Tuesday 10th June 2025
Blog Page 622

Nuns n’ Rosaries

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Bring up Catholicism and I get defensive. We aren’t all paedophiles and misogynistic homophobes. I could denounce my faith, yes, because at 21 I am finally free to decide between acting in keeping with or counter to my religion. But doing so would be pointless. Even if I am no longer a regular church-goer, my upbringing has made Catholicism a permanent element of my identity. I can no easier give it up than I can being of Irish origin.

My dad is dubbed ‘the most Catholic person I know’ by many. Church on a Sunday, as a result, was not up for discussion. It was as non-negotiable as our address, or our surname: something we share and something that wasn’t changing any time soon. As a child, exemptions from Church attendance were: a Saturday night sleepover, Dad being abroad for work, and dance exams. That these events should be so perfectly timed was a rare occurrence and, consequently, greatly anticipated when the rebellious stars were set to align. No one likes exams and I missed my dad in his absence, but the thrill of missing Church made these minor hardships well worth experiencing. Now, I miss Church on the regular, only attending on high day and holy days. I’ll be back in my local parish for the Holy Saturday Vigil Mass: a mammoth two hours which are supposed to be more sacred than Christmas.

Dad has finally stopped displaying active disappointment in me when I’m home on the Lord’s day and I opt for a lie-in instead – it only took him 20 years. (I think my sisters get off lightly, but that’s always the way.) I’ve confessed, been forgiven, made my First Holy Communion, been Confirmed and helped spread The Word to Sunday School attendees. I’ve had black, oily soot smeared on my forehead for Ash Wednesday, clutched palm crosses on Palm Sunday, held flaming oranges and been picked on during homilies, or sermons if you are (lucky to not be) Catholic. Currently, to rephrase Rachel and Ross, Catholicism and I are ‘on a break’. After the years of confusing rituals, Latin chants and awkward divulging of child-sized sins to some ancient and unknown priest, I feel like I’ve earned a breather. I calculated that I must have spent between 1250 and 1500 hours of my life in Mass.

My school was called The Catholic High School, as if it were claiming to be the only one in existence. It is, rather less impressively, the only one with a sixth form, for a 25 mile radius. Its motto is ‘christo fidelis’ or ‘faithful to Christ’, but instinct tells me that teenage pregnancy, possession of drugs by Key Stage 3 pupils on school premises and assaulting teachers are, in fact, displays of relative unfaithfulness to JC. Placing a crucifix in every classroom does not change this. RE was compulsory, the rhythm method advocated, the school nurse banned from handing out condoms and, most shockingly, even the laddiest lads would belt out the hymns during termly Mass. Our forms were named after saints, the room where naughty kids got sent to work in isolation was called ‘Trinity’ and our whole uniform bottle green emblazoned with a yellow cross. Nicknamed ‘Bible bashers’ by the neighbouring secondary, we dodged edible grenades on the way to and from school. And being a serious-looking ginger of small stature gave me no prospects beyond repeat victim. I think my old headteacher’s proudest achievement was naming his band ‘Nuns and Rosaries’ after ‘Guns n’ Roses’. 

School was entertaining at best and perplexingly traditional at worst. I don’t think Catholicism brings much to modern-day relationships, least of all when you’re young. My parents never spoke to me about a prospective boyfriend until I went to Oxford. My dad’s prize jibe was ‘I can’t wait to meet posh Tarquin’. After nearly three years, Tarquin is yet to make it on to the scene, I hasten to add. Sex is taboo in our household, so my mum had to awkwardly relay my dad’s adamant request that my boyfriend sleep two floors down from me when he visited. Is it really any wonder then, that prior to this relationship I, in the words of my mother, “used Tinder to the detriment of my self-respect”? Speaking of Tinder, my first seven dates were, coincidentally, with Catholics. Given that we are a dying breed among the English student population, it certainly provided scope for bonding. On the contrary, those who hadn’t been brought up Catholic thought it hilarious that me, an ex-Catholic schoolgirl, was now nailing her swiping game instead of fantasising about the convent. (No, we are not all tortured by self-imposed celibacy before marriage.) I could never be open about an abortion, or, God forbid, I had had to come out as anything but straight.

In spite of my father’s highly questionable views and his attempts to shove them down my throat, I will always love him. He and my mum have given me so much: a stable, loving home, foreign holidays, music tuition and, crucially, encouragement to apply for Oxford. My parish priest, an Oxford graduate himself, even gave me a mock interview to plug the gaps my school had left. I attribute the traditional Catholic values to little more than generational differences; you would be hard-pressed to find a young Catholic nowadays who espouses all the views contained in catechism. I know from experience that you can associate with a religion without doggedly following all its teachings. And, above all, I am certain that spirituality is what counts because then all religions can be equal. I am neither inferior nor superior to others by being Catholic – but it does give me a laughably clear insight into life in 16th-Century Europe – very handy for writing my literature essays.

Reflective Awakenings

 

The Victorian period was one defined by immense social change – especially in regards to women’s position in society. Throughout the century, increasing debate led to the reconsideration of attitudes towards women’s employment, marriage and sexuality, and this large-scale reassessment was increasingly explored by the pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, whose art focussed heavily on the idealised female form.

