Monday, May 19, 2025
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Life Divided: Lads’ Holidays

Katie Sayer and Molly Greenwood
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Life Divided: Lads’ Holidays

For: Katie Sayer

As the plane landed on the self-proclaimed ‘party island’, with the dulcet tones of ‘We’re Going To Ibiza’ playing overhead, I braced myself for a week of debauchery. I pictured threesomes, substance abuse, narcotic-induced comas. This week would be a defiant act of rebellion. Nobody would be eating their five portions of fruit and veg.

But this was no orgy of depravity. Imagine my surprise upon experiencing instead what was essentially an amplified version of an Oxford night out. The majority of hotels had a strict ban on overnight guests. Four of my friends suffered from seasickness at the boat party. There were no Love Island-esque paramours ready to whisk me off my feet for a heady night of passion, but, rather, middle-class 18-year-olds spending their birthday money on cheap spirits and paint parties. Where was the rampant immorality? The handsome drug dealers on every street corner? It turns out they belong to the exact same domain as the notorious goat from Piers Gav – the realm of fiction.

My lads’ holiday was great. The alcohol was cheap, the DJs were amazing, and it was everything it claimed to be when I booked a package deal to a party island. Lads’ and lasses’ holidays are horrifically misrepresented in the media. Vilifying them as superficial celebrations of drinking and promiscuity, this social conservatism is both outdated and hypocritical – in fact, the world of Ibiza is not so far from the socio-sexual sphere we inhabit at Oxford. For all the ‘debauchery’ I witnessed on my lads’ holiday, I have seen worse on crewdates. As for casual sex, if it’s the decision of two consenting adults, who really cares?

It seems to me that group holidays provide necessary catharsis. After a year of ridiculous academic pressure, there are few better ways to unwind than by remembering that we are normal young adults who enjoy going out. Lads’ holidays allow this to happen in a safe and contained environment, because you can be sure that the staff on party islands have had far more experience in dealing with drink and drug-related complications than your local suburban A&E. And before you complain that this is unfair on the staff, bear in mind that 11 per cent of Spain’s GDP comes from tourism, and that Ibiza has an unemployment rate of 4.2 per cent, far lower than the national average of 14 per cent. The overnight receptionist at our hotel told us cheerfully that his job was sufficiently well-paid to enable him to work the holiday season, then travel around Asia for the other six months.

The Romans had Bacchanalia; we have lads’ holidays. It’s easy for the naysayers to dismiss them as superficial, but these people just need to lighten up, grab some sunscreen, and hit the strip. I’ll be in Magaluf for my 19th this summer – you’re welcome to come too, so you can experience this rampant degeneracy for yourself.

 

Against: Molly Greenwood

A lads’ holiday? God no.

First of all, I think it’s important to establish publicly that I may well be the least laddish person that humankind has ever produced, but that’s fine and that’s just me. I know that, for many people, a boozy two weeks in Magaluf or Kavos is the holiday of a lifetime – a holiday (not) to remember, if you will. This is also fine, but just not in my case.

The lads’ holiday in itself is no issue at all, but there is a culture surrounding it that I see as representing something bigger and maybe a little more insidious. The title of a blog post that I found on www.ladsholiday.com (yes, it is the first time I have visited this website – I would also like to note the shameless and consistent lack of an apostrophe on ‘lads holiday’ throughout) perhaps demonstrates what I’m talking about. When you write an article entitled ‘Should I pre-book my holiday events, or just worry about it when I get there?’, you are – inadvertently – revealing the couldn’t-care-less attitude which is the problem here. Bacchanalian nights in Ibiza or Zante exist in the holiday itinerary because it’s fun to get drunk with your friends (fine), and even more fun to get so drunk you have no idea what you are doing, make a massive fool of yourself, and know it amounts to nothing because you are hundreds of miles away from parents, employers, and everyone else who should not see you behaving as a creature entirely unleashed (not fine).

That’s not to say we don’t all deserve to kick back and let our hair down – we do. We work very intensely during Oxford terms, so why shouldn’t we have a good time? But it’s important to realise the difference between having a good time, and entertaining a blatant disregard for your own actions under the protective shroud of utter intoxication. These are two entirely different things. The culture which is bound to the idea of the lads’ holiday, one of drinking, drinking, sleeping around, and drinking, is harmful to even a vague sense of social responsibility.

