s more, the author saw that the horse seemed to be listening.

​He has said that he intended the tale to be one of ‘reunion and reconciliation’, but that Nick Stafford and the National Theatre have transformed it into an ‘anthem for peace’. The common nature of one’s fellow man is a pivotal theme that is conveyed brilliantly, culminating when Joey is trapped in No Man’s Land. We get a view into trenches on either side, and each hesitantly sends a man up to help the horse. What follows is a hilarious exchange between the Englishman and German, both of whom speak English to the audience, but cannot understand each other, underlining how this is all being perceived from the neutral standpoint of Joey. It is a moment which stresses how alike people from all nationalities are, and ridicules the excuse of the language barrier in justifying hostility. ​It is a message that is arguably more relevant than ever in the current political climate.

While this may well be the theme that critics pay most attention too, what resonates with me the most is Warhorse’s portrayal of the special, and sometimes magical, nature we can see in animals. The bond formed between Joey and Albert is one that desperately refuses to be relinquished, despite every obstacle possible being thrown its way. It is a tale of unconditional love, and the bravery this can inspire. Perhaps Morpurgo wants to show us how this love inspires far greater feats than the hate of war ever can, which only provokes further bloodshed. 

​A mention has to be given to the outstanding staging, with every battle scene being punctuated by ominous fog and jarring lights, the cracks of gunfire literally making audience members (including myself!) jump in shock. Throughout the entire performance, the backdrop is carved open by a huge, torn scrap of paper from Albert’s sketchbook, on which drawings are portrayed and pained letters are scrawled. As another death plagues the battlefield, its jagged edges are tainted by blood seeping through the paper, before the red splatters evolve touchingly into poppies. 

​This is a special play that pulls you along through the mud, trenches and barbed wire of World War One, as you experience every emotion from despair and fear, to laughter and hope. It leaves you in No Man’s Land as the curtain falls, unsure whether to feel satisfied with the uplifting conclusion, or despondent due to the tragedy that had to be experienced in order to get there. ​

Oxford climate protest drops banner from Carfax tower

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At midday last Friday, climate protesters dropped a banner from the top of the Carfax tower.

The banner drop, claimed to be a joint effort by Oxford UKSCN (UK Student Climate Network) and Extinction Rebellion Youth Oxfordshire. 

The banner promoted the September 20th ‘Global Strike’ called by UKSCN, who are encouraging students to strike and protest the lack of government action on climate change. 

UKSCN describes their mission statement as ‘radically reforming the role and power of young people in national action against climate change. To achieve this we will employ strong and repeated student-led protest to promote our diverse voices calling for a common aim’.

Activist EJ Fawcett, 17, said: “We wanted to get our message across in a way that would be noticed but would not cause any problems. We are tired of being ignored, the planet will become uninhabitable if we don’t take action but people tell us to sit down and accept it.”

Christ Church Dean Reinstated After Tribunal Case

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Following a prolonged dispute, Martyn Percy has been cleared to return to his work as Dean of Christ Church. 

The tribunal, chaired by a High Court judge, dismissed the claims against him. Though details haven’t been made public, they are understood to have related Percy’s management of the college, and attempted reform of payment structures. 

A statement on the Christ Church website said: “As required by Christ Church’s Statutes, an internal tribunal was convened to consider a complaint raised against the Dean in September 2018. Following a thorough investigation, the tribunal has decided that the charges are not upheld and that there is no cause to remove the Dean as Head of House. However, the tribunal made some criticism of the Dean’s conduct and found that there was one breach of his fiduciary duty.”

“We can therefore announce that Martyn Percy will resume his duties as Dean of Christ Church, on his return from holiday on 27th August. The complaint process has now concluded.”

The Bishop of Oxford, Stephen Croft, said in a statement: “I am delighted to learn that this matter is now resolved. I look forward to seeing Martyn return to the cathedral and his duties as dean of Christ Church”. 

“This news will be widely welcomed across the Diocese of Oxford. These have been testing times for all involved, and my prayers are with Martyn and Emma, the Chapter and wider College in the coming months.”

Art in the Age of Technology

You walk into the plain white, concrete building, expecting a gallery of sorts. Rooms crowded with paintings that defy traditional laws of perspective and colour. What they call modern art. Instead, you come face to face with a baron white cubicle. A woman stands in the corner, holding a pair of VR glasses. She hands them to you. Puzzled, you put them on.