While most people are familiar with the typical pre-Raphaelite motifs – such as the flowing red hair and elongated, delicate features a familiarisation with a number of their paintings will highlight recurring symbols: female passivity, when present, often exists alongside mirrors (which regularly symbolise the inaccessible and the forbidden).

An example of this specific motif is in Holman Hunt’s depiction of the Lady of Shalott (based on Tennyson’s 1832 poem). In the painting, the Lady is depicted immediately after the mirror “crack’d from side to side” and the curse has come upon her. The viewer’s eye, despite being distracted by a mess of coloured, floating wool and a fantastical fresco on the walls, is guided towards the mirror in the background; reflecting the unseen half of the room, the presence of a Knight can be made out from behind a column.

Originally, in the poem, the mirror is the Lady’s only point of access to the outside world, as it allows her to look outside indirectly, preventing her from breaking her curse. However, this is not the case in Holman Hunt’s painting, as he captures the moment in which the mirror becomes vitally corrupting, for the sight of the Knight through it spurs the Lady to turn and look towards Camelot, instantaneously bringing about her subsequent demise. The pre-Raphaelite interpretation of the poem is one which focuses on the mirror solely as a symbol of the Lady’s simultaneous isolation as well as the cause of her death. The presence of the mirror in this crucial moment reminds the reader of the Lady’s involvement in her death, and surely implies slight condemnation on the painter’s part, as he seems keen to remind us of her culpability, implying blame for her naïvety.

Female isolation is equally present in Dante Rossetti’s Lady Lillith, a painting which focuses on a woman combing her flowing, red hair (in true pre-Raphaelite style), holding a hand-held mirror. Clearly idealised, with her dress slipping below her shoulder and with deep red lips, the viewer is initially led to appreciate the sitter aesthetically. Despite her beauty, however, she is distant; while the viewer looks on at her, she is absorbed in her own reflection. This sense of ignorance is emphasised by the presence of the mirror in the top left of the painting, which demonstrates another dimension that she is not tending to.

However, this seemingly vain admiration adopts a dark significance when read alongside an inscription which Rossetti inscribed below a later watercolour copy: “When she twines them [her locks] round a young man’s neck, she will not ever set him free again”. Having read this inscription, the woman is transfigured: she is not simply admiring her hair, but actually her means of physical control over men. Although there is an initial sense of contempt for Lillith’s vanity, her dominance over men distinctly empowers her. Moreover, her explicit enjoyment of her own power surely inspires admiration in the viewer; Lillith is empowered by her reflection, for the mirror allows her to become aware of both her superficial beauty as well as the power which her hair affords her.

One shouldn’t be too quick to label this motif as being solely reductive, as it is arguably so in The Lady of Shalott. In fact, the motif is also used in a way which evokes quite the opposite meaning; this is no more so than in The Awakening Conscience, Holman Hunt’s 1853 painting, a personal favourite of mine. In the painting, a young couple is sat in front of a piano, with the woman (who is a ‘fallen woman’ – she is not wearing a wedding ring) slowly rising from her lover’s knee. Her movement towards the pair of open, glass doors seen in the mirror behind her is not symbolic of repression or inescapability. Rather, it is used to give the woman freedom, as consciously seeks redemption for her sin. In this painting, the motif is entirely empowering, as it presents the opportunity for salvation for the female muse, especially at a time in which women were condemned for sexual behaviour much more harshly their male counterparts. With her back to the mirror, as well as her lover, the viewer is able to understand that the subject is shunning her former sin; the mirror’s sun-lit visage, depicting a spring scene outside, affords the viewer with a glimpse at what she sees. In distinct contrast to the mirror in The Lady of Shalott, the mirror in this painting is used to demonstrate the woman’s opportunity for redemption and revitalisation through the ‘awakening’ of her conscience and rejection of her old lifestyle. Despite being masked by shade, the corner of light in the bottom right of the painting represents the opportunity which the subject is moving towards, and will imminently arrive at. In a notable reversal, while in The Lady of Shalott, the Lady’s turning away from the mirror causes her demise, the mirror can also symbolise redemption, as it does here, for it allows reveals to the viewer the woman’s ability to access forgiveness.

The motif of mirrors might demonstrate the brotherhood’s reductive attitudes towards women: in The Lady of Shalott, for example, the window not only oppresses the subject through showing her the unreachable but also leads to her causing her own death, which is implicitly scorned by the artist. However, although the mirror in Rossetti’s Lady Lillith is partially used to highlight (as well as condemn) the subject’s vanity, it simultaneously empowers her, as it allows her to admire her means of power over men.

Even more empowering is the mirror in The Awakening Conscience, which is demonstrative of redemption for the ‘fallen woman’, especially in a period where women faced significant resentment for their sexual autonomy. While no decisive conclusion can be drawn from exploring this specific motif, one can begin to understand the brotherhood’s complex relations with their female muses. The existence of the motif itself and its sole association with women illuminates the varied contemporary attitudes and allows us to understand the extent to which women in the 19th-century were continually reduced to objects of artistic symbolism.

