Friday 18th July 2025
Blog Page 712

Oxford First-Generation students launch Alumni Community

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Oxford First-Generation students have launched an Alumni Community, which aims to bring together former, first-generation students to inspire and enable current and prospective undergraduates.

The group already has over 70 members a week since the launch. Many have expressed interest online in mentoring current first-generation undergraduates, giving talks at the University, and offering work experience.

“First-gen” students are those who are “the first in their family to go to university”. The group is also for the student who “feels they do not have the same educational privileges as someone whose parents went to university in the traditional sense.”

A spokesperson for the group, Jack Nunn, told Cherwell: “Our alumni campaign is all about creating a sense of community and showing that first-gen students not only exist at Oxford, but succeed in all kinds of careers and fields.

“There is no typical ‘first-gen’ student and our alumni members who have signed up so far reflect this.

“Amongst the first-gen alumni, there are PhD students, teachers, lecturers, lawyers and scientists. Most importantly, they all share a common background and have overcome similar barriers.”

One of the first alumni sign-ups, Becky Shaw Simms, came up to Oxford in 1996 and read Geography at Mansfield College. Although she stayed in the local area after graduation, she has never been involved in any Oxford alumni groups before.

Simms heard about the Community over Twitter.

Speaking to Cherwell, she said: “When I was at Oxford there were Target Schools programs and all kinds of outreach, but of course the world is a very different place now – in 1995 when I was applying, there was no social media, very little internet usage, no smartphones etc, so the networks that today’s young people benefit from didn’t exist. If there was a First Gen group in 1995, I’m not sure how I’d have known about it!

“I was the first person in my family to finish school with qualifications of any sort, brought up by a single parent in local authority accommodation.

“However I was bright at school, knew I loved my subject, and was lucky enough to have a Head of Geography at school who was able to get beyond the assumption that Oxford was only for ‘posh kids’.

“More often than not, historically, the reason bright people from state schools, BME communities and disadvantaged communities haven’t been represented at Oxford is that they’ve not applied to Oxford in the first place – either because their school hasn’t encouraged them (or has actively discouraged them!) or their peers have put them off.

“Or (frankly) they’ve been put off by endless Oxbridge-bashing in the media that perpetuates the myth that Oxbridge is Brideshead Revisited, with a homogenous population of people who are white and middle class and educated at private school and if you’re not, you won’t ‘fit in’.

“Sadly the journalists at the Guardian et. al. don’t care to look at the statistics from Colleges like Mansfield where over 90% of undergrads last year were from state school backgrounds.”

Alongside the Alumni Community, Oxford First Generation Students will be putting on pizza nights, socials, and ‘informal formals’ for incoming freshers.

The Oxford SU Class Act campaign has also recently introduced a ‘Family’ scheme, which aims to group students from different years together who are from first generation, low income, or working class backgrounds.

Review: Charly Cox ‘She Must Be Mad’

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I was disappointed recently, listening to an interview with Zadie Smith, when she revealed that she carries around a 90s’ flip phone and boycotts social media. She has a lot of good reasons for shunning both technology and social media for the sake of her productivity and sanity, and I agree with most of what she says. However, it made me think about a pervading sense of resistance in literature to accurately reflecting technological modernity and the dominance of social media; and whether writers and artists should reject or embrace something which is so often seen as an impediment to the enjoyment and creation of ‘real’ art. Then I saw Charly Cox’s latest book of poetry, She Must Be Mad, on the Instagram story of an ‘influencer’ I follow. For a fiver I downloaded it straight to my phone on a whim, even though I thought it might be the kind of stuff that is aesthetically pleasing on a feed but lacking in any depth. I was wrong to be sceptical. I can imagine the likes of Smith and other literary technophobe’s possible reticence at the (relatively new) concept of an ‘insta-poet’ like Charly Cox. Along with others like the well-established Rupi Kaur or Brian Bilston (on Twitter),’insta-poets’ are launching hugely successful books and accruing followers into the hundreds of thousands or even millions, just from the popularity of their poetry online.

The beauty of insta-poetry is its potential to be shared. Of course, this too comes with its own problems of ownership and remuneration, whilst often demonstrating a concerning desire to simplify work in order for it to be digested quickly. But it also means that young women who otherwise wouldn’t feel compelled to read poetry  are now being exposed to work which resonates with their own experiences as women today. More importantly, alongside poets like Cox, it provides a much-needed platform for women of colour, the LGBTQ+ community, and those who aren’t from wealthy ‘literary’ backgrounds to be read – all you need is an Instagram account.