The room is no longer barren. Tall, jungle-like trees and vines envelop you. Sure, it’s black and white. Sure, you know that branch is nothing more than a collection of pixels. But that doesn’t stop you from reaching out, trying to touch it.

You’ve been to art exhibitions before, praised artists for their technique, thanked patrons for their role in the development of the piece. Heck, you even felt the Virgin’s pain, wanting to brush off that single tear streaming down Van der Weyden’s Descent from the Cross. Your friends will never let you forget the silent watershed that befell your encounter with Michelangelo’s David, or how that day walking around the Vatican Museums left you speechless for the entire afternoon. And so, an emotional reaction at an art gallery would be normal. But there was something about the jungle, about the 360 seemingly infinite image around you, that didn’t quite fit with your prior experience of art. As you take off the gadget, the room returning to its original state, your mind frantically searches for an explanation of such feeling. A word capable of encapsulating that artistic and cultural encounter.

It would not be until a visit to the Tate Modern Museum in London the following week, that a sufficiently accurate word, or, rather, description, of that emotive response to the VR Jungle would be provided by your brain. Drenched from head to toe (thanks to the lovely April weather), you’d come into a museum unlike any before. There seemed to be no logical order behind the distribution of art. No chronology. No development of specific, timeless techniques. If there was one thing they all seemed to have in common, it was a desire to play on your senses. And then, as you proceed to take your friend’s – doubtlessly soon to be Instagram post – picture next to a neon light digital banner, it hits you. The VR Jungle played on your senses of sight and touch. The aroma filled plant exhibition a couple of rooms before smelled like summer. And now, the glowing banner captured behind your friend, seemed to be speaking to you. There were no loudspeakers, no sound coming from the machine. And yet, you could hear the anger coming through those neon, bright pink words. And to what end? The idea that somehow, for as long as you were exposed to it, as long as you were partaking in all these experiences, you’d become part of the art.

Art has often been regarded as a creative manifestation of humans’ innermost emotions and lively experiences. With the Renaissance and Enlightenment came, in the Western World, a strengthening of cannons and rules by which to judge artistic production. For many, art became the stuff of the elite, the stuff of private school children and dinner small talk at the fancy events. Walking around museums, travelling to foreign lands in search for historically renowned works, didn’t often make it to bucket lists or weekend family plans.  Despite the number of avant-garde artists and movements, the number of Van Goghs, Kahlos, Dalis and Picassos the last couple of centuries have been witness to, these cannons remain deeply engraved within our society. It remains a somewhat complex world for a select few.

That is not, however, the case of videogames, computer simulation programmes and VR Jungles. In this globalised, “WiFied” world, developments in the field of technology are met with enthusiasm. According to a recent study by Hyla Mobile, people upgrade their phones every 2.92 years, often due to a desire to increase storage capacity, quality of camera and speed of the gadget. Thus, when modern art is created with these technological developments in mind, be that through, or as a reaction to, them, it speaks to not just the art historical connoisseur, but anyone who owns, or has been exposed to, the gadgets our 21st century life often revolves around.

Technological developments have, undoubtedly, changed the way in which we appreciate and manifest our emotions and experiences. It has provided a new channel through which one may be able to express oneself, as well as opening up the artistic world to a wider public. Art was never, in its creation, simply about keeping up a series of cannons, sticking to some laws, and displaying final masterpieces in gorgeous museums. Human creativity and expression find themselves at the core of it all. Far from being detrimental to classical works, modern, technological art has brought these crucial features to light, has fomented a discourse which, though there from the beginning, had been hiding away under centuries of prejudice and discrimination.

Mashrou Leila’s Message of Pride Prevails Following Government Ban

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Mashrou Leila may not be the most popular band in Oxford, or the UK, but they are one of the most successful bands to come out of Lebanon in recent years and are taking on the rest of the world, and they are doing it with pride. 

Music has historically been an important tool for the LGBTQ community to express their identity and to show pride. Music has given a voice to those who have been voiceless. This is particularly in Lebanon as it is still very difficult to be openly LGBTQ. Homosexuality is not officially illegal but certain laws continue to put the community at risk and attempt to minimise queer spaces and opportunities for pride.

Mashrou Leila, a group that has openly supported LGBTQ rights for the last ten years, had been booked to play at the Byblos International Festival on 8thAugust 2019, but were banned from performing after being accused of blasphemy by local Lebanese Christian groups.