Ten reasons to love the County Championship

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For cricket fans, April means only one thing: the return of the County Championship (CC). It is certainly not as famous, lucrative or incessantly promoted as the IPL, but it remains the cornerstone of cricket in its most traditional form. Here are 10 reasons why we should all love it…

1. Up-and-coming talents

Both Divisions are ripe with young talent, all of whom need to learn and improve in the domestic game before getting an international call-up. Sam Curran is a perfect example; many will know him for breaking into the England test side in 2018, but he had been playing and performing in the CC for Surrey since 2015. Regular county cricket during the English summer is vitally important for any young cricketer who dreams of the biggest stage.

2. A day out

Just picture it: a hot day in July, with no university or work to worry about. Play starts at 11, so you can still have a lie-in. Most grounds are fairly cheap to get into, leaving money left over for a bit of day drinking in the sun. You can wander on the outfield during the breaks, and laze about in the pavilion when you do occasionally focus on the cricket being played. And it is all finished in time for Love Island at 9pm.

3. Season-defining moments

In the CC, the battle between bat and ball is evenly poised over the course of the whole season. In early April, the conditions are ripe for swing bowlers, but by September it takes extra quality to break up consolidated batting partnerships. Consequently, special players provide special moments that define seasons – and in some cases, the title. Last year, Morne Morkel averaged an incredible 13.96 (runs per wicket), despite missing the bowler-friendly first half of the season, and fired Surrey over the line to deliver their first Championship in sixteen years.

4. The Regulars

Daily attendance figures at CC games rarely exceed a few hundred, and while there are frequent day-trippers and casual fans, there is indeed a breed who will spend the vast majority of their summer watching county cricket. The playing hours of 11am-6pm ensure that the ‘regulars’ are usually over 65, wear atrocious hats, enjoy broccoli and stilton soup during the lunch break and politely clap all boundaries and wickets. Alien to most of us, but so quintessentially English.

5. The Golden Oldies

Whilst there is plenty of young talent in the CC it’s also not unusual to have players in their very late 30s or early 40s take to the field. Just last week, 43-year-old Marcus Trescothick played for Somerset against Darren Stevens of Kent, who celebrates his own 43rd birthday in two weeks time. Stevens, incidentally, made his CC debut before Sam Curran was even born.

6. Overseas players

The international elite only tour England once every few years (at a minimum), so overseas players coming to play for our domestic counties offers a brilliant chance to see global stars in the flesh. Legends of the game have graced county cricket – Sachin Tendulkar for Yorkshire, Ricky Ponting for Surrey, Brian Lara for Warwickshire, to name just a few. This year, West Indies captain Jason Holder and Cameron Bancroft – part of the Australian ball-tampering incident – are two to watch.

7. Small grounds

Although there are nine larger cricket grounds in England and Wales which battle for the rights to host international Test matches, there are some delightful smaller ones which escape the attention of most. Think of Worcestershire’s New Road, located on the banks of the River Severn. It hosts just 4,500 spectators, but has a gorgeous backdrop, including the picturesque Worcester Cathedral. Taunton (Somerset) and Chelmsford (Essex) also come to mind.

8. Fantasy cricket

We have all heard of Fantasy Football, a game played by nearly five million worldwide. But if you are looking for something to keep you occupied for eight hours a day, for six whole months, then look no further than the Telegraph’s Fantasy Cricket. With only 30 transfers available during the course of the whole season, patience is key. It is quite simple really, 1 point per run, 25 points per wicket, so all-rounders are an invaluable asset to have in your side.

9. Varied winners

Since 2009, only one county (Yorkshire, in 2015) have retained the Division One title. The lack of a dominant county makes the game far more compelling for all involved and it is possible to go from the depths of Division Two to the heights of Division One in just a few years. In fact, only three first-class counties – Gloucester, Northamptonshire & Somerset – have never won the CC.

10. Out-grounds

The jewel in the crown of county cricket. Once or twice a year, counties play a four-day game at an ‘out-ground’, located in a small town or village elsewhere in the region. These matches are played at picture-perfect locations with sell-out crowds. Short boundaries, big scores, deck chairs, trees hanging over the pitch, balls lost in nearby gardens – a visit to an out-ground is a must for any cricket fan. Two personal favourites: Scarborough and Arundel.


Improving access is not enough

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Oxford and Cambridge have an access problem; this is news to nobody. In September, we found out that Oxford spends £108,000 to recruit each extra low-income student. In October, a Fellow of Jesus College, Oxford, said that Welsh students lack the confidence to apply to Oxbridge. In December, thanks to new research, we discovered that eight schools send as many pupils to Oxbridge as three-quarters of schools altogether.

And these problems aren’t limited to Oxbridge: almost every Russell Group university over-recruits from private and grammar schools and from higher social classes. These stats are telling indictments of our Higher Education system, where your chances of a good education are overtly influenced by your social background. Campaigns against this unfairness aim for equality of opportunity; a state of affairs where everybody has an equal chance of gaining entry to top universities. But this solution is not enough. Access and opportunity are not the be all and end all for society and education.

Admitting more students from marginalised backgrounds doesn’t challenge existing power structures — it just assimilates people into them. An education at a top university co-opts people into the ruling class, furnishing them with incentives to perpetuate inequality and maintain the social barriers that they had to break through in the first place.