I just spent the last five minutes trying to decide if having this opinion means that I am a prude, or even that I am less enlightened than some of my peers. Yet I can’t help but think that your average Kavos bar at 2.00am is hardly a bastion of social or self-respect. Surely 80 per cent of Magaluf must wake up the next afternoon with a banging headache and a leering sensation of ignominy? But who cares, because back home three weeks from now that time your mate drank so much vodka he fell off the balcony and had to have his stomach pumped will be funny, right? A legend, surely?

I just feel that having no care for what you do on these holidays simply isn’t indicative of a healthy respect for society. Maybe I think this because the lads’ or ladettes’ holiday is part of a culture to which I have never really subscribed. Even so, I can’t help but be delighted that all the typical destinations are just so wonderfully far away.

Town versus Gown: queer culture in Oxford and Northern Ireland

Eimer McAuley
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Town versus Gown: queer culture in Oxford and Northern Ireland

On a day so bleak it somehow managed to make Belfast look even more industrial than usual, I had my first experience of queer culture.

Walking past the Kremlin, Northern Ireland’s leading and, not unsurprisingly, only Soviet-themed gay night club, I saw a drag queen sitting outside smoking a cigarette and talking on the phone. Looking back, my staring probably didn’t seem so out of place: in the most ‘backward’ place in the UK, I’m sure that a lot of people would have been staring that day. But I wasn’t staring for the same reason: instead, I was curious and fascinated. She was so unlike anyone I had ever seen that, in that moment, she represented exactly what it meant to be different.

Northern Ireland is not an easy place to be a member of the LGBTQ+ community, especially in the rural area where I grew up. My closest neighbours at home have a sign on their barn that reads ‘Christ died for the ungodly’ and my local MP publicly described gay sex as a ‘repulsive act’. Trust me: it’s a tough crowd.

Going to Oxford and experiencing not just acceptance of the LGBTQ+ community, but a tangible and vibrant queer culture, was like being dropped into another world completely. When I went to the first Haute Mess night in Plush, it was an almost overwhelming experience. I sat in a toilet cubicle and tried to wrap my head around the idea that this was a space where I could be open about my sexuality and actually celebrate it at the same time, rather than just constantly defending it.

There’s nothing more liberating than the realisation that you’ve found somewhere that you can be yourself, and that’s what Oxford has meant to me. At a summer school for Northern Irish students, one girl approached me after a Q&A session and nervously asked what Oxford was like if you were LGBTQ+. To be able to tell her how progressive and accepting I have found it seemed to give her real hope.

Being back in Northern Ireland now, I can finally see my country’s pulling out of the dark ages, one rainbow flag at a time. Thousands of people have marched down Belfast’s streets protesting for same-sex marriage. As the public demand for equality grows, it feels like change is becoming inevitable rather than impossible. So although Oxford is still a comparative paradise, Northern Ireland is beginning to change for the better, and it’s so exciting to see.

‘Baby Driver’ dazzles and thrills

Daniel Kodsi
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‘Baby Driver’ dazzles and thrills

Baby Driver makes no effort at verisimilitude. Its brilliant opening scene is set to ‘Bellbottoms’ by The Jon Spencer Blues Explosion; the skids of Baby’s car match the tempo of the music. Nor do the beats let up when the action’s over. The whole of director Edgar Wright’s film is set to music – even when there isn’t a song blasting in the background, the music’s pulse remains.

Here’s the premise of the film. Baby, played by Ansel Elgort, is a prodigiously talented driver. His parents died in a car crash when he was young, an accident that also left him with tinnitus. Through a second unfortunate turn of fate, he’s found himself in the employ of crime boss Kevin Spacey (aka ‘Doc’). Now he’s Doc’s star get-away driver, a gig he’s apparently had for a decade despite seeming no older than Elgort’s 23. All of this is explained to us by Spacey, who upon concluding Baby’s story exclaims, “I just drew a map in chalk while I was telling you all that. Wow! Isn’t that fucking impressive?”. Now by my lights that question’s a triple entendre. First, and perhaps least interestingly, it’s about Doc’s multitasking. Second, it concerns the subject of his story: Baby and his talent. And third, it’s symbolic of the movie we’re watching, with its sleek polish and irresistible cleverness. The whole film is lit up bright – it’s meant to impress and amuse, dazzle and thrill.