The most shared of Cox’s poems on social media seems to be ‘I wish I’d not spent so long crying in bed; which captures perfectly and simply the realities and regrets that come from living with a mental illness: ‘…I fear too much/ To think back to/ When I wanted less/ I fear too much/ To see the mess/ Of how much time/ I wasted/ When I had plenty left.’ Both Cox’s poetry and prose (of which there are a few examples in She Must Be Mad) is often simple and repetitive in its form and style, perhaps reflecting the immediacy and cyclical nature of a life in which we are all tied to our phones; so much so that the reader can imagine her writing them in the bathroom at a party on her notes app.

But the accessibility of Cox’s poetry does not negate its emotional resonance. The book is divided into four sections, the first of which is loosely themed around love and sex. In this Cox speaks to the experience of young women who feel conflicted about expressing their sexuality when misogyny still threatens, but in a more nuanced, hidden way. She implores us, as well as her past self: ‘Don’t try and fill the void with empty consumption/ This moment in time that you’ll lie and say was sweet seduction/ Was another episode of you orchestrating a personality reduction.’ In stream-of-consciousness prose piece entitled ‘love part 1’ she reflects on a relationship that grew from equal part real-life and social media interaction: ‘It’s five thirty-six in the morning four years later. Lights still dim, faces still rounded in the glow of the laptop. Girlfriends once stalked are now ex-girlfriends discussed.’

Cox, who has Bipolar II, is at her most vulnerable, raw and funny when writing about mental illness. She in no way idealises or simplifies the reality of it here, but in her stark style conveys the daily experience of those who suffer. In ‘all I wanted was some toastshe laments: ‘I got a fork stuck in the dishwasher/ And now I can’t stop crying/ Whoever said depression was glamorous/ Had clearly never considered dying/ Over a peanut butter/ covered utensil.’ She also devotes much of the book to body image, and conveys the anguish and anxieties of growing up in a society obsessed by women’s appearance: ‘When our bodies are trailed through media’s dirt/ When school is not about grades but the length of your skirt/ If I’m half a size smaller will I be liked first/ I’ve only had liquids so how do I quantify thirst/ When sex isn’t about love but ‘how much did it hurt?’

Cox didn’t study English or creative writing formally, and instead she cut her teeth as a producer for well-known YouTubers and as an online consultant. This has left her lacking in any kind of pretension, and instead able to directly speak to the legions of young women who spend a huge chunk of their lives online. I’m sure that some critics would find a few of her poems a little trite and their subjects banal; but some of this is to be expected in a 23-year-old’s debut, which is also highly confessional. For me, her universality and direct address to the reader in poems like ‘kindness’ reminds me of populist poets of previous generations like Mary Oliver, whilst her discussion of the female experience lend themselves to comparison with Carol-Ann Duffy. However, there is only so far comparison can go – and Cox certainly represents a new generation of talent able to convey the complexities and nuances of life in the age of social media.

How to get into Oxbridge 101

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As students are forced out of their colleges as soon as exams finish in week nine of Trinity term, college accommodation is desperately sought by all sorts of enterprises and institutions. Among them are several private companies which organise residential summer camps in Oxford and Cambridge, giving well-off prospective applicants the chance to experience the life of an Oxbridge student for a fortnight.

With costs easily reaching over £2000 per week, expectations for such summer camps are inevitably very high. Parents around the world willingly disregard the words of warning hastily crammed at the bottom of the company’s webpage in barely visible italic characters: “We are in no way affiliated with the University of Oxford or its constituent colleges”.

Students and parents alike believe that these camps can give them what they truly seek: the secret behind an infallible application. Whether it be wise words to improve a wonderfully spontaneous “personal” statement, mock interviews or simply the fact of physically being in Oxford, the success of these camps relies on convincing families around the world that participants will have a much higher chance of getting into Oxbridge than would otherwise be the case.

Countless internationals like myself will have at least been tempted by such summer camps, particularly when their Facebook news feeds are filled with aggressive targeted advertising for such experiences. Undoubtedly, the daunting price tag must have sparked up discussions at dinner tables all around the world. During these conversations, the sneaking thought may have arisen: “What if my child is given a magic formula which will pave their way straight into Oxford? Surely, then, this investment would be worth it…”

And so it is the case that bus-loads of 17 year olds from across the globe wind up together for two weeks admiring the spires, punting and dreaming of what being a student in such a place must be like. To their dismay, no special secret of success is handed out to them because, as we know, there simply isn’t one. Two weeks and a few grand later, they head home realising that the only secret behind getting in is hard work, dedication and, perhaps, a considerable amount of good luck.