If a student from a working-class background gains entry to Oxford, becomes a lawyer, and sends their children to a top private school, then they have acted to recreate the social conditions that made their entry to Oxford in the first place so unlikely. This is not to blame the individual — it is perfectly rational to behave in this way — but shows how socially exclusive structures create the conditions for their own survival.

This is contingent on an assessment of elite universities as inherently harmful, forces for evil within society. Initially, this might not seem to be the case. As we’re often told, UK universities produce world-class research and discoveries, ranking as some of the best universities in the world. This is true, and those lucky enough to gain entry to Oxford, Cambridge or another Russell Group receive a host of opportunities.

But this necessarily denies these opportunities to everybody else. Top-class education is a scarce resource: we can’t provide everybody with the very best education. Like with grammar schools, focusing public money and initiative disproportionately on elite institutions represents an unfair concentration of resources. The existence of Oxbridge and other elite universities prevents us from distributing educational funding in a way which is more equitable and socially beneficial.

The extent to which Oxford and Cambridge, in particular, represent a concentration of resources is astonishing. Analysis by The Guardian has revealed that Oxford and Cambridge hold over £20bn in wealth, more than the combined investment of all 22 Russell Group universities. The government gives Oxford and Cambridge £7m extra a year for one-to-one teaching and individual interviews.

Oxbridge are allowed to have an earlier application deadline than other universities and Oxbridge graduates dominate top media and government jobs to a ridiculous extent. According to Sutton Trust research, 74% of the top judiciary went to Oxbridge, alongside 54% of the country’s leading journalists and 47% of the cabinet. Simply, Oxford and Cambridge dominate UK higher education and society on a scale not present in any other major Western country, bar the US.

As with Meghan Markle’s ascension to the royal family, or the appointment of Gina Haspel as the first female director of the CIA, there is a tendency to celebrate the inclusion of marginalised groups into oppressive power structures without interrogating their existence. Obviously, Oxbridge isn’t as bad as the CIA, but its place as the standard-bearer for the UK’s stratified and hierarchical university system has socially detrimental effects.

Rather than asking if the people receiving the benefits of an Oxbridge education are diverse, we should first ask if conferring such benefits on a narrow sliver of the population is really good for society in the first place. In doing so, we tightly control access to the best teaching, as well as the best opportunities post-graduation. If we dedicate public resources and focus to a select group of people, regardless of its makeup, we unavoidably get elitism and inequality.

To pre-empt an obvious criticism, clearly improving access is a good thing, and in a non-trivial way. Not only is it more pragmatic than overhauling our education system, but meaningfully improving the lives of marginalised groups (as access helps to do) is a significant and worthy pursuit. In addition, reform and revolution are not exclusive goals—we can strive for better access, whilst still recognising that we ought to be more ambitious on the whole.

That said, access is ultimately not enough for the same reason that social mobility is not enough. Implicit in the concept of social mobility is winners and losers; there has to be a class for people to leave behind. Some people can succeed, but others have to stagnate and stay put for this to happen. The philosopher G.A. Cohen argued that rather than social mobility, we should aim for class mobility: a principle of ‘I want to rise with my class, not above my class.’ Instead of seeking to create pathways for individuals to succeed, we ought to create conditions where everybody can be better off.

Incremental change and reform in the shape of improving access and diversity within hyper-selective institutions does not tackle the root issue. Equal opportunity for admission to ‘good’ universities does not escape the problem that their existence necessitates the existence of opposing, ‘bad’ universities.

Regardless of the social makeup of Oxford, Cambridge, and other elite universities, they are necessarily exclusive and serve to confer outsized benefits on a small group of people, as well as incentivising them to reproduce and socially oppressive conditions. We cannot build a society where everybody prospers, and everybody is afforded equal attention by the state, without a drastic change.

Access efforts are not enough. Elite universities being representative of the public would be better than the current state of affairs, but their existence necessarily drives social division and injustice; improving access makes this more palatable and acceptable. The only way to solve this problem is a radical transformation of our higher education system, such that everybody is equally prioritised, and everybody receives equal benefit.

TIG and the Lib Dems must join forces immediately

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The debacle and decay of British politics is now nearly universally acknowledged. Brexit is offered as both a symptom and cause. The two major parties, captured by their extremes, offer meagre solutions. Labour appears to be a repeat of its 1970s self, whilst the Conservatives seem to have returned to the 1950s, both with a dollop of toxic post-truth added to the mix.

Those supporting an alternative can protest and petition, but the substantial currency of change is winning MPs at Westminster. Our voting system, first-past-the-post, makes it extraordinarily difficult for smaller parties to win representation and sustains the duopoly of Labour and the Conservatives.

As a third force in politics, the SDP-Liberal Alliance received over 25% of the popular vote in 1983. They received a totally uninfluential 3.5% of the seats in Westminster (only 23), a saving grace for both Labour and the Conservatives. Unsurprisingly, despite our ‘polarised’ times, the major parties are still agreed on keeping this voting system.

Consequently, if an election was held in which The Independent Group (TIG) and the Liberal Democrats competed it would be almost assured neither would increase their influence in Parliament. Indeed, in competing for similar voters, both might experience catastrophe to the benefit of the two major parties.

