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The Not So Secret History – The Party

By
Flora Symington
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Alt="Party"
Student party

I’m beginning to think a fortnightly column simply isn’t enough to cover everything that goes on in this house of mine. To give you a brief summary, in the last two weeks we’ve: hosted a party, had a long-awaited near miss with the infamous sewage hole, unexpectedly put up an overnight guest, and bailed out our downstairs corridor after a flood. So buckle up, readers, it’s going to be a wild ride. 

Let’s start with what we might call the main event: the post-collections/housewarming/belated birthday party at the end of noughth week. After much discussion of exactly which cups we were going to allow people to drink from and how much light we wanted in the dancing room, we had the house and ourselves party-ready rather earlier than we were expecting. With an unforeseen half hour to spare, we responded in the only way that was reasonable, and decided elaborate drinks were in order. The spirits we had hidden moments before miraculously reappeared, and espresso martinis all round seemed like an appropriate choice. By the time we had succeeded in making them – a process which involved a lot of pouring of coffee from one receptacle to another, not to mention the shaking of brown sticky liquid in a container with a very precarious lid – we had successfully undone all our hard work cleaning the kitchen, and the guests were arriving. At least we had started as we meant to go on…

The party was an all-round success as far as I was concerned: a respectably high proportion of those who clicked ‘Going’ on the Facebook event actually came, and a respectably low proportion of these disgraced themselves. I don’t want to go into too many graphic details (readers of this column have heard more than enough about our plumbing system and what goes into it for the time being), but suffice it to say that the plastic bowl we served punch from at the start of the night was serving a different purpose by the end. The garden was (almost) fixed, so I spent most of the night out there, chatting and keeping half an eye on the box of gravel we’d put over the final exposed portion of the sewage pit. 

I’m going to take a risk here and tell a story which, if the relevant person ever reads this column, might cause some upset – but given the amount of alcohol consumed by the time this incident occurred, I think I’m probably safe. One unfortunate party-goer, walking just behind the only person all night with a strong enough stride to dislodge the box of gravel, ended up plunging her foot straight down the hole. I swooped in before she had sunk past the ankle, but not before someone behind had shrieked ‘she put her foot in the sewage!’

‘Sewage?!’, the poor girl shouted at me in distress.

 ‘Not sewage! Drainage.’, I replied soothingly, setting her on her feet again. 

‘Oh thank god!’, she said, stumbling off into the garden. 

Now, in my defence, what I said wasn’t actually a lie. Our waste does, technically, ‘drain’ into that trench in the garden. It’s just that the word sewage conjures a much more disturbing image to someone who has just put their foot in it. The damage had already been done, and her foot hadn’t actually touched anything except some dank underground earth – if I had been in this position, I would have liked to have been told anything that would have made me feel better in the moment. 

Incidentally, this very question had arisen in earlier household debates about how we should handle the sewage-pit-in-the-garden situation. The Poet, who suffers from a heavy conscience (at family dinner the other day we decided to label everyone with a complex – they got guilt), was in favour of a message on the Facebook event to warn all attendees of the potential danger, and the Classicist concurred. The Cook, favouring a more free-range approach, thought they should take their chances. I pointed out we could always sue the landlord if anyone did get injured.  The Thespian took the middle road and suggested a sign on the garden door which would warn people if they cared to look, but wouldn’t scare them off coming, with which we all agreed, at least in theory. But somehow none of us got round to putting it up. Anyway, Sewage Girl suffered nothing more than a brief moment of horror, which I quickly dismissed, so no harm done. 

The night was rounded off at a suitably ungodly hour, and only one party guest was left tucked up on the sofa in an unfit state in which to walk home. It’s a shame my brief doesn’t allow me to include pictures, or I would be regaling you all with a visual rundown of the night too, for there was – as one partygoer exquisitely put it on the Facebook the next day – ‘a scrumptious number of digi cams on the loose’. 

Coming down into the kitchen the next morning with the mysterious clarity that sometimes comes with the very first stage of a hangover, however, I found said guest had vanished. The plastic bowl we’d left him nursing lay washed up on the side, the blanket was folded neatly back onto the sofa. When later quizzed about his mythical departure, a mist seemed to descend over his eyes, as he explained that he’d been awoken by the rising sun, and began his journey home across the city in the dawn. It’s the most poetic way I’ve ever heard anyone describe a walk of shame, but oddly enough, I sympathised; I’ve rarely seen the dreaming spires look more beautiful than in the first light of a Sunday morning. 

Since that weekend we’ve all settled into a rather quieter routine, with lots of nights in drinking tea and cultivating a sourdough starter. The biggest drama of last week was the day of the horrific rain storm, which saw the Cook stealing the Classicist’s towel to mop up the water cascading in from under our back door. The subsequent email to the letting agent provoked a response which included  the exceedingly gratifying phrase ‘I’m so sorry to hear there’s been yet a further issue at the property’. ‘Yet a further issue’! Never in the history of student tenancies has such an admission of guilt been made by the owner to the tenant, and, sure enough, a drain was put in outside our back door the very next day. Perhaps the Poet has a point – it seems guilt is a potent force.

Cabernet

By
Nina Savedra
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alt= a bushel of Cabernet sauvignon grapes
Image Credits: CC 1.0, via. Wikimedia Commons, by Joseph Daurel

Read the latest from The Source on the theme of relationships!