I will not deny that a similar (but thankfully cheaper) experience made me feel rather misled. I spent two weeks at an academic summer camp at a high-performing UK school, and whilst I had a fantastic time, it did not alter my application prospects at all. The truth is that these camps exist because they are incredibly profitable for both the organisers and for the colleges, not because they benefit participants’ application chances.

Is this really the best that colleges can do with their free rooms over the summer? By letting these private summer camp companies rent college rooms, colleges themselves are complicit in duping prospective applicants into departing with large sums of money for no benefit. And if these camps do somehow advantage participants in the Oxbridge application process, would it not be fairer for colleges to focus on giving students from less privileged backgrounds similar experiences? For instance, colleges could rent rooms to these summer camps on the condition that they give free or discounted places to students from low income households. Regardless, Oxbridge summer camps provide little benefit to students and solely serve the interests of the firms themselves.

#Merky: the world of celebrity imprints

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With celebrity culture growing faster than ever these days, it is not uncommon to walk into a bookshop and find the shelves lined with the latest autobiographies of musicians, comedians, reality stars, or YouTubers. Releasing a book seems to be a standard step on the road to success, with many celebrities earning up to six figures for their life stories or latest novels. Now, an offshoot of this trend is forming through imprints, where celebrities are choosing to curate high-profile collections in collaboration with major publishing houses. Penguin Random House, perhaps the most influential publisher in Britain, has recently announced its newest celebrity imprint in the form of #Merky Books, curated by the Grime star Stormzy. #Merky will, in the musician’s own words, be used as a “platform for young writers to become published authors” through competitions, as well as offering a paid internship in 2019.

On the surface, this project sounds promising, as it will offer a platform to writers to whom such an influential publisher might not otherwise have been accessible. Having won multiple awards for his music, having been labeled a political influencer, as well as having amassed a substantial fortune all by age 24, Stormzy represents a modern success story. Perhaps through his curation, Stormzy will be able to lend a helping hand to the next generation of writers who might, like him, find success in their art.

In this way, celebrity imprints could hold greater cultural significance than just another celebrity memoir. The publishing world is still dominated by white, middle-class authors, so perhaps Merky Books would give minority writers a greater opportunity to release works. Indeed, this is not the first imprint released by Penguin Random House, they have also collaborated with the likes of Lena Dunham, best known for her role as director, writer, and star of the show “Girls”. Her imprint “Lenny Books” was developed from her Lenny newsletter, releasing Jenny Zhang’s “Sour Heart,” a collection of coming-of-age stories from the perspective of immigrant women in America in 2017, as well as “Courage is Contagious,” a series of essays about Michelle Obama. Sarah Jessica Parker, star of the series “Sex and the City” has similarly collaborated Penguin Random House with her own “SJP for Hogarth” imprint, recently publishing the novel “A Place For Us” by Farheen Mirza.

Yet this notion of innocently offering young writers a chance to be published by Penguin seems perhaps too good to be true. I find myself wondering if the publishing giant would have considered any manuscripts by said young authors had the Stormzy label not been attached to them. In today’s world, it is silently accepted that making it in the arts is near impossible without the glamour of celebrity to clutch onto. Social media following, in an almost dystopian fashion, instantly equates to relevance and popularity – the success of the Kardashians is often evidenced by their number of Instagram followers. An obvious example is Kylie Jenner becoming the youngest self-made billionaire, promoting her products simply on social media without ever paying for traditional advertising.

This obsession has dominated the world in such a way that it seems, as demonstrated by celebrity imprints, the necessary way to succeed as an author is to clutch onto any scrap of celebrity fame available to you. There are often whispers here and there that publishing is dying, which makes this attempt to stay relevant by Penguin all more the more obvious. Whilst, on the one hand, it is a step in the right direction – as mentioned before, it could act as an opportunity for young writers to get published – yet the branding of this imprint prevents it from being simply an idealised and innocent project to introduce young writers to the world, as crucially it benefits from being a collaboration with an incredibly popular artist. By attaching themselves to as big a name as Stormzy, Penguin can cash in on these new artistic projects as if they were merchandise. This is made more obvious by the announcement that the first book to be released with #Merky is Stormzy’s own autobiography “Rise Up: The #Merky Journey So Far,” promising never-before-seen insights into the star’s career.