The bizarre tragedy of this would be the overwhelming and broad agreement between these groups on swathes of issues. In facing the immediate Brexit elephant, the policies and the voting of their MPs are indistinguishable. Yet their wider views of politics also appear to be extremely similar. The Independent Group’s statement of beliefs frankly threatens to spit out the Liberal slogan of ‘Stronger Economy, Fairer Society’.

Both groups share a strong commitment to using the market to improve social equity, to devolve power, to sensibly raise money to improve public services and education and to protect individual rights. I would also hope TIG will eventually match Liberal commitments to rehabilitation-focused reforms of the justice system (Britain has some of the worst re-offending rates in western Europe), an evidence-based approach to drugs and the pressing need for improved renter’s rights in the housing sector.

This is by no means intended to be a fatuous implication that The Independent Group is a mistaken venture and all involved should have joined the Liberal Democrats. TIG’s MPs are the type of direct and authentic individuals currently needed to lead and to stop the rot. They also offer a fresh organisation to attract new people and allow others to reconsider their politics.

Yet TIG also faces existential weaknesses. They severely lack a membership and campaign structure. This is not superficial. Knowledge of the system and grassroots campaigners are vital to translating support into hard votes. The Lib Dems have the knowledge, data structure and an experienced membership. TIG on its own would suffer substantially from this at its first elections. A scenario in which it wins 15% of the popular vote at a general election yet loses nearly all its MPs is highly possible and would probably be fatal.

Furthermore, the Lib Dems have swathes of radical policy based on a similar perspective to the Independent Group. Indeed, it seems implausible that the Independent Group, if it began to formulate substantial policies, would produce anything broadly at odds with Liberal stances.

The Lib Dems, whilst containing excellent Parliamentarians, have suffered hugely from a lack of an effective leader and communicator since it was gutted by the 2015 election. Furthermore, the Coalition years have left the party isolated from Labour-leaning voters. A merger would be a swift and effective remedy to both problems.

I miss (E)U

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As an EU student, it’s not at all surprising that I am not a fan of Brexit. Along with many others on the continent, I deeply regret the UK’s decision to leave.

However, I am not writing to persuade you of my own not-so-original take on the political debate, as by now I’m sure we’ve all heard every possible argument, several times. Like me, I imagine you are all sick of Brexit chat – sick of attempting to keep up with the latest thing Theresa May, Jean-Claude Juncker, or Jeremy Corbyn has said, as well as the ocean of articles, commentaries, and (of course) memes produced, most of which become irrelevant after a couple of days due to some new development.

Not knowing what the outcome will be and still having so many options talked about this late in the Brexit process is confusing, frustrating, and stressful for everyone. If you only happen to have an EU passport, it is even more so. 

The most stressful part is, of course, the uncertainty. If I knew for sure what would happen, I could begin to prepare for it, but like everyone else I have no idea. Not only that, but the few assurances we were given also seem to be subject to last-minute changes.

Despite having the possibility of staying in Oxford for longer, I booked a flight home for the 27th of March, as I thought at the time that the UK would be leaving the EU on the 29th. I wanted to be home before then because I feared delays in travel, and it’s very important for my family that I join them for Easter. Even that small adjustment was in vain, as we all know.

Not knowing what will happen, not being able to take anything as a given, only increases the sense of powerlessness that I, and other EU students, inevitably feel. This is something for which we cannot plan or prepare. How could we, when we don’t know what will happen, nor when?

Despite this, I find myself constantly reading the news, listening to every statement Theresa May makes, and watching parliamentary debates as they happen. I continue searching for a hint of how the situation might be resolved, and, to my horror, I talk about it constantly. I confess I am guilty of repeatedly subjecting my friends to everyone’s least favourite conversation starter: “Have you heard what’s happening with Brexit?”

Meanwhile, back in mainland Europe, I am questioned about when I’ll be moving back. Everyone assumes I’ll have no wish to remain after my degree, due to the economic uncertainty and my lack of British citizenship.

Sadly, it’s not so easy to let go of a place you have made your home. On the other hand, my future plans do rely very heavily on the outcomes of Brexit, which makes me reluctant to even think about what I might do. This is another way it’s very difficult to make any decisions: I don’t want to commit to staying in the UK, but neither do I wish to commit to leaving it. (Sound familiar?)

Brexit isn’t an insurmountable problem, but it is yet another thing to worry about, which in the stress of Oxford terms I could easily do without. I’ve been finding it very difficult to both keep on top of the latest developments and simultaneously do a degree, and there are plenty of things I would rather do after handing in an essay than to try to understand what the day’s events, talks and decisions could mean for my future.

Moreover, I noticed that on days when something especially important would be decided, such as the three times the government voted on the Prime Minister’s deal, I had some trouble concentrating on my reading rather than speculating about what might happen next and checking if the votes had been cast yet. It’s hard to think of something else when I know that anything decided will tangibly, and almost immediately, affect me.

It’s also very easy to be overly dramatic. Whatever does happen, I know that I will be able to re-enter the country at the end of this vac, I know that I will be able to finish my studies, I know that my fees will remain the same to the end of my degree. I have the possibility to apply to the EU Settlement Scheme, which would allow me to continue living in the UK even after the Brexit dust has settled.