He likes red wine. Gets a bottle of it when he goes out to eat.
To share, of course, for the two when they meet.
A Crasto in the Winter. So warming.
A white in the Portuguese Summer: crisp, sweet, cooling.

Of course, I’ve never seen him drink wine.
Only the bedside water from that bottle of mine,
Gripped with moist fingers and glugged and glugged
Like the world’s least romantic hug.

I’ve never seen him pick a main, a dessert, a table by the window,
Only a room, a side of the bed, a place for us to go.
And, oh God, I’ve never seen him consume a morsel of food,
Just me, my time, my innocence, my mood.

She must know his taste like the back of her hand,
What he craves, what he can’t stand.
I know his taste too, but the one on his lips at night,
Notes of leather, cherry, pepper, spice.

No, I’ve never seen him drink wine, but I tasted it yesterday,
Forbidden fruit, the richest Cabernet.

Analysis

This poem puts darkness into the spotlight: the dark side of love; the dark shadow of a memory; and the darkest of secrets. Giving voice to an illicit narrative, Cabernet guides us through the cycle of love, lust, and heartbreak that rules any romantic affair. Wine, something delightful but ultimately intoxicating, works as a core symbolic image in the piece. The image seeps down from title to final word, illustrating the encompassing and cyclical nature of the speaker’s relationship. The double entendre of taste (preference) and taste (flavour) encapsulates the distinction between lover and mistress, yet ultimately, it is clear that the two are not so different.

Yevonde: The woman who revolutionised colour photography

By
Rachael Cummings-Naylor
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alt= an illustration of Yvonde Middleton
Illustration by Rachael Cummings-Naylor

“Portrait photography without women would be a sorry business.” (Yevonde Middleton, 1921)

I walked into the Yevonde: Life and Colour exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery wondering what to expect. I felt ignorant ever having heard of her before when it seemed her work was all anyone could talk about. I wanted to understand the hype so I took my morning break and headed to the exhibition room.

I was met with black and white monochrome photographs plastered over the walls. My first instinct was to walk right out. I appreciate photography but it is by no means an interesting medium to me. I quickly glanced over these before focusing on the information on the wall next to the portraits.

Madame Yevonde (1893-1975) was the first British photographer to exhibit colour portraits. She was born and lived in London, where she became wrapped up in the suffragette movement as a member of the WSPU, later going on to serve in the Women’s Land Army.

This revelation suddenly breathed life into her photos, as I began to notice the number of soldiers featured in her portraits alongside an impressive range of celebrities from A. A. Milne to Paul Robeson. As it turns out, Yevonde began taking photos of celebrity ‘workers in war-time’ which were reproduced in The Sketch and was responsible for helping families identify their loved ones who were lost during wartime through portraits she had taken of them.

There was a sharp transition in the exhibition from her early work to her work following the war. Yevonde became interested in colour photography in the aftermath of World War I; despite it being an expensive and complex undertaking, she remained undeterred. Her work reflected a renewed optimism in the wake of destruction and devastation with its bright colours, quirky costumes and creative settings.

The most striking image which comes to mind is Joan Maude (1932) with her fiery hair posed in red monochrome. However, I would argue her later series, ‘A Galaxy of Goddesses’ (1935), triumphs over everything else. She was inspired by the costumed guests at an Olympian-themed charity ball she attended that same year. Yevonde asked twenty-three women she knew within her social network to pose as mythical characters. ‘Lady Dorothy Warren as Ceres’ and ‘Olga Burnett (née Herard) as Persephone’ stood out to me for their use of composition and colour, but perhaps it was just the ancient history student in me which drew my eye.

Tragedy struck with World War II, but Yevonde continued to work throughout the war. Business was slow to recover: she set up a brief partnership with Maurice Broomfield (1916-2010), whose work focused on the rapid transition from the industrial revolution towards new technologies. They eventually went their separate ways.

The landscape of colour photography changed during these years as colour printers were forced to shut down. Yevonde’s portraits reverted to black and white monochrome during this period. It was not until the late 1950s and 1960s that she began experimenting with Solarisation to produce distinct portraits which fell between a positive and a negative print. I was slightly underwhelmed by the end of the exhibition given the build-up of all her work, but it kept true to the fluctuations of Yevonde’s work over her life which I appreciated.

This exhibition is worth a visit if you are interested in photography or are willing to learn more about it. It is even better if you are fortunate enough to see the Colour Revolution: Victorian Art, Fashion & Design exhibition at the Ashmolean; Yevonde’s work serves as a nice continuation from its brief section on the rise of colour photography. I learnt a lot about photography and even have a newfound liking for it, which is something I never expected.

Fragile Love

By
AA
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alt= A damaged box with a fragile sticker on it.
Image Credits: CC BY 2.0, via. Flickr, by treybunn2

Read the latest from The Source on the theme of identities.
Content warning: self-harm, homophobia.

She was 15 years old,
With empty eyes of sorrow and a hollow heart,
When those once fleeting feelings flooded the fortress
She’d built in her mind, and she couldn’t fight anymore,
And she realised that those who should adore
Her, no matter what, would abhor
Her, no matter what
She’d do to convince them,
That she was still herself, still the girl
They thought could do no wrong-
Except now her very existence was wrong
To them.

She looked at herself in the mirror
And what did she see, what did she see?
A monster cos that’s what they said people
Like her were- depraved, dirty,
And yet how could either of them know how she was hurting?