Ultimately, if Stormzy and Penguin Random House are able to find the writing stars of tomorrow, then all the branding was worth it. However, perhaps next time the opportunity could be offered without relying on the promise of a big name behind it.

The Booker Prize: a sure-fire selection or a shot in the dark?

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In celebration of the 50th anniversary of the Man Booker prize, the Booker Prize Foundation launched a one-off Golden Man Booker prize, which, on July 8, crowned Michael Ondaatje’s The English Patient (the 1992 winner) the best work of fiction ever to have received the award. And, if the single objective of the Man Booker prize – to select ‘the best novel in the opinion of the judges’ – has remained the same since the award’s inception in 1968, then it would hardly seem far-fetched to label Ondaatje’s novel, which was shortlisted by five judges but finally voted for by the public, a ‘modern classic’.

Indeed, Bloomsbury has dubbed The English Patient as ‘the very definition of a modern classic’. ‘Profound, beautiful and heart-quickening,’ as Toni Morrison describes it, the novel, which is set during World War II and focusses on the revelations of an English patient’s actions prior to his injuries, ticks many of the boxes on the modern-classic checklist. It is based on a world the reader recognises as at least partially familiar, and has merited widespread, if not necessarily lasting, recognition. It was also written after the cataclysmic events of World War I and II, which undoubtedly altered the way the world saw itself: whilst classic themes of love, hate, life and death endure, they are viewed through the lens of such modern atrocities. In this instance, the Booker prize’s efforts to discern what the classics of our time are seem to have been fruitful.

Yet this begs the question, are the annual winners of the literary prize always deserving of the title ‘modern classics’? And does the award function simply to uncover the classics of our time, or give them the recognition necessary to turn them into such? Thomas Keneally’s Schlinder’s Ark (the 1982 winner) points towards the latter. Keneally himself linked the award to the public’s acceptance of the book and its subsequent infiltration into wider culture, ultimately facilitating Steven Spielberg’s creation of a multi-award-winning film adaptation, Schlinder’s List (1993), which took over $321 million worldwide on original release and has embedded the story into the minds and hearts of many.

The award could also, of course, be said to uncover the novels with modern-classic potential, and watch as they fulfill such promise. But when many of the prize’s winners have sunk into oblivion (who now sings the praises of PH Newby and Bernice Rubens?), and when many now-distinguished modern classics have lost (think Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale and McEwan’s Atonement) or been neglected altogether (such as Welsh’s Trainspotting), it looks increasingly likely that the selection and subsequent success of Schlinder’s Ark was simply down to chance, as opposed to any of the judges’ astute intuition. Keneally’s own conviction that the book’s enduring fame was merely ‘lucky’ only underscores the seemingly arbitrary nature of which Booker prize-winners turn out to be modern classics, and which never quite attain such a title.

That the prize resembles a lottery in many ways seems almost inevitable when taking into account the selection process. Starting with an advisory committee, which usually consists of a writer, two publishers, a literary agent and a bookseller, amongst others, there is already a hint that, as the UK publishing industry sets out to benefit from the prize, the prize is not solely concerned with identifying the ‘best’ book, but also the most marketable. The advisory committee then chooses a judging panel of literary critics and writers, as well as the likes of journalists and politicians, who get the final say.

Yet despite Booker’s insistence that their ‘common man’ approach to choosing juries is ‘why the “intelligent general audience” trusts the prize,’ the notion that a select number of people could correctly make an inherently subjective decision only reinforces the unreliability of the prize’s verdicts. Author Amit Chaudhuri points out that the judges ‘have to read almost a book a day’ before coming to a conclusion, prompting his labelling of the award as ‘absurd’. A. L. Kennedy, a 1996 judge, went as far as to call the prize ‘a pile of crooked nonsense,’ with the winner being determined by ‘who knows who, who’s sleeping with who, who’s selling drugs to who’. If we (rightly or wrongly) factor bias into the process as well as chance, J. M. Coetzee’s description of the Booker as ‘the ultimate prize to win in the English-speaking world’ rings somewhat hollow.