Alternatively, I do have another option – I can return to the EU. Brexit is irritating and stressful, but it is by no means the end of the world. After all, I knew the outcome of the referendum when I applied to study in the UK. I knew Brexit would happen while I was at university. What I could not have predicted was that the process would be such an unpredictable mess.

The Magic of Madeline Miller’s ‘Circe’

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Content warning: This article contains a mention of rape and discussion of trauma.

As a reader I have always been suspicious of happy endings. What can a book do, when in real life those endings will inevitably fall apart? I have worried about sadness in novels. A friend of mine once said of Jean Rhys’ Good Morning Midnight, an unrelentingly miserable book, that they didn’t see how it helped anyone. It only meant that whoever read it was made miserable too. Yet, I think it is precisely the sadness of Madeline Miller’s second novel, Circe, that makes it the masterpiece it is.

A re-telling of the life of the Greek goddess Circe, most famous for hosting Odysseus on her island on his long journey home from the Trojan War, the novel is as captivating as it is tender. Released in paperback on the 1st of April, it is a tour de force in the art of writing struggle, and reading it becomes, under Miller’s protective spell, an act of healing. The narrative thrust of the novel is essentially that of a Bildungsroman, and within that tradition Circe seems a Grecian equivalent of Jane Eyre. Indignant and passionate, she begins the novel a child wronged by her family and made to feel an outcast.

This culminates in her exile to the island Aiaia, where she is sentenced to live out her eternity alone. Circe, like Jane, has herself to fall back on, and though she faces moments of despair, she finds solace in her pharmika, her witchcraft. Miller presents her spell-work so that it seems an allegory for the act of writing. Through her magic Circe learns that she can ‘bend the world to [her] will’. Spells seem more like poems, ‘each […]  a mountain to be climbed anew’, and thus her self-determination becomes an act of self-writing, and writing an act of magic.

She is not alone for long, however, as soon visitors come knocking at her door – some more welcome than others. Circe falls in love, is raped, bears a child, and falls in love again, and each twist in her tale is handled by Miller with an acute awareness of the trauma and the beauty of pain. 

Later in the novel, Circe observes her sister’s daughter, Ariadne, as she dances, beautiful and ignorant of suffering . She stops herself before she has the chance to say what she is thinking; ‘Whatever you do […] do not be too happy. It will bring down fire on your head.’ The passage comes as a moment of revelation. This is the danger of a happy ending laid bare. When reality fails you, as it does Circe countless times over, happiness is held up by circumstance, and likely to give at any moment. For Miller, and for Circe, happiness is an unstable thing, ever prone to disappoint and leave one lost in its wake. Sadness, and finding beauty in it, thus becomes a matter of survival. Hope, too, is dangerous for Circe. 

Yet it is Circe’s perspective as reluctant goddess that most truly charges the novel with its mournful air. Her immortality looms over the novel, not as a blessing, but a curse, making beauty seem transient and pain ever-lasting. Her first love, Glaucos, whom she transforms into a God only for him to choose another in her stead, leaves her with a pain as ‘sharp and as fierce as a blade through [her] chest’. ‘I thought I would die of such pain,’ she says, ‘But of course I could not die’, and it is therein that Circe’s tragedy, for much of the novel, lies. Death becomes sweet when it is the alternative to an eternity of suffering.

Similarly, her second love Daedalus, a mortal, is as soon lost to her as found, her memories of him being all ‘made of air’ and thus doomed to blow away from her like smoke on the night air. In her rendering of immortality Miller thus paradoxically captures the very essence of what it is to feel the pain of a mortal life, where all sorrow seems ever-lasting and all happiness wilts before it is fully bloomed. The immensity of immortality becomes a reflection of the intensity of mortality. It is an ingenious play on the subject matter, making the plight of an ancient goddess seem urgent and present. 

The novel is charged with imagery so startling and rich that it seems to colour the pages like a potion, dripping from line to line, oozing between them and giving them their potency. Startling similes abound, so exacting and lucid it is as if they are conjured from the subconscious, and have always been there. Miller’s is a voice preoccupied with the beauty of language, how it can be worked and re-formed into new and startling shapes. In this way, she is as much a worker of magic as Circe. As Daedalus, Circe’s lover, works beauty from a block of stone, so Miller transforms the language at her disposal into dazzling designs. A master of her craft, she is at the height of her powers. It is rare that such an intricately aestheticized prose-style remains consistent throughout, yet Miller never wavers. Always, she has one eye on the narrative, the other on its detail, and as a reader one feels always in safe, certain hands. 

Miller’s virtuosic yet ever-generous presence is this book’s greatest strength, and nowhere is it more greatly felt than in its final pages. In love again, and with a transformative potion to her lips, Circe conjures a vision of what she hopes the potion will grant her – a mortal life. It is not an especially happy one. In her vision she has grown old with Odysseys’ son, Telemachus, and she imagines he tells her ‘it will be alright’:

It is not the saying of an oracle or prophet. They are words you might speak to a child […] and somehow I am comforted. He does not mean that it does not hurt. He does not mean that we are not frightened. Only: that we are here.