She never chose to feel like this,
Why would she choose to want to
Gouge out her guilty eyes
Every time she saw a beautiful girl?
Why would she choose to want to
Slash her skin and bleed out?
Every time she heard their brutal, biting words
Against those like her and

Why would she choose to want to
Suffocate slowly hiding her true self?
And whispering the truth into the invisible, silent safety
Of the dark in her room at night.
Why would she choose to want to
Disappear into that darkness herself?

Cos that would’ve been easier than
Knowing that their supposed love was as fragile
As a glass vase that she could topple over,
And she’d watch their eyes fill with fury
And their hearts harden with hate
And their disgust and contempt contort
Their faces, and then
She’d no longer be the girl that came from them
But a diseased, debauched devil woman
That they’d discard without a moment’s regret.

But she couldn’t help who she was,
She couldn’t hide the shimmering colours
Radiating from her that they tried to
Paint over in black without them even knowing.
And she realised that a love as weak as theirs
Was no love at all,
And it was them who were the monsters
If they thought one unchangeable aspect of her
Was enough to throw her away with loathing.

And why should she want to
Slash her skin when she finally felt safe in it?
Why should she want to
Disappear into darkness when she finally found
Some trickling light leading her to acceptance?

She’d never done anything wrong
By feeling the way she did,
She was just existing
And so she stopped resisting.

Analysis

AA writes about growing up in a strict, homophobic household whilst hiding her bisexuality, out of fear for repercussions.

With her repeated rhetorical questions, she begs the audience to delve into her inner dialogue in an attempt to understand her parent’s reasoning. If they believed that queerness was a choice, why was she unable to change? Why were her attempts painful rather than healing?

The title of the poem, ‘fragile love’, can refer to her love for women (which must be hidden and sheltered), her love for herself (which is tentative) and her parent’s love (which is conditional, and prone to break). However, the fragility of AA’s love has evolved at the end of the poem.

At the end of the poem, we reach the change in mindset of the protagonist- who accepts herself and realises there is nothing wrong with her. This is a statement, not a question: she no longer seeks for the acceptance or reassurance of others. She knows there is nothing wrong with her: it is fact, and it as factual as her ‘existence’. The period at the end of the poem is solid, strong, and clear: just as the question marks fade out, so does the fragility in her self-acceptance.

This poem is written under the pseudonym AA.

Pedal to the metal

By
Grace Barnett-Cox
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Alt = "Cycling"
Image credit: Elina Sazonova via Pexels.

Oxford is a city ruled by cyclists. In this cycling paradise, pedestrians often find themselves swept up in the whirlwind of cyclists and tourists, particularly in the nightmarish semi-pedestrianised section of Broad Street. This raises a fascinating question: what fuels this love of cycling in Oxford? And what happens when you switch from being a pedestrian to a cyclist? 

I believe that transitioning from walking to cycling is a transformative experience; it alters the way we think, offering a sense of freedom and independence. One of the most compelling aspects of cycling is the liberating sense of time management it gives. Walking through Oxford can often be a slow and time-consuming endeavour, characterised by navigating yourself around selfie-snapping tourists. Cycling has the magical power to shift your focus from time lost to time gained. Getting on your bike, in my opinion, literally changes your perception of time and distance, as a 20-minute slog becomes a 5-minute breeze. In a place where people often grapple with their schedules and heavy workloads, gaining an extra 15 minutes here and there feels like a small victory. Those extra minutes can be used for more sleep, tik-tok scrolling, or library time. While I relish a leisurely stroll to Christ Church Meadows or South Parks, there’s a distinct shift in my mindset when I need to be somewhere quickly.

As my friend Alice said, “there’s something about cycling past tourists in the little streets that is very empowering.” There’s nothing nicer than cycling past gridlocked traffic or mass crowds and tour guides, revelling in the fact you’re on your trusty bike.

A bike offers a sense of being untethered, the potential for more fun, and a chance to escape from the Oxford bubble. If your friends are gathered in a café or pub across town, and you’re in Jericho, the choice to join them isn’t burdened by a 40-minute walk. Cycling opens new pathways of possibilities and serves as an escape from awkward encounters. Encounter an ex on foot, and there’s no avoiding the situation. On a bike? Just pedal away, leaving your past behind for the day.

Cycling around Oxford also invites you into a new relationship with the city, one that enables a deeper connection through participating in the city’s rich cycling culture. You become part of the larger narrative that surrounds the city, the university, and all those that share a love of cycling. You shift from being a mere walker to an integral part of the city’s foundations and society, adding to the long lineage of cyclists inspired by the whispering spires and cobbled streets- from the literary greats, scientific pioneers, and political visionaries (or Hugh Grant and Nigella Lawson). In this way, you bridge the gap between past and present, whilst leaving your unique mark on the city’s history and preserving the cycling culture for generations to come.

There are, of course, downfalls to cycling. Bike theft in Oxford is on the rise. I had my bike stolen last year. For a long time, I had such anxiety around losing my new bike that I became nervous every time I went to go and pick it up. Over time, my anxiety started to dissipate, as I learned to trust in the shared responsibility of the cycling community to watch out for one another’s bikes. Plus, I invested in a (very) large lock. It’s funny how adversity can actually lead to personal growth and a sturdier D-lock. Importantly, this experience taught me the resilience and determination that cycling enthusiasts in Oxford share. We continue to embrace the joy and community of cycling, even in the face of such challenges.