This is not to say, of course, that the Man Booker prize has nothing going for it. The award has brought well-deserved attention to renowned modern classics such as Yann Martel’s Life of Pi (the 2002 winner) and Kazuo Ishiguro’s The Remains of the Day (1989), and it would be unfair to suggest that just because not every winning novel has infiltrated into wider culture, the prize is equivalent to a simple lottery-draw. Whilst it may not be a flawless means of discerning what the modern classics are, it is a meaningful stepping-stone towards being able to make such a judgement – a judgement that is, finally, intrinsically subjective by its very nature anyway. Booker would perhaps be wise to incorporate the vote of the public into each year’s decision-making process as a means of reducing the role that chance and bias play, rather than restricting it to the Golden Booker prize alone.

‘Mamma Mia: Here We Go Again’ review

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It’s Saturday night in my small provincial hometown. I’ve been back home from Oxford for a month. There are only so many times I can listen to Sean Paul’s Temperature in our one nightclub before I lose my shit. Trump’s recent visit and this heatwave mean I am increasingly worried about the twin crises of fascism and global warming. 

I need the sweet release of ABBA, I need Mamma Mia! Here We Go Again.

The story picks up about a year after the first. Sophie (Amanda Seyfried) is trying to bring her mum’s dream of opening their beautiful Greek hotel to fruition, despite Donna (Meryl Streep) having died off-screen soon after the first film ended. The film cuts between Sophie’s struggles to reunite the old cast for a grand opening, and flashbacks of how young Donna (played exuberantly by Lily James) met each of Sophie’s three dads on her journey to find the Greek island we now know and love.

Despite most of the songs this time around being ABBA’S failed B-sides, the musical numbers are still surprisingly good (in a bad way). My favourite has to be the reprisal of ABBA’s 1974 Eurovision-winning hit, ‘Waterloo.’ Taking place in a restaurant filled with dancing waiters dressed in Napoleonic garb, the staging makes ABBA’s profound and transhistorical extended metaphor between the 1815 Battle of Waterloo and the realities of love in the seventies come alive. ‘The history book on the shelf/ is always repeating itself’ – how right they were. 

Meryl Streep was incredible in the original film; she approached the performance of every ABBA hit like a Shakespearean soliloquy, with dead seriousness and true professionalism. So I am nearly as devastated as Pierce Brosnan (who forlornly stares at photos of her for most of the film) at her untimely and mysterious death before the film’s opening. The lack of Meryl, however, is made up by Lily James, who, whilst shagging her way around southern Europe, copes incredibly well with the implausibility of the plot, looking like she actually believes it. (If I was her I would have asked why neither Donna or her three lovers had any condoms?) 

I also refuse to believe that Julie Walters and Christine Baranski, wandering around the island in matching kaftans, getting massages from handsome Greek men, and ultimately both getting snogged, are not the icons of 2018 we deserve. 

And just when you might begin to tire of it all, Cher appears in the last twenty minutes to bring the whole endeavour home. I will not hear a word against her, her rendition of Fernando, or the fact that she is meant to be playing Meryl Streep’s mother despite being only three years older than her.

It is worth briefly mentioning that this is a film about a load of wealthy, straight, white people cavorting around a Greek island with an eerie lack of actual Greek people, and very few people of colour in any speaking roles. Although it is arguably important to problematise this (and what it says about the film industry), Here We Go Again, along with its predecessor, has made millions of people (not all of whom are wealthy, straight, or white) happy, and such escapism in itself is no bad thing. 

Interestingly, other critics seem to have been unusually kind to the film, too. This is weird because as much as I loved both films, in terms of objective quality, Here We Go Again (aside from some swish cinematography and the odd self-aware flourish) is definitely worse than the first: as I said, there’s a consummate lack of ABBA bangers (the first film used most of them up), the plot is even more ridiculous than its predecessor and built to crowbar in as many ABBA songs as possible, and Pierce Brosnan is still literally the worst singer I have ever heard. A cynic might suggest that critics today are less likely to criticise something popular with women and the LGBTQ+ community, fearing the wrath of collective millennial outrage and accusations of snobbery. Or perhaps, in these trying times, they have just realised that there is nothing wrong with incredibly fluffy, extremely watchable escapism.  

Letter To: My friends from home

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Being at university in your twenties is a strange time of life. As those of us who are going through it know, lurching between what at times can seem like two very disparate and separate existences can be disorientating. Nowhere does this feeling of dislocation demonstrate itself more than in my catch ups with you, my hometown friends. Falling back into our patterns of interaction seems very easy, at first. We talk about old school memories and in jokes come bubbling back as the conversation flows.