The recent backlash around the group and their controversial stance and lyrics was purportedly in response to a post on social media made by the group’s openly gay lead singer, Hamed Sinno. The social media post included a picture of the Virgin Mary with the singer Madonna’s face superimposed on top. The picture was not made by Sinno and also not posted to any of the band’s official social media accounts, however the singer’s choice to share the image was considered by many to be proof enough of the groups supposed lack of morality.

Following the banning of their performance, several members of the band were for the first time interviewed and questioned by the Lebanese government on the group’s ethics, considering two of their songs in particular. One of these songs was Djin (meaning spirit in English) which was written in 2015 and has been performed in Lebanon a number of times since.

This recent ban is not an isolated incident. The band have faced a number of difficulties in having their music heard within the Middle East after being banned from performing in Egypt and Jordan, the homes of two of their major fan bases. The group’s ban from performing in Egypt came after their last performance in the country, when lgbtq flags were flown amongst the crowd, and a number of fans who were in attendance were arrested on the basis of being suspected of being gay.

On Friday, the day on which the band would have been performing in Byblos, over a thousand people gathered in the Hamra area of Beirut for a concert to demonstrate solidarity with Mashrou Leila and their message of openness and acceptance. Both the LGBTQ and the Palestinian flags were flown in a show of support for the fight for equality and freedom. The show was free, lasted for seven hours, and had a line-up of over 35 acts, including musicians, comedians, and influential figures. The show amounted to a significant moment for Pride for the Lebanese community.

Mashrou Leila was unable to attend the concert but surprised their fans with their latest music video. The group has since shared the music video across social media platforms with the attached tag line ‘to those who haven’t given up, love is resistance.’

The reaction to the band’s plight on social media has been mixed. There has been a vast showing of support for the group from within and outside of Lebanon. But, many in Lebanon agree with the decision to ban the group performing, strongly disagreeing with Mashrou Leila’s rhetoric and message.

More than anything, what recent events, and the concert on Friday in particular, prove is the power of music to unite people, against oppression and in pride. Lebanon is not an easy place to be LGBTQ, and for many people Mashrou Leila has become a vessel of pride and self-expression. Mashrou Leila’s music has evolved to take on a meaning of LGBTQ pride, as well as pride in what it means to be Lebanese.

Restaurant review: Rick’s Kitchen

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My friend and I stumbled upon this delightful eatery by accident. Initially, we had planned to go to the highly recommended Coconut Tree with our 30% discount from The Dealer. When we arrived, it was completely full. We walked back towards Magdalen Bridge with our deal-savvy tails hanging between our legs.

We walked past a tiny place called ‘Rick’s’ and I remembered I could get 20% off courtesy of (you guessed it!) The Dealer. As we crossed the threshold we realised it was deserted – alarm bells were going off. I tried to back out, but the manager (and seemingly the only member of staff) greeted us in such a warm manner that we were guilt tripped into taking the plunge.

The manager, having little else to do, took us through the menu and the history of the restaurant (or is it a café?). It had begun as a vegan specialty restaurant (I was beginning to wish I’d had the courage to walk away at this point), but then, our server informed us it had decided to add meat to the menu. Suddenly, my choice seemed inspired – a nice juicy burger at a vegan restaurant! We were encouraged to get a mezze starter to share, which was extremely reasonable given the generous size of the portion. The manager proudly told us everything was homemade, and it really did taste fresh. Hummus nice and smooth, aubergine dip creamy (though without the cream, of course), filled our plate along with a whole range of other exciting and equally luscious morsels.

My friend, a vegetarian (now with a first-class degree, not that the two are mutually exclusive, clearly), opted for a falafel burger, which I’m told was better even than the produce of legendary student staple Hassan’s. The passion of the manager became clear when he started waxing lyrical about the cows kindly supplying my double cheeseburger.

“Argentinian”, tick. “Relaxed lifestyle”, tick. “Really clean meat” … tick? He kindly informed me this was going to be the “best choice” I’d made that day. He was probably right, but then again, the only other decision I later made was to go to Park-end.

Our orders taken, he then (as the only member of staff) went off to cook my burger. The burger soon appeared in all its glory, proudly carried out by its creator. He passionately implored me to “Enjoy!” and enjoy it I did! Meatier than a Knorr stock pot and tender as you like, the only fault I could find with my meal was in the slightly ‘average’ nature of the bun.

On the whole, I would say it was possibly the best burger I’ve had in Oxford so far.

Our host-cum-new best friend returned to ask the almost disturbing question “is it too juicy for you?”. Before I’d managed to come up with an answer that wasn’t equally as odd, he’d convinced us to try a smoothie he’d created that very day. We had no idea what was in it, but it was delicious.