Cycling in Oxford isn’t just a mode of transport, it’s a means of freedom, excitement, and adventure. It transforms the mundane into something fun and connects you more deeply with the city’s culture. There’s a love story between Oxford and its cycling, and when you make the leap from walker to cyclist, your life takes on new meaning and new possibilities.

Image credit: Elina Sazonova via Pexels.

Oxford scraps results of botched admissions tests

By
Ed Ledgard and Martha Smith
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Admission tests
Image credit: Kampus Production via Pexels

The University of Oxford has confirmed that both the Geography Admission Test (GAT) and the English Literature Admissions Test (ELAT), which took place on 19 October, will not be used to shortlist candidates this year. The University has also confirmed that students who sat Maths the Admissions Test (MAT) will have the option to take a supplementary test. These decisions come in response to technical errors in the new online tests.

Earlier this year the University unveiled their plan to digitalise all but two of its admissions tests (the Thinking Skills Assessment and the Biomedical Admissions Test), aiming to “transform the paper-based testing environment typically still found in educational settings.”

The task was entrusted to TATA Consulting Services (TCS iON), one of India’s largest companies and a leader in the UK IT service industry. Following the announcement of the deal, TCS iON’s Global Head, Venguswamy Ramaswamy, said: “We are excited to bring our expertise in working with the University of Oxford, one of the biggest names in education, to make digital assessment possible for its admissions tests.”

The ELAT consists of six passages of text, all of which are united by a common theme. Students report sitting in exam conditions for up to an hour waiting for the passages to load. Applicants were further confused when the test asked for the passages to be considered in relation to the theme of the previous year’s paper.

In an email to candidates, the Director of Undergraduate Admissions for the Faculty of English, David Taylor, wrote that “the clear errors in the test’s rubric (which gave last year’s theme of ‘sleep’ rather than this year’s theme of ‘the moon’) are unacceptable. They caused stress and confusion for talented young people for which we are truly sorry.”

One student told Cherwell: “these issues really threw me off and I felt so disappointed with what I wrote.”

On 20 October, the University announced that “this year, ELAT scores will not be used in any formal shortlisting calculation. No candidate will be deselected (i.e. not shortlisted) on the basis of their ELAT score.”

Applicants also had difficulty accessing other online tests, such as the Maths Aptitude Test (MAT). 

The Oxford University Mathematics department issued a statement on behalf of the Mathematical Institute, apologising for the “widespread distress and difficulties” experienced by prospective maths students who took the MAT.”

Students describe taking up to five hours to complete the MAT as a result of glitches in the new system. 

Unlike the ELAT, the Mathematical Institute will be offering a supplementary test for students who were unhappy with their performance on the MAT – whereas the marks of the ELAT will simply be discounted from the application process. According to the statement, “the majority of candidates experienced no disruption – we do not want to disadvantage those candidates” and so the second test will be optional and the scores of the original MAT will still be taken into consideration. 

The supplementary MAT will take place on 14 November at 9am. The additional test will be administered entirely by Oxford University. 

The University told Cherwell: “We understand the difficulty and disappointment some UK students have experienced because of technical problems with online admissions tests run by a new provider, and we are very grateful to the students and their teachers for their patience and feedback. 

“Tests are only one part of the admissions process and we will use a range of information, including candidates’ individual circumstances, to help us assess their potential and ensure no-one is disadvantaged by these events.

“We will be having further talks with the provider to understand better why these problems occurred with their systems and obtain assurances that there will be no repeat.”

“An ambitious testament to Epic theatre”: Angels in America Review

By
Anuj Mishra
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alt= the main cast of Angels in America at the Oxford Playhouse
Photo courtesy of Oxford Playhouse and Happier Year Productions; (L-R) Aravind Ravi, Grace Gordon, Will Shackleton, Maniel McNamee)

Angels in America: Milennium Approaches is a big show. Indeed, a play with a three-hour runtime and a Pulitzer Prize can really be nothing but. Rising to this Herculean task, Happier Year Productions’ version at the Oxford Playhouse conveyed all the magnitude of Tony Kusher’s “gay fantasia” with room to spare.

The cast of Angels, spearheaded by Daniel McNamee as Prior, a gay man living with and dying from AIDS, was superb in all aspects. Kushner’s 1991 play places two couples at its centre: Prior and Louis, a gay couple falling apart as Prior’s health enters a steep deterioration; and Harper and Joe, a straight Mormon couple whose marriage is a scant façade for an addict wife and repressed husband.

For all its greatness, the way in which Angels is written can allow its cast to fall into archetypal role-playing at times. This is a pitfall which applies especially to the characters of Prior, a foppish WASP, and Roy, a dirty yet powerful lawyer. Nonetheless, McNamee’s portrayal of a man in physical and mental collapse – cracking open as it were – never felt overdone, perfectly treading Kushner’s line of theatrical illusion and never spilling into histrionics. Immanuel Smith’s Roy Cohn was an impressive character study, Roy being a character with which Kushner writes real-life into the play. Special mention must be given to Smith’s Brooklyn accent, which rivalled that of any native New Yorker.

Similar credit must be given to Grace Gordon as Harper, her Valium-induced delirium never failing to strike a nerve and arousing violent laughter where it mattered most. Aravind Ravi’s performance as Joe was impressive also: his portrayal of a sort of everyman, alienated from the values of Christianity and Reaganism he once held dearest, was sympathetic to even the most radical of us in the audience.