It is only when one of you brings up a night club escapade with a university friend, or complains about a looming coursework deadline, that I remember how much our lives have grown apart over the last two years. It’s no surprise to me that you’ve gathered so many new friendships (you are, after all, kind and interesting and enjoyable people to be around) but hearing the names of “Emily, my friend from football” or “Dan, you know, the annoying housemate” is a reminder that we no longer inhabit each other’s lives to the extent we once did.

I have a real and persistent feeling of guilt about not maintaining our friendships perhaps as much as I should. These relationships are too important for me to let them gather too much dust, but the reality is that I have a woeful tendency to neglect my home friends when I’m at university but I also do it to my Oxford friends when I’m back home – please don’t think it’s personal. Anyone who knows me is already aware that rapid replies are not my strong suit, but I know this gets especially bad when I’m out of town. I know that I can occasionally overlook messages from home friends for days, which is pretty dire considering some of you would probably rather lose a limb than our 100 day snap streak. Perhaps the lack of contact is an inevitable consequence of separation and the hectic lives that all of us lead, but it doesn’t stop me berating myself for not doing more to keep up with you.

And yet, in some ways, I almost feel closer to you than I did when we saw each other every day. Infrequent contact means that we have to actually make an effort to meet up with each other in the holidays, which for me gives the time we spend together now an added poignancy. I’m rather enjoying what is fast becoming a tradition of meeting up at Christmas and during summer, revelling in the familiarity of the same pubs and clubs we used to haunt as teenagers. And although we’ve all changed over the past couple of years, it’s a relief to be around people who know where I’ve come from. Despite how we’ve had to adjust to being long distance pals, the unsettled nature of a life lived shuttling backwards and forwards over one hundred miles every three months is comfortingly contrasted with the knowledge of the unchanging security of my friendships at home.

At least I can take some solace in the fact that people who knew me when I was young, who supported me through some difficult times and some very questionable fashion choices, are unlikely to break off our friendship any time soon.

An Exploration: Death Grips’ Year of the Snitch

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Favourite Tracks: Death Grips is Online, Flies, Black Paint, Linda’s in Custody

Rating: 7/10

Year of the Snitch (YOTS) is Death Grips’ sixth studio album, following in the footsteps of 2016’s Bottomless Pit, a record that condensed all the scraping, jittering, and screaming of their previous efforts into 13 tracks of pure and relentless anger. Despite Bottomless Pit’s own shortcomings, I found myself engaged with every punchy, distorted synth, and every ferocious lyric – an experience YOTS couldn’t repeat for me.

Certain tracks, especially the instrumentals, feel unloved and thrown together; others underwhelm with their lyrical content; and some, where Death Grips have delved more into the punk and noise-rock genres, come across almost like unstructured demos. Still, there are numerous moments on the new album that conjure up Death Grips’ original industrial aesthetic, the raw noise that made many fans fall in love with them to start with, and moments that showcase the group’s hybridity in exploring a new, refreshing sound-world.

The trend that I noticed throughout YOTS is that the songs, excluding ‘Disappointed’ at the end of the project, seem to deteriorate in quality from one to the next, starting off strong and finishing weak. It should come as no surprise then that my favourites are the first four tracks. I would probably name ‘Death Grips is Online’, the opener, as the flagship of YOTS. Zach Hill and Andy Morin, the two Death Grips produces, on this track, deliver an electric combination of uniquely melodic hooks and synths that slide between being smooth and ragged; while MC Ride, lyricist and rapper, mutters cryptically about ‘black Madonna’ and ‘pretty, pretty nine’ – it’s a sound I didn’t know Death Grips could pull off. The track doesn’t quite match the catchiness of something like ‘Hacker’ from The Money Store, but it still showcases the group’s ability to work wonders with simple melody.

If you were paying attention to Twitter in September 2017, you might have noticed that the track’s name, ‘Death Grips is Online’, was leaked in a tweet by Death Grips after a year of inactivity, the phrase quickly becoming something of a meme. Whether the tweet or the track came first we’ll never know, but it seems clear that Death Grips were keen to hammer in its importance.

‘Flies’ is perhaps the most ‘traditionally Death Grips’ track of YOTS, not that it’s easy to pin down such a sound with the group’s eclectic genre-mixing. Its lyrics are peppered with allusions to death and decomposition – MC Ride violently expressing his desire to become a corpse so that flies can vomit and digest him. Listening to the words is a delight for the morbidly curious. Jagged and distressing production, assisted by DJ Swamp, provides the necessary soundscape for such dark themes, sampling ‘System Blower’, another Death Grips track, in the process. Right off the back of ‘Flies’ and its noisy, machine-like outro, ‘Black Paint’ enters with a whole new sound – drums, distorted guitar, bass, and a barking MC Ride take over. It’s the first track of YOTS to delve into a punk-like style, and for me, it’s the last track that utilises this style successfully.