And thrill it does. There are, I suppose, at least two obvious ways to capture an audience. The classic way is to do it with depth, by writing three-dimensional characters who suffer X tragedy and respond in Y way, or whatever, and if the director does that really well then he’ll probably pick up an Academy Award for his efforts. If that’s what you think of as excellence in cinema, then you probably won’t like Baby Driver. But a director can also keep his audience glued through speed and wit, by throwing recognisable elements up on the screen then playing around with them in some new and invigorating way. If that’s the task, then the obligation isn’t to operate within the rules of formal logic and plausibility. It would be a mistake to venture too far away and produce something without a plot. But the priority, I think, should be to make sure that what you’re doing is fun. And Baby Driver is fun throughout, even at its tensest moments.

Not that those moments are at all rare. Most of the film’s second half is a nail-biter. Doc has called together Baby, Buddy (Jon Hamm), his girlfriend Darling (Eliza González), and the volatile Bats (Jamie Foxx) for a heist. This being the movie that it is, even before the heist goes wrong you know it’s going to. But it’s not concern for the outcome of the robbery that, at least for me, causes the tension. Instead the real point of worry is the fate of Baby’s relationship with Debora (Lily James), the beautiful young woman he meets at the diner where his mother used to work. Baby sees Debora come in, with purple headphones, singing ‘B-A-B-Y’ – it’s a song, you see – and he’s totally hers. And she’s his too. How could she not be? This nice bad boy, who promises to rescue her from this empty town and empty life.

Let me sketch out four scenes for you between Elgort and James. Together, I think, they capture the sensibility of the film. In one, we just see their feet tapping along in unison – his jeans and sneakers, her bare calves and ankle-high black boots. In another, we watch them wine and dine together, at a place with “the finest winin’ and dinin’ in town”, and you can see their lips move but there’s no dialogue. This is a young couple in love. Fill in your own words. In a third, when Baby proposes they finally make their escape, Debora bursts out, ‘We don’t have a car! Or music’. And in the last, Debora emerges from the shadows and plants herself, feet firm, next to her beloved as he begs with Spacey. The sociopathic crime boss caves. It’s not that he’s gone soft. It’s just that he recognises the story… and how ugly it would be for him to stand in the way.

It would be a mistake, as I see it, to think that a film has to do what literature does. Often the best films do appropriate the virtues of literature: they create complex and moving characters and express some moral truth about this thing or that. But there are a couple points to be made here. First, if that’s what film is supposed to be then it’s always going to be inferior as an art form to literature, which is simply more conducive to complexity and thought. But second, whereas literature fails when its characters are caricatures – take, for example, Jennifer Egan’s A Visit from the Goon Squad, which like ‘Baby Driver’ tries to set its plot to music – film doesn’t. Sometimes it succeeds through stylish spectacle. And it’s alright to sit back and enjoy the ride.

‘Spider-Man: Homecoming’ defies expectations as a surprising pleasure

Jonnie Barrow
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‘Spider-Man: Homecoming’ defies expectations as a surprising pleasure

It seems that the omens for Spider-Man: Homecoming couldn’t be much worse. This is the third on-screen incarnation of Peter Parker (and his sixth movie) in 15 years, as the creative team at Sony repeatedly struggled over the last ten of those years to create a Spider-Man movie that was widely liked. Now he’s back in the Marvel fold, fresh from his scene-stealing introduction into the Marvel Cinematic Universe in Captain America: Civil War last year, with a brand-new solo movie that has the difficult task of introducing an entirely new version of a character most people aren’t just familiar with, but are now tired of seeing rebooted. Couple that to the fact that this new movie is penned by six screenwriters, and has the most spoiler-filled, unconfident trailers in recent memory, the signs all point to this film being an absolute turkey.

Fear not, Spider-Man fans – a turkey this is not. Spider-Man: Homecoming is a genuine delight, consistently buoyed by smart writing, a brilliant (and pleasingly diverse) cast, interesting action scenes, a brilliant score (thank you, Michael Giacchino) and a knowing awareness of what an audience for a Spider-Man film has already seen, and what they want to see.

For a start, the film is pretty clear about what needs to be shown and, more importantly, what doesn’t. The filmmakers know that we’re already familiar with Spidey’s origin story, so we don’t have to sit through it again. Instead, the focus is clearly on integrating Spidey into the MCU; you need to have seen both Avengers movies and Captain America: Civil War to understand a lot of what’s going on, especially given that the film picks up two months on from Civil War. But the pay-off of this franchise baggage is a Spider-Man who is both brand-new and yet instantly familiar.