Image courtesy of Oxford Playhouse and Happier Year Productions; (L: Will Shackleton, R: Grace Gordon)

As the play hurtled towards doomsday, each scene morphing into the next with no pronounced set changes (aside from an interval), Raynes crafted profoundly moving images. A highlight being the climactic end to the second act (before the interval) where we see the stage occupied by both couples in a cacophony of rage and sorrow. This scene was well choreographed, allowing each performer to weave a confusion of narratives and identities, and was complemented by excellent lighting design (Lucas Ipkendanz).

Raynes’ direction also did a good job of preserving the moments of sheer abjection in Angels. Each of these moments induce a discomforting voyeurism that makes us writhe in the play’s collapsing of social order: a cruising scene in a park (familiar to only the most adventurous of us), the vivid spectacles of Prior’s AIDS-related symptoms, the awkward layering of male desire and sheer greed which marks our final impression of Ray Cohn.

The relevance of Angels – a clear point of interest for Raynes, as revealed in an interview for Cherwell – was never unconvincing. From the delivery of the opening speech, a sort of proem to the “National Themes” the play speaks for, by Rabbi Chemelwitz (Maya Robinson), to the hilarious yet hauntingly accurate argument between Louis (Will Shackleton) and Belize (Essence Lotus) on race, antisemitism, and politically-correct drag queens.

Image courtesy of Oxford Playhouse and Happier Year Productions; (L: Essence Lotus, R: Will Shackleton)

The play boasted original sound design, by Madeleine Lay, which was effective in the most dramatic moments if a little too loud in others. The projected angels’ voices were demonic (reminiscent of those terrifying Biblically-accurate angels) and conveyed a sense of doom which felt out of place in the earlier act, but nonetheless effectively precipitated the ending.

Angels in America, Millennium Approaches impressed, awed, and shocked. An ambitious testament to epic theatre which was well handled, it must not be missed. I patiently hope for Perestroika.

Angels in America, Millennium Approaches will continue its run at the Oxford Playhouse until the 4th November, at 8pm on Friday 3rd and 2.30pm & 7.30pm on Saturday 4th. Tickets are available to purchase here.

“Surprising, and slightly macabre”: Sampi at the Burton Taylor

By
Kiaya Phillips
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alt= Sampi at the Burton Taylor
Credit: Flora Wilson Photography

A play about friendship, breakdowns, a chicken sandwich, existential questioning and a nosebleed, Sampi at the Burton Taylor Studio is a piece of new writing by Oliver Roberts taking the Oxford drama scene by storm. Selling out the venue on Friday night, I was lucky enough to get a front seat to the madness.

The plot of the play is simple in concept: two men and one woman, all in their early twenties, prepare for a birthday party. Tensions within the group are quickly established and along the road to reconciliation we see Nat, Hayley and Sara struggle with new jobs, drug issues, irrational fears, relationships and ultimately their understanding of self. All common topics that will ultimately hit well with an audience of university students. 

The play explores the fine line between what everyday acts are terrible and what is simply a part of the system. Staged in the BT’s black box setting in the round, you are thrust into the centre of the chaos. With a minimal, but clever, set of a table and three chairs, but an otherwise empty space, the actors were given space to move, allowing exploration with proximity in their acting choices. The only thing disturbing the minimalism was the tabletop, cluttered with miscellaneous party supplies; beer, hats, streamers and a radio.

The play is carefully crafted with recurring motifs that I felt myself recognising as we returned back to them. The radio, brought in by Nat at the start acting as the centre for the transitional audio between scenes; adverts for Spotify skips, static, and snippets of pop songs jarringly played over loudspeaker as the scene shifts. We also see titular references embedded in the play. Nat, our charmingly naïve deep thinker, introduced us to sampi in one of his existential musings; leading me to learn that it is an archaic letter added onto the end of the Greek alphabet (a fact I had never before encountered!).

Moreover, the motif of the nosebleed intertwined with the concept of bloodletting struck my attention. A concept that was openly discussed in a contemplative, philosophical manner in the former half of the play and being constantly reminded to us with the presence of this unrelenting nosebleed from Hayley. The emotion is physical and we see Haley’s pain expressed through his own purging of blood. When he hits Sara near the end of the play he wants her to share in the pain he is experiencing leaving both characters wearing their emotional scars smeared on their faces. The motif finishes at the end of the play when Halyey and Sara reach the final peak of their already crumbling relationship; blood is spilt into cups which are swapped and drank from, symbolising them finally agreeing to disagree. The ending is surprising, slightly macabre, and disturbing yet reinforces a sense of finality at the end of the play in the face of all this unresolved conflict. Ultimately, however, I came away still debating over whether closure between the characters was ever really reached.

Despite the depth of thought gone into the writing of the play, the comedy that it’s described as does not go amiss. With expertly timed quips built naturally into the fast flowing conversations of the young adults, the audience were continually laughing aloud at the dialogue on stage. Whether from a sense of camaraderie with these figures of young adulthood that are so vibrant, overpowering yet familiar, or genuine confusion at the absurd topics addressed, it worked either way. Only a group of twenty year olds can muse over the possibility of a reincarnated chicken sandwich with a soul being a form of cannibalism with utter sincerity! 

The production done on Sampi was particularly interesting. Along with the aforementioned transitional soundscape, we were given a large projection of a digital timer upstage right. The timer begins as the action of the play starts and ticks up to the hour mark as the play progresses, adding to the intensity of the action as the omnipotent pressure of time overshadows the action unfolding. Moreover, the soft yellow lighting enhanced the plays realist nature, before expertly shifting to a soft focussed red on Hayley and Sara in their final heated argument. 