The eponymous Linda from the track ‘Linda’s in Custody’ is likely Linda Kasabian, a former member of Charles Manson’s infamous cult. Her inclusion in the track continues Death Grips’ intriguing fascination with Manson and his acts, a link first established in ‘Beware’ from the record Exmilitary. Ride’s voice is at its quietest here, grumbling under the creepy, subdued and detuned leads, and interspersed with bouts of energetic synth movement. ‘The Horn Section’ – which, ironically, contains no horns – is where the album’s cracks begin to appear. Being a short, instrumental offering, it appears a wasted opportunity within YOTS. Although, thanks to Zach’s incredible drumming, it is far more exciting a track than the bland ‘Outro’, it still fails to provide the same creative attack found in the record’s first four tracks.

‘Shitshow’ does what it says on the tin – it’s absolute chaos contained in a two minutes of song. With no internal pulse or discernible hook, its concoction of crazed drumming, shouting and fractured production doesn’t align well with my love of Death Grips’ more beat-heavy work (think ‘Get Got’ and ‘Ring A Bell’). Nevertheless, ‘Shitshow’ is anything but boring.

Further into YOTS, the two punkish tracks ‘Dilemma’ and ‘The Fear’ both suffer from a jumbled sense of musical direction and weak identifying features, containing bitty fragments of guitar and drums that jostle for prominence in the layers of electronic production. The last of the record, ‘Disappointed’, is a welcome pick-me-up after the preceding tracks. Ride’s hyper-aggressive delivery puts forward a clear message: Death Grips don’t care if their ‘slack jaw’ fans are disappointed with YOTS. They’re not concerned with the opinion of the masses. Even the track’s main hook imitates the whining reviewers and critics – a class of which I am now a member.

YOTS exists in its own world, defined by a looser and more absurdist approach to hip-hop. Despite the record’s failure to recreate the melancholic punk side of Jenny Death, its attempts are still admirable, and I would not for a second wish for Death Grips to abandon this style completely. Zach, Andy and Ride are driving the group in a new direction, and yet, even if none of YOTS had as deep an emotional impact on me as the visceral parts of The Money Store and The Powers That B, some of it, like the track ‘Death Grips is Online’, is still undeniably brilliant and fresh in its conception. I can’t wait to hear what you come up with next, so keep it coming Death Grips.

 

 

May’s Brexit fudge won’t satisfy the EU or Brexiters

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On the 7th of June, hard-right Tory MP Nadine Dorries tweets: “David Davis is ex SAS. He’s trained to survive. He’s also trained to take people out. #Brexit.” One month later and Davis (formerly of the Territorial Army, to be clear) resigns, saying that as a “reluctant conscript”, he cannot carry out Theresa May’s Chequers plan. The next day, Boris Johnson votes to leave his office too.

Andrea Leadsom, Michael Gove, and Liam Fox all remain conspicuously in post. What are they anticipating, and how long are they prepared to wait? One theory is that they are patiently biding their time until they can enact a purist Brexit. They don’t dare depose May. But deposing her isn’t necessary to get what they want. Reality is delivering it for them.

The Chequers proposal suggests that the United Kingdom mimic the European Union’s regulatory standards, creating an illusory customs union. This would naturally hinder new trade deals with countries like the USA, who demand that we accept lower health and environmental standards. Legal disputes under this system would be referred to the European Court of Justice. For these reasons, Jacob Rees-Mogg and around 60 Tory MPs will continue proposing amendments which strip the EU alignment back, while Labour, arguing that we should be more closely linked, will simply vote it down.

The EU won’t be happy with it either. It asks for a “common rulebook” whereby the UK can disagree with regulatory changes. Disagreeing would mean expensive border controls at Dover and constitutionally unconscionable ones in Ireland or the Irish Sea. In this scenario, to prevent any visible Irish border, it asks them to trust in technology that doesn’t yet exist. It also asks them to allow a non-member-state to collect tariffs on their behalf. Most deludedly, it asks them to unpick the four freedoms of the single market and give us access to one without the others. The EU will therefore insist that at least Northern Ireland remain properly within the customs union, if not the whole country.