The influences on this film are also abundantly clear: this is a John Hughes-esque high-school teen comedy, featuring a cast of teenagers whose struggles and joys feel believable even amongst the mechanics of a tentpole superhero movie. There’s a great explicit reference to Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, but shades of Sixteen Candles, The Breakfast Club and Risky Business can easily be seen throughout.

This Spider-Man is the first one to actually seem like a teenager, thanks almost entirely to Tom Holland’s infectious enthusiasm in the part. Holland’s springer-spaniel attitude is one of the film’s major differences to previous incarnations of the character – his Peter Parker is positively scrappy, constantly bouncing back and desperate to prove that he’s got what it takes to be an Avenger. Robert Downey Jr.’s attempts to take the wind out of his sails make for a brilliant relationship between the two, which I can’t wait to see explored further in Avengers: Infinity War next year.

Because being Spider-Man is portrayed as something Peter actually wants to do, the clash of high school life with being a superhero, which is characteristic of Spider-Man movies, feels more engaging then it has done previously. Many of the action sequences are also lightened by Parker’s youth and inexperience, mining comedy from moments where he’s unsure how to proceed, or doesn’t quite come off as cool as he intends to. The new high-tech suit, courtesy of Tony Stark, is also responsible for many of the films funnier and cooler action beats.

While the one-liners in the film are pretty great, the real strength of the script comes from its villain. Michael Keaton is, as always, absolutely fantastic, but the writers go a long way to correcting Marvel’s ‘villain problem’ by opening the film with the villain’s perspective. He’s as sympathetic as he is tangibly menacing – and though the film follows the now-familiar trope of the villain and Spidey being somehow related to each other, the connection this time around is pleasingly nebulous.

I grew up on Sam Raimi’s original Spider-Man films, so they will always have a special place in my heart, but ‘Homecoming’ is probably my new favourite Spider-Man film. The trailers are absolutely the worst thing about the movie – avoid seeing them if you can, or put them out of your mind, so you can best enjoy the most outright fun movie of the summer.

Crichard’s haul sees Oxford slump to four-day defeat

Matthew Roller
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Crichard’s haul sees Oxford slump to four-day defeat

Eleven wickets for Cambridge seamer Ruari Crichard saw Oxford fall to a crushing 216-run defeat in the four-day Varisty match at Fenner’s.

Jonny Marsden’s four first-innings wickets and a combative 95 from Alex Rackow meant that there was little between the two sides at tea on day two. But some wayward bowling and an onslaught from Tim Moses – impressive in all three formats with both bat and ball – meant the Dark Blues were set a mammoth target on the final day.

However, despite a couple of useful partnerships, Oxford rarely looked like saving the game, and defeat was sealed when Jack Harrison’s 108-ball rearguard was ended by Crichard.

After winning the toss, Cambridge skipper Patrick Tice would have been disappointed with his side’s first innings.

The top order struggled for any real fluency, with fast-bowling pair Marsden and Tom Brock proving particularly hard to get away.

Despite several batsmen making starts, only Tice made fifty, and the highest partnership was just 45.

Marsden in particular excelled with the ball. He bowled ten maidens, and ended with exceptional figures of 4-47 in his 21.1 overs, creating regular chances as well as proving difficult to score off.

After seeing the pair put on stands of 133 and 171 in last year’s Varsity Match, Cambridge would have dreaded the arrival of openers Dan Escott and Matty Hughes at the crease, knowing that both had the ability and the temperament to punish any wayward bowling.

But Crichard, in his final appearance for the Light Blues, came out fired up, and produced one of the most remarkable spells that Varsity cricket has seen in recent years.

In his first five overs, the St. John’s student turned the game entirely into Cambridge’s favour. He ripped out Oxford’s top order, dismissing four of the Dark Blues’ top five, with all four nicking off to wicket-keeper Tice, conceding just nine runs in the process.

When Jamie Gnodde was bowled by Moses to leave the visitors 38-5 on the first evening, it looked like Oxford were set for a disastrous total.

However, Rackow had other ideas. The St. Hilda’s student had endured a difficult first season with the bat for the Blues with a string of underwhelming scores, but chose the biggest of stages to prove his worth.

His 179-ball 95 was a lone hand in a poor batting effort from Oxford, as he rotated the strike with Jack Harrison (38) and then Toby Pettman (25) to drag them first to respectability, and then to a deficit of just thirteen runs.