The play felt comforting and funny yet tense and overdramatic. Roberts takes the mundane and common experiences of young people and exaggerates them to a comic extent, whilst also getting us to question the authenticity of human connection.

Is football becoming inaccessible?

By
Thomas Bristow
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Illustration of football and pound notes in stadium
Artwork by Madeleine Storer

Like millions of other people, my first football match is an important memory. West Ham lost 0-1 to Stoke in the 13/14 season, but I still remember seeing the pitch for the first time and being unable to comprehend the size of the stadium and the amount of people in it. If it sounds like something of a religious experience, you’re not mistaken. In many ways, supporting a team is like subscribing to a religion, with all of the heightened emotions and admiration of a few exalted figures. But like religion, historically the privileges are given to those who can afford them.

In general terms: where there is sport, there is money. Clubs need to be established, equipment bought, staff paid, home turf hired/purchased and players need to be signed. Football is no different in this respect, and perhaps presents the most clear example of all sports. Vast amounts of money have nearly always been involved, from Giuseppe Savoldi’s transfer to Napoli in 1975 (the first over £1 million), to Manchester United paying £80 million for Harry Maguire in 2019. Despite the recent astronomical inflation of the transfer market, these huge amounts are far easier to manage for the top clubs, who are backed by enormously wealthy individuals (and sometimes entire countries). But a football club is as much a business as a passion project, and when people invest their money they logically expect a return. 

Clubs can profit in many ways, from lucrative broadcasting revenue, sponsors and transfers. But, aside from Todd Boehly, fans are perhaps the most willing spenders of all, and they alone represent a huge potential for profit. In 2021, Barcelona took £110,900,000 on the matchday experience (tickets, food, drink etc.) and Tottenham were not far behind with £94,500,000. Whilst these may seem like huge figures, for top clubs the money made from fans actually accounts for a small portion of the overall revenue. Thus the question arises; if fan revenue is far less consequential for clubs than other streams, why is it seemingly so expensive for supporters? 

An immediate answer could be as simple as, ‘Clubs are businesses, they can charge what they like’. But this does nothing to address the issue that, for many people, football just is expensive. The most obvious place to start is with tickets. Many would claim that you’re not a true fan if you’ve never seen your team play. There is something truly unique about being in a massive stadium of people with a shared passion. But for West Ham fans it will cost a minimum of £50, and that’s likely for a seat as far away from the pitch as possible. Factor into this the travel to and from the stadium for supporters from all around the country, matchday food and drink, and the cost of attending a Premier League match skyrockets. Of course West Ham cannot be representative of the whole league, and according to goal.com tickets can be bought for as little as £9 at Liverpool and £16 at Burnley. But this in itself is not representative, as there’s very few of these tickets available and the view from your seat will be greatly affected. 

The reality is that attending a Premier League game is expensive. For Manchester City’s upcoming league game against Bournemouth, the tickets range from £58-75. Not exactly a casual day out. European cup games usually mean a more modest price, and West Ham are offering a 3-match ticket to adults for £60, decent value for three home games. There is, however, one major condition, aside from the fact that these will almost certainly be for the worst seats in the stadium; this deal is only available to season ticket holders. An adult season ticket for the current season which guarantees semi-decent seats starts at £630. The offer is there, but only if you’re willing to fork out £100s in advance. For many people, attending a game, arguably the essential aspect of supporting a team, is unaffordable. Consider further the fact that Premier League teams will play 38 games in a season, and the idea of semi-regularly watching your team play becomes a mere fantasy. Fans create the matchday experience and are the backbone of any football club, but so long as tickets inevitably become more and more expensive, fewer and fewer genuine fans will be able to participate. 

But attending a game is not the only way to signify your support. The football shirt is famous and iconic, and the appeal is obvious. You can clearly display your support for your team, sometimes amongst thousands of others at matchday, and have the chance to wear what the players themselves wear. It is an intrinsic aspect of one’s identity as a football fan, almost like a uniform which can distinguish the wearer from fans of other teams. Some would call football deeply tribal, and I would probably agree. Seeing a random person wearing your team’s shirt is a strangely comforting experience, almost as if being reminded of being part of an enormous family. The football shirt is a deeply desired garment, but this inevitably comes at a significant cost too. I remember buying Dortmund’s 14/15 shirt with a name and number on the back and it cost £65 which was not cheap. The same item, for this season, now costs £87. I’ve read a few articles from the late 2010s which claim that the modern-day cost of a football shirt is partially negligible as they’ve always been expensive and, adjusted for inflation, cost pretty much the same. Whilst this may have been the case in 2017, it’s not anymore. In 1973 Leeds United began selling kits to their fans for £5, a considerable amount of money at that time. Using the Bank of England’s inflation calculator this would come to £51.69, but this season’s Leeds shirt is £65. The gap is not huge, but it’s noticeable, and shows that Leeds shirts now cost more than ever. 

The most striking examples, however, are those of the world’s biggest clubs. For the clubs that sell the most shirts, there are often two options available; the replica and the ‘authentic’. Replica shirts are more common, they are a slightly cheaper-produced shirt for the everyday fan. But authentic shirts are, as is probably obvious, exactly what the players themselves wear on the pitch. These shirts represent a deluxe option, being made of higher quality fibres and having all of the latest (probably quite insignificant) technological advances in football shirts. Take Real Madrid for example, one of the world’s biggest and most successful teams. Their replica shirt for this season costs £95, which seems unbelievable until you come to their authentic shirt which costs *deep breath* £140. This doesn’t even include the cost of player name and number printing. Even their child’s shirt is £70, a price comparable to most premier league clubs’ adult shirts. At this point I’m just glad I’m not a Madrid fan.