Largely because of the force of these resignations, there is now no clear majority for any form of fudged Brexit. But if we can make it to March without having reached a compromise, we will crash out with no transition period. Only this chaos will sate the Brexiteers. We know that plans are afoot to stockpile food – though we are reassuringly told there will be “adequate” supplies. We also know that the UK and Ireland’s GDPs would take a hit of about four times larger than the other EU member states if this were to happen. British businesses that sell and buy from the EU (supermarkets, pharmacies, etc) would be landed with tariffs overnight.

This is what they are waiting for and they don’t have to do anything to get it as Labour continues to fail to offer an alternative. To prevent a no-deal Brexit therefore, either May needs to pivot onto a proper customs union or Labour need to vote with the government in order to evolve Chequers, though we have mere weeks of actual negotiation time left – an extension would have to be asked for and agreed by the EU27. By this point, scraping any sort of deal together would be an achievement in itself – the number of uncertain variables needed to reach it grow by the day. The Brexiteers and their no-deal need only one: elapsed time.

Oxford research points to the need for divorce law reform

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New Oxford University research has shown “unreasonable behaviour” to be the most common ground for divorce.

In response, the study’s leading academic John Haskey has deemed current divorce law interpretation “problematic.”

The research comes only days after the UK Supreme Court’s dismissal of Tini Owens’ divorce case sparked national outcry.

Studying data from 1971, when the 1969 Divorce Reform Act came into use, Haskey found “unreasonable behaviour” to be the most common ‘fact’ which couples cite as evidence for their marriage breakdown.

Haskey, of the Department of Social Policy and Intervention, revealed that the proportion of divorces granted due to ‘unreasonable behaviour’ had increased dramatically. For those granted to wives, the proportion of divorces trebled from 17% in 1971 to 51% in 2016. For those to husbands, the uptick was even more significant – from 2 to 36%.

Currently, any petitioner must select at least one ‘fact’ to justify their divorce. These include three ‘fault’ facts, which imply blame: desertion, unreasonable behaviour, and adultery. The 1969 Act also added two ‘no-fault’ facts. A couple can divorce if they both agree and have been separated for two years, or five years if the respondent does not wish to divorce.

Haskey also found that, despite couples being able to divorce without assigning blame following the Act, the proportion of divorces being granted because of ‘fault’ facts today is still similar to the proportion in 1973.

Reformers calling for a no-fault divorce system, however, should be not necessarily be disheartened.

Speaking to Cherwell, Haskey said: “To obtain a quick divorce, petitioners can be tempted to petition on a ‘fault’ fact – e.g. adultery, or unreasonable behaviour – and, in the latter case, they may exaggerate the behaviour to be more certain of winning their case.

“The respondent cannot really rebut the allegation, as it is impractical to defend a divorce – which leads to conflict and acrimony.”

In his report, Haskey also pointed out that ‘unreasonable behaviour’ may be popular because it could be conceived as the “least offensive” of the fault facts.

He told Cherwell: “In recent years ‘unreasonable behaviour’ has been interpreted much more liberally than before, undoubtedly influenced by society’s changing values and norms as to how husbands and wives should treat each other.

“It is problematic in how to interpret the law in the light of changing views on what constitutes ‘unreasonable’ and in practice it has become a “catch-all” ‘fact’ for those wanting divorce.”

Furthermore, a Nuffield report into family law indicated that only 65% of petitioners believed that the fact cited tallied ‘very closely’ with the reality of the marriage breakdown. For respondents, this fell to 29%.

Resolution is a family justice organisation that campaigns for improvements to the justice system. They propose an alternative divorce procedure which would allow either partner to give notice that the marriage has broken down irretrievably. The divorce can then proceed. After a period of six months, if the couple still think they are making the right decision, the divorce can be finalised.

Their spokesperson, Lisa Dorstek, told Cherwell: “At the crux of the issue is the needless conflict created by the divorce process at an already difficult time for a separating couple.

“We know that conflict can also have a disproportionate impact on any children and can make reaching a mutually acceptable agreement on children or finances more difficult.

“Actively encouraging blame has no place in a system where we aim to reduce negative impact on all those involved and flies in the face of government efforts to support people to reach agreements out of court.

“Divorce without blame was provided for in the Family Law Act 1996 but never enacted. The Government’s own Family Mediation Taskforce recently recommended that divorce without blame be introduced.”

According to the Nuffield report, divorce legislation in England and Wales is “out of step” with other countries. In Scotland, if couples have not lived together for just a year, they can be granted a divorce if both parties consent.