As we were getting the bill, he brought us a hibiscus-based drink to taste and review (on the house), which was slightly less delicious, though still nice. I alerted him to my 20% off, but was surprised to hear that this discount only applied to Rick’s Café, not the Rick’s Kitchen that we were currently in. Frankly, given the quality of the food, some 13 pounds a head seemed a small price to pay for a thoroughly tasty and quirky meal. My single regret in respect to this outing, was that we never asked the lone chef his name. I would like to think we had the honour of being served by the eponymous ‘Rick’ of Rick’s Kitchen himself, but who knows.

Surviving on the Fringes

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What it means to bring a show to the Edinburgh Fringe. Luke Dunne, producer and co-director of Love/Sick recounts his experience of taking a show to the festival.

The Edinburgh Fringe is an overwhelming cacophony of creative noise. With over four thousand shows, the competition for eyeballs and bums on seats could not be more fierce or more elaborate. See live performances on the street, posters on every surface and flyer-ers shouting from every corner, telling you anything and everything to get you in the door. But doing a Fringe show doesn’t start here for anyone. It begins months before, in my case back in April, midway through putting together my first show Love/Sick in Oxford. The plan had always been to do a couple, then maybe think about taking a show to the Fringe in a year’s time. I honestly have no idea when that plan changed, but it did, and so we found ourselves committed to a two week run in Edinburgh at pretty short notice.

I can only give one perspective on our show among many, and can’t speak for the thousands of other performers here in Edinburgh, but as a company full of Fringe first-timers our ‘preparation’ was a colossal exercise in crisis aversion, from getting our costumes, posters, and props up north in the first place, to finding accommodation, figuring out where to advertise our show and when, setting up a social media presence, recasting one of our parts etc etc. It was a steep learning curve. Admittedly, I’m one of our show’s producers so take this headache-inducing account with a pinch of salt, but I don’t think anyone would argue that putting a Fringe show together is much fun at first. Question is, why do it at all? Why bother to put on a show hundreds of miles from your home and university, why tolerate the torrid weather, why compete with thousands of other talented creative types for an audience when you could just wait for term time.  

I think I found my answer on the second day of our run. We’d had a pretty messy first performance, but after working out some of the issues in our show and blitzing the Royal Mile (Cornmarket on steroids) with flyers, we got a good audience in and sent them away laughing. That daily rush, to go out and find your audience yourself, is pretty unique to doing a show up here. You get good at talking to strangers, and you also learn how to respond politely when those strangers don’t want to talk back: (‘Seeing a show this morning sir?’ ‘Hing aff us, a’m running late ye posh twat’, ‘Oh, er, have a good one then!’). But the vast majority of people here are friendly, even the long-suffering locals, who have to put up with their city being invaded for a month.

Flyering becomes a lot of fun when you get into the swing of it, and even when it’s pouring rain and nobody’s interested you tend to make fast friends with other performers who are in exactly the same boat as you. That’s the joy of the Fringe – it’s hard work, and stressful at times, but you’re surrounded by literally thousands of people going through many of the same things you are. I’ve made friends here I hope I’ll keep after August, but even if I don’t, I couldn’t be more happy to have rubbed shoulders with cynical old comedians, drag queens, puppeteers and circus acrobats as well as plenty of fellow student theatre nerds.  

I’ve seen more theatre here than I’ll likely see in the next eleven months combined. Some of it was great, some of it less so but in any case I’m leaving Edinburgh with a notepad full of half-formed ideas scribbled on my knee, as well as a new appreciation for how hard many of my fellow Fringe acts have worked, for decades in some cases, to hone their craft and put on some remarkable shows for the rest of us.

As I write this, my show (Love/Sick, The Space on the Mile, 10 am for those interested) is still going on and I can’t give you a detached, thoughtful conclusion of what doing this show ‘meant’ just yet. But I have found out that Fringe is chaotic, it’s loud, it’s exhausting and anxiety-inducing. I can’t wait to come back.  

Oddball England must win at Headingley

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So, Australia have made it out of London alive: their 2005-evoking 1-0 lead standing strong after a thumping in the first encounter was followed up by a more sodden 1997-style rain afflicted affair at Lord’s, albeit minus Glenn McGrath running riot down the slope and this time the visitors, rather than 77-all-out England, licking their wounds.