Prices such as these have to be justified, and in fairness clubs only receive a small portion of what the shirt sells for. But £140 for a single shirt is bordering on the price you’d pay for a luxury brand, not exactly what football is meant to be about. The biggest clubs, however, are global brands, and that cannot be denied. You’re far more likely to see a Barcelona or Manchester United shirt in some far flung corner of the globe than Crystal Palace. And so football shirts become as much a fashion statement than one of support or a practical garment of sportswear. Perhaps the best example is Paris Saint-Germain, whose collaboration with Michael Jordan’s ‘Jumpman’ brand has turned the shirts into borderline streetwear. This is only compounded by the opening of a PSG club shop in New York, of course on 5th Avenue (the Google reviews are hilarious). The connection to football is minimal, and the intention is clear. It’s difficult not to view this collaboration as anything more than a cash grab. But, as I hope is clear, it shouldn’t be like this. Fans want to show their support for their team, but the price of a shirt is starting to become unfeasible for many. 

One solution is the enormous and rapidly growing market of fake shirts that are produced in China. On sites such as dhgate.com, the same aforementioned Real Madrid replica shirt is available for around £13, an offer which seems too good to be true. But reading the reviews of these fake shirts, the customers seem to be quite happy with the quality of them. Many even mention that they’ve bought one for their children, who are themselves happy with the shirt. For people who, understandably, can’t afford exorbitant shirt prices, these fakes seem to provide a viable and satisfying alternative. But there is a huge elephant in the room which is yet to be addressed; this is a completely illegal practice. People are mass producing designs which they don’t own the rights to and then selling counterfeit goods in their thousands. Further questions can also be raised over the ethics of large-scale factory production in China concerning the environmental damage and well-being of those who are actually making these shirts. On one hand, you can purchase a decent quality shirt for a very low price, but on the other hand you must consider what sort of possible exploitation and illegal activities you’re contributing to. On top of all this is the fan’s consideration as to whether they’re undermining their own club. Fake shirts are not really the perfect solution they seem to be. 

But fake shirts is not the only illegal practice that many fans decide to indulge in. For as as long as I can remember, illegal streaming sites have existed, promising an unstable connection, a million pop-ups and a few viruses, but ultimately allowing you to watch the game. These sites are extremely popular, with a 2017 article in The Guardian finding that 54% of Millennials surveyed had watched an illegal sports stream. A recent report by the Sports Business Journal reveals that in 2019 the Premier League had 210,000 illegal streams blocked, and that last season the number increased to a staggering 600,000. It goes without saying that illegal streaming represents something of an epidemic to broadcasters. But even watching football at home is becoming increasingly difficult. Sky Sports Premier League starts at £20 per month, admittedly not a huge amount, but this doesn’t include the installation fee. NowTV is £35 monthly, BT Sport £40 and Virgin Media is £70. You do get access to a great deal of football, but I can understand why people would rather use alternative, if questionable, means of streaming. With the enormous rise of streaming companies in the last decade, people are watching less TV. The problem, probably due to this, is that more football matches are being taken off the main channels and stuck behind something of a paywall. Despite my fear of sounding like some grumpy old man, I fully believe that when I was younger there was much more football available on the TV. For fans who live far from their teams, crowding around the TV to watch a match with friends or family can be an important moment. But with the rise of costly streaming, football matches are being made more exclusive and, so it seems, inaccessible. 

This has been a pretty pessimistic article so far, so I’d like to say that I genuinely believe there is hope for football. Football is, on the whole, very accessible. Footballs are relatively inexpensive, you can kick a ball around nearly anywhere, and when you factor in illegal streaming it’s technically very easy to watch. The lower down the leagues you go, the generally cheaper it becomes. Non-league football is brilliant, provides a much more intimate experience than the Premier League and is far cheaper. Non-league games might not be as flashy and pristine, but there is something almost reassuring about this. They embody the raw spirit of a football match; 22 sweaty people chasing after a ball on a large rectangle of grass. At my local non-league club, Salisbury FC, Adult tickets are £13 and Children’s are just £4. I’m not implying that Premier League clubs should be charging as little as this, that would be ridiculous, instead what is hopefully clear is that real football is very accessible to fans up and down the country for a low price. Many people, including myself, support a ‘Big Leagues’ team and their local Non-league club. But if we turn to Germany, First Division football is far more affordable than in England. Due to the ‘50+1’ rule in German football, Bundesliga clubs have to be at least 51% owned by their members in order to compete in the league. The potential for external ownership is thus far more limited than in the Premier League, and it ensures that the actual members of the club retain overall control. These member-led clubs are far more concerned with putting the fans first than their Premier League counterparts, and this has been the case for a while. Way back in 2010, the then CEO of the Bundesliga, Christian Seifert, stated that “The clubs don’t ask for money” and that “It’s not in the clubs’ culture so much [to raise ticket prices]”. This is still seen today, with Germany’s two biggest clubs, Borussia Dortmund and Bayern Munich, charging as little as €18.50 and €15 for a ticket respectively, largely due to the Bundesliga’s implementation of Safe Standing. Bayern Munich charge slightly more for their Champions League games, but the chance to see two of the world’s best teams play for €19 seems too good to be true. To add to this, Germans clubs restrict the number of season tickets sold, giving more fans the chance to watch their team at a reasonable price. In Germany, it seems that the fan truly does come first. 