Thus, Miller gifts her reader an important lesson. That nothing is so sad that it does not deserve to be made beautiful. That making it beautiful is the only way to survive the sadness. That fear and pain and trauma cannot be escaped, or avoided. That confronting them as Miller does, and as the reader must in the novel, is the only way. Only through this, she suggests, can we know we are truly here, and be comfortable in the knowledge. Circe is thus a life-affirming testament to the healing power of feeling everything there is to feel unconditionally in beauty’s name. 

Spoons? Spoons.

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When tasked with uncovering the insatiable allure of the Wetherspoons chain, commonly dubbed “Spoons”, to the student populace, one must immediately consider its practicality before questioning whether there is something else afoot.  

Is Spoons so popular merely because of the relatively cheap food and, more importantly, drink? Is it something utilised solely as an inexpensive method of “getting smashed” on a Friday night? I don’t think it’s as simple as that.

When you really get down to it, there is something different about Spoons compared to other, maybe in some cases even cheaper, chains. The camaraderie of a group of students heading to Spoons for a cheeky night out, whether it be three people or fifteen, is like no other, making Spoons, for me at least, entirely unique to the other pubs littering Oxford. 

There is something inherently “un-Oxford” about Wetherspoons, whether it be the slightly fancier “Swan & Castle” or the good old “Four Candles”, and herein lies the appeal. Engrossed in the “Oxford Bubble” of constant deadlines coupled with pomp entirely unique to this university, I feel there is much to be said for something familiar, a piece of home, a touch of normality and this is exactly what can be found in Spoons.

Whether someone finds comfort in the ever-changing table organisation catered for groups of any size or just the overall informality of the somewhat dated setting, Spoons encompasses the classic “pub” atmosphere, akin to that which students might find at home.

That commonality stretches across the North-South divide (the Midlands are a myth) and captures the hearts of international students experiencing their first glimpse into the UK’s drinking culture (God help them).

Therefore, we must ask ourselves, for something so entirely un-Oxford, how and where does Spoons actually fit into Oxford’s drinking culture? If any of you have looked closely at the pubs on that random postcard/poster at your respective Fresher’s fairs, you’ll know that:

1. Oxford has a lot of pubs…like a lot, and

2. Each individual establishment has its own feel (and price list) that attracts different people. The Bear, the Crown, the Head of the River, the King’s Arms (you can tell I’m at a central college), each possesses something entirely unique.

So where does Spoons fit in? It is a truth universally acknowledged that any good student pub crawl ends at a Spoons and this is because its uniqueness entirely depends on its ability to cater for everyone and make all feel welcome, including non-drinkers.  

Instead of being cast aside and barred from ever seeing the dim lights of the (aptly named) Four Candles, for those who don’t drink it’s as good as place as any for a bit of chat with your mates with some pretty decent food.

As a quick note, it’s also a laugh to order your friends random things on the app (eg. a bowl of peas) whether they drink or not. The app also prevents people exercising un-Spoonsmanlike conduct, attempting to steal your highly sought-after seat as you innocently journey to the bar, instead allowing you to chill in your seat and have a plethora of pitchers (no glasses please, just a straw) brought to you.

But, hold on – is there a chance I could be entirely wrong? Is Spoons, in reality, just a cheap pub that has, simply by luck, struck the hearts of students not only in Oxford, but in the UK as a whole? Or are we all just unimaginative sheep following along with what we know in the detrimental spiral of the aforementioned student drinking culture? Depressing thoughts really…

I’d like to think there’s something just a bit magical about Spoons, something they’ve tapped into that no other chain or individual pub really has. It holds a special place in my heart (and not because I got kicked out after spitting whiskey across a table).

As someone who simply cannot stand the claustrophobic sweat rooms that are clubs, Spoons blends the casual, “getting together with friends and having a few laughs”, and the, “actually going out in public and being sociable with people instead of sitting in your room drinking alone”, seamlessly and so, all I really have left to say is, anyone for a pint?

This year’s NUS conference – how your delegates voted

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The National Union of Student’s annual conference took place between Tuesday and Friday of this week. Five of Oxford’s seven elected delegates were present and voting in Glasgow, with two not voting on any motions.

The voting records of all delegates are available for viewing online, whilst a list of the motions discussed over the three day event can be found here.

This conference saw the election of Zamzam Ibrahim as NUS President. Ibrahim, the former president of the Salford University students’ union, vowed in her manifesto to hold a National Student Strike, calling for free education, an improved student maintenance allowance and the return of the post-study work visa for overseas students.

Among the motions discussed, Oxford SU delegates voted to support the Mental Health Charter. This would seek to improve standards of mental health provision and funding across universities, acknowledging alarming rates of student suicide and the ongoing “mental health crisis”.

All Oxford delegates voted against the motion to revoke gender quotas within the SU. The proposer highlighted the now-increased presence of women in the organisation, since the rule’s creation in 2014, as well as the potential harm to non- binary individuals that a 50% female quota poses. The last 5 NUS presidents have identified as female, with racial discrimination featuring more often than gender inequality in this year’s manifestoes.