Back-to-back Ashes Test matches offer little time to dwell on any lingering hauntings from the capital or to go away and redouble on any technical limitations cruelly betrayed in the middle, and it remains to be seen what lasting psychological impact a first draw in a live Ashes Test match in England since the 2009 series will have on either side: declaration momentum versus valiant resilience.

Certainly, they don’t offer the requisite window for a textbook concussion recovery and so Steve Smith, struck in juddering fashion and then inexplicably allowed to return – bouncer-drunk – in naked thirst for a fourth successive century on these shores, will sit out as the series ventures north to Leeds.

Even yer da who insists on the calling the England debutant Archer, Joffrey could spot the lasting footprint of the heat-seeking missile when the Australian maestro then shouldered arms to an in-swinger clattering into his pads. Though independent doctors will surely become mandatory as the protocol is refined in years to come, the arrival of concussion substitutes to usher in the Test Championship era already has its landmark case. The ball that delivered an electrifying jolt to this series at the climax of an encounter for the ages and will now surely go some way to shape the narrative of the coming weeks, thankfully no further.

His replacement, Marnus Labuschagne, also struck, on the grille with a nasty seaming bouncer before compiling a resistant half-century, brings into sharp focus the challenge such a tight turnaround presents for England too. Despite the County Championship returning this week, the South African-born right hander remains the only man to pass 1000 runs for the season after a five-century stint with Glamorgan, and there are no compelling England-qualified alternatives to the current top order malaise lurking in either division.

With Zak Crawley and Dom Sibley dismissed cheaply, parachuted pinch-hitter Jason Roy failing his austere examination, promoted number 3 Joe Root registering a first golden duck of his glittering Test career and Joe Denly, like Cameron Bancroft, clinging to his career via the virtue of his fielding, the existential crisis of who bats where is the worrying extent to which England can shuffle their pack before battle commences once more. Throw in Moeen Ali bowling medium pace against Northamptonshire, Olly Stone and Mark Wood’s latest check-ins to the back specialist and the hefty risk attached to gambling once more on Jimmy Anderson’s type II twitch fibres, and with it the task becomes all the more onerous.

Not since either Joe Root or Jonny Bairstow made their international debuts has the Ashes returned to Yorkshire, where in 2009 a vein-bursting angry quick called Peter Siddle claimed five to level the series at one apiece heading to The Oval. It is part of a wider trend and England have a worse record at only at Trent Bridge at home. They have lost three of their past five Tests there, including in 2017 to a West Indies side turbo-charged by Shai Hope’s twin tons and England Captain Root averages only 35.40 at the ground, comfortably his worst record at any venue he has batted at more than twice.

With their own recently imperious record at Headingley to call upon – buoyed by just a sole defeat in 2001 amongst a Green sea of triumphs in the past six meetings, skewed by but not lessened a period of general dominance – the equation is simple: win one more Test Match and Australia will have their first away Ashes triumph since the 5-match series era began in earnest.

And yet, after all that, with Mitchell Starc waiting in the wings; with David Warner yet to hit his straps; with a complex algorithm anointing Pat Cummins at the zenith of fast bowling this side of the millennium, you still fancy that this oddball England side might just pull it off. Re-invigorated by the effortless zeal of Archer: the fortnite generation’s Snow White to his pack of seven Js, it might not be too fanciful.

Balliol Boris celebration on hold

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Balliol College have few plans to celebrate Boris Johnson, who read Classics as an undergraduate at the college, moving into Downing Street.

The college’s July newsletter contained a short item recognising that Johnson is now at Number 10, although Balliol are not currently planning to celebrate the success of their fourth Prime Minister in other ways.

The newsletter’s headline article focused instead on the access and outreach work of the college, describing ways in which Balliol is attempting to “encourage students from groups under-represented at Oxford to apply.”

Unlike the previous alumni – Herbert Asquith, Harold Macmillan and Edward Heath – there are no plans to hang a portrait of Mr. Johnson in college yet.

Balliol told Cherwell: “It is a longstanding College Policy that we do not display portraits of currently serving politicians.”

Mr. Johnson attended Balliol from 1983 to 1987, graduating with an upper second-class degree. It has been widely reported that he was deeply unhappy not being awarded a first.

Alongside his studies, Johnson played rugby for Balliol, co-edited the university’s satirical magazine Tributary and was President of the Oxford Union for a term in 1986.

He joined the Bullingdon Club, an upper-class drinking society dominated by Old Etonians and with a reputation for colourful behaviour.

It was also whilst at Balliol that Johnson first started dating Allegra Mostyn-Owen, his first wife. They became engaged at Oxford and married shortly after leaving.