Where, then, do we go from here? To dream up some way in which the Premier League could be remodelled based on the Bundesliga would be futile. That sort of change simply is not going to happen, and to be honest it’s difficult to suppose any change will happen at all. As the seasons progress, the Premier League could become more and more commercial and expensive, and thus inaccessible. There seems to be a trend towards a more American style of sport, with the increased pre-game and post-game coverage on streaming services and the alarming rate at which huge, but ultimately vacuous, stadiums are being built. It is a trend towards a menacingly corporate form of football, where sterile and luxurious stadium experiences at £1000 per ticket take priority over the average fan who could never dream of such things. As far back as 2017 the BBC reported that 82% of the 18-24 age group were put off football by the cost of tickets. Whether football, at the top level, is even losing its soul completely is up for debate.

Elite-level football is one of the greatest shows on earth. It is enthralling, full of drama and  includes many of the world’s greatest teams and players. But even at this level, the fans form the backbone of the clubs, and so without fans there can be no football. More and more people are being priced out of the game that they love, and elite football is no longer as readily accessible. The average fan, it seems, is gradually being left behind.

A bubble within a bubble?

By
Hassan Akram
-
Image Credit: John Loo / CC BY 2.0 Deed Via Flickr

A recent ‘View from Oxford’ survey polled students about which way they would vote in a general election. The results showed that 67.1% would vote Labour, 12.1% Liberal Democrat, 13.4% Other, and 7.4% Conservative. This poll raises important questions regarding Oxford’s students’ political make-up. Are we in our own bubble here? Or is something else at play?

Firstly, there is the argument as to whether Oxford reflects nationwide political feeling, or whether it’s contained in its own political sphere. Compare the above-given statistics to those from a national poll on the 20th of October undertaken by Politico. In this instance, Labour leads at 45%, with the Conservatives behind at 27%, Other at 15%, and the LibDems at 11%.

What the view from Oxford’s poll makes clear is that Oxford leans far more heavily towards the Left. But even further than that, there must be more to this trend than the general tide of anti-Tory feeling which has been swelling up everywhere since at least the start of Partygate. The divergence that exists between Oxford University and the country at large may simply be down to the general rule that young people are left-wing. Though, of course, the data is completely at odds with the rest of the country’s perception that in Oxford ‘they’re all Tories’. This then raises a further question: What about divergences in public opinion within Oxford itself? The bubble within a bubble debate.

Everyone knows the College stereotypes. Oriel is so keen on Rishi that it really ought to be named Toriel; though a close second for that title is Corpus Christi, with its unironic campaigns for a ‘Conservative rep’ on the Equal Opportunities Committee in the past. If we look the other way, Wadham’s ultra-left-wing reputation is also renowned as they seek to nationalise, among other heavy industries, our kebab vans.

Though, as widespread as these stereotypes are, I’m not convinced. To explain why, I’ll outline my own experiences with college stereotypes. I am at Christ Church. When I tell anybody in Oxford that I go there, they tend to give me a look of disgust. This is probably because they’ve made the usual false assumptions about how, with its disproportionate intake of private school pupils, it is a hotbed for Toryism. Or perhaps it’s that once you get there, you can barely move an inch without treading on some clone of Jacob Rees-Mogg. But as a creature of Christ Church myself – and one who has ‘talked politics’ to a number of fellow creatures – I’ve quickly realised that nearly everyone who keeps up with politics is a Labour supporter. I have yet to meet any fans of Reform UK, the National Front, or the Official Monster Raving Loony Party. Of the three Conservatives I have met, one pleaded that he was hoping for a Labour win at the election, another refused to elaborate, and the third began singing the national anthem.

In other words, the whole stereotype is nonsense.

If you disagree with my experience, the next best step is probably to approach the problem logically. Think of the improbability that each college, with a fresh slate of applicants every year, perfectly replicates its political make-up. Is it really convincing to suggest that they would go to the lengths of , selecting just the right number of pupils from the required persuasion, and discarding the rest, who would be taken up in equally perfect proportions by the other colleges? It’s absurd; what’s more, everyone probably knows it’s absurd.

Now, having established that it’s nonsense I wonder why these stereotypes persist year after year? And where did they originate?

Well, the stereotypes persist year after year because they are as much a part of the Oxford tradition as boat-racing or matriculation. It may be wrong to judge someone by their background, but in Oxford, it would be even more wrong not to do so.

As for their origin, it probably varies on a college-to-college basis. If I wanted to use a get-out-of-answering-free card, I would say that these bubbles within bubbles are down to wheels within wheels: it’s complicated and affected by disguised or indirect influences.

By this reasoning, Somerville’s reputation for diehard Toryism is probably down to the fact that Thatcher went there. Likewise, St John’s notoriety for launching illegal wars in Iraq may have something to do with Tony Blair having attended in the 70s. But because the issue is much more complex than this, these colleges obviously did not gain this reputation. The absurdity demonstrated in these two instances might as well reflect the stupidity of the others.

Harmless nonsense, though, and nonsense that I personally would back to last as long as the myth of the greatest of all folk devils: ‘the Other Place’.

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