The conference itself was marked from the outset by sitting president Shakira Martin’s admission of the NUS’s financial trouble. Telling the conference that “we should have run out of cash”, Martin stated: “We are having problems that we need to sort out”.

This follows the November announcement that the NUS was unable to pay off a £3m deficit, cutting half of its jobs as a result. However, all Oxford delegates voted against a review of the NUS’s finances.

Closer to home, Oxford SU is continuing the hunt for a VP for Charities and Community, a position unfilled by Hilary term’s election. President Joe Inwood also penned a letter this month, calling for the university to revoke the honorary degree given to the Sultan of Brunei.

Oxford SU has been contacted for comment on the proceedings.

Homesick

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Content warning: this article contains discussion of anxiety and panic attacks which some readers may find distressing.

It’s the Easter vacation of 2018. I am standing in my sister’s bedroom. I am exhausted, trying to decipher whether the bags of glass pebbles under her bed are the product of hoarding or if they had some invisible sentimental value. I stare at them for five minutes. I sigh and throw them away. I move on to the next bizarre item, a broken ukulele she once talked about turning into a bird house. 

My family were evicted from our house part-way through my first year at Oxford. I was trying to balance revising for collections and packing all of our possessions into a storage unit. One of the more unexpected lessons I learned from the process was that “Home”, a place with so many meaningful connotations of family, security, love, is also a practical term for “place where you can leave all of the stuff that you’re not ready to make hard decisions about keeping or discarding”. I threw away so much the week we moved out. Toys, knick-knacks, old notebooks full of my fourteen-year-old angst, childish books I knew I would never read again. I was brutal, unflinching, ruthless, staring unfeelingly into the pleading plastic eyes of every one of my stuffed toy victims. I knew that, if I didn’t take them, I would have to take up precious space in our one and only storage unit, or take them with me to Oxford, unpacking and repacking them every eight weeks.

“Home” had always been a somewhat fraught term for me. It meant, at various points, arguing parents, love, telling friends at primary school that today was the day I was going to run away from home in a melodramatic preteen whisper, comfort, divorced parents, safety, frayed mental health, the familiar warmth of tradition, teen angst and an intense desire to be that wonderful and elusive thing, independent. I spent a long time running away, a long time hiding. Then, all of a sudden, it was gone. The oppressive security evaporated. The walls that I had fought so long to escape suddenly disappeared, and I was free-falling. I began living out of suitcases. 

A year on, my family have been happily resettled. Their council house is spacious enough, and homey, but, despite all of my mother’s best efforts, I don’t have a bedroom there. My younger sister, finishing her A-Levels, and younger brother, only ten, needed the available rooms far more than I did, and I am exceptionally grateful for the large, blue pull-out sofa that allows me to visit, allows us to all be together. It is a struggle, sleeping in the middle of everyone else’s space, being acutely aware every time I pack my suitcase at the end of term that I will be living out of it until Uni recommences, but we make it work as best we can. My mother bought me curtains to help me make the space my own, which made it much easier to change clothes and find moments of privacy, but still made the hyperventilation common to my panic attacks hard to disguise. 

My college has allowed me to stay this vacation, and it has made a huge difference. Yes, I still had to move my worldly possessions, but only across a quad. I can close my door when the world seems hostile, I can sleep late when my body is tired, I can try to tackle my lengthy vacation reading list in relative quiet, close to a million libraries. It gives me control. It gives me focus. It gives me a place to keep all my weird stuff; the four baby-dolls, the lamp that says “PARTY”, the giant plastic Marmite jar, the slow-cooker that my aunt gave me for Christmas. 

Ultimately, home means so many things, but it seems to me to be, in essence, more of a feeling or state of being than a place. I feel at home having a familiar meal with my family, or singing the same twelve songs we’ve karaoke-d since I was 10 on New Year’s Eve, or watching a terrible rom-com with my mom and sister. I feel at home watching vine compilations with my friends, or studying opposite them for several silent hours in a Costa in Scunthorpe, or eating a surprise Carbonara they’ve made me for my birthday. I am an improvisor and a stand-up comedian, and I feel at home on stage, inventing and imagining and generating laughter from a gathering of strangers who have decided to trust me and have fun with me. I feel at home anywhere there is an Oxford Imp. I feel at home watching TV with my boyfriend, or cooking together, or when he books me a doctor’s appointment because I am too anxious to make a phone call. 

Home is a feeling of control and safety, a sense of contentment and quiet, peaceful joy. I lost a physical space, a place touched and filled by people that I love and a stable base that gave me security, but I did not lose home. I have experienced home in ancient libraries, doctor’s waiting rooms, in college, in Slough, on Oriel 3rd Quad lawn at the height of summer, in Scunthorpe, at a Toby Carvery, on a helter-skelter slide, in Portugal, at the Globe theatre, mid-essay crisis, in the dining hall, in Edinburgh, at the movies, in Christ Church Meadows, in the middle of a panic attack, in Portugal, in Nandos…behind the closed door of my quiet, dark bedroom, listening to a rain hitting the window. 

In the UK, the charity YoungMinds offers help and further support with some of the issues raised in this article. In the UK and Irish Republic, contact Samaritans on 116 123 or email jo@samaritans.org.