Regardless, a strong start was needed with the ball.

But Oxford struggled against the dogged top-order quartet of Tom Colverd, Darshan Chohan, Nipuna Senaratne and Alistair Dewhurst, and a solid lead began to grow on the second evening.

By lunch on day three, a strong total had already been achieved, and with the visitors’ attack flagging, first Dewhurst, who was eventually dismissed for 91, then Tice and Moses began to tuck in.

Things began to fall apart. A total of 51 extras conceded summed up Oxford’s effort in the field, and despite Marsden and Ben Swanson remaining economical, the rest of the bowlers suffered.

When a declaration was eventually made, it was a case of batting for three-and-a-half sessions to achieve a draw, rather than chasing the 431-run target.

Escott and Hughes put on 70 for the first wicket, but both fell in the space of nine balls as the opening bowlers came back for their second spells, and from there, defeat always looked likely.

Gnodde battled hard for his 54, but when he was run out by Dewhurst, the visitors were five wickets down with several hours left in the day.

And while the lower-order pair of Harrison and Pettman again showed resolve with the bat, Crichard again pulled it out of the bag to secure victory with his second five-wicket haul of the match, and the third of his first-class career.

His eventual match figures of 11-142 were a fair reflection of his control and precision, and rightly earned him the match award.

Cambridge’s victory meant that they deservedly sealed a 2-1 win across the three formats, following their Twenty20 win and 50-over defeat.

For years I have dreamed of studying at Oxford. Now, I need your support

Lulu Jemimah
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For years I have dreamed of studying at Oxford. Now, I need your support

This is the third year that I am attempting to get onto a masters program. It is also the third year that I may fail to do so.

I have been luckier than most. Growing up in Uganda and choosing journalism as a career felt like signing up for a future of food stamps – except we don’t even have those. So I wrote for different publications, earned what I could and in 2013 when I received a scholarship to study media in Australia, my life choices felt validated.

After some shocking grades in my first year, I felt like I could barely keep up. But following support from lecturers and classmates, and practically moving into the library, by the end of the second year I saw massive improvements in my marks.

That wasn’t the best thing that happened though: I’d finally found what I wanted to do with my life. At the time, I was doing both film studies and creative writing and had discovered a gap in the market for publishing Ugandan stories. I also discovered the term ‘cultural anthropologist’ and thought I would do just that through creative writing. All I needed was to do my masters, then a Phd and become an academic. I went to work looking for options for graduate study.

Three universities in the UK gave me offers – but their generosity did not extend to funding. Then I came across the Mst in Creative Writing at Oxford University’s Centre for Continuing Education. It emphasised cross-cultural (tick) and cross-genre (tick, tick) as well as scholarly investigation and creative research. It felt personally tailored to my graduate ambitions. I poured everything into that application, packed my bags and returned home to start a podcast and work on films. I waited for news from Oxford.

Then I got accepted (even after an interview where I spent half the time apologising for how badly I was performing). This offer too did not come with funding, but I spent months looking for alternative scholarships and grants. With the deadline for financial declaration growing closer I decided to take a risk and open a crowdfunding page.

I was so embarrassed that it had come to this. In the beginning, I only shared it with a few close friends and it was their open and genuine support that encouraged me to go public. Those who could gave willingly, and those who couldn’t sent messages of encouragement and shared the page with their own friends. I received a lot of support from home and abroad.

Earlier this year, a very deserving Ugandan friend had to give up her spot in Columbia even if the university was generous enough to give her a scholarship that would have relieved her of a third of the tuition cost. She isn’t the only one.

I have 17 days left to my crowdfunding campaign. Since this is an ‘all or nothing’ approach, if I do not meet the target, I lose even the money that has been pledged so far. Please drop by if you can help, and if not, I ask that you share the link in case there is anyone else who can. I am all out of other options.

Lulu has just under two weeks to raise nearly £5,000 to keep her place at Oxford. You can donate to her crowdfunding campaign here: http://www.crowdfunder.co.uk/the-university-of-oxford-chose-me

A flawed man with a revolutionary aim

Ethan Croft
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A flawed man with a revolutionary aim

In 1938, the publication of CLR James’ The Black Jacobins challenged decades of whitewashing that wrote the Haitian Revolution off as a parody of the French. That the slaves Saint Dominique might have had their own grievances and beliefs was a prospect best kept hidden for many, who slept better at night in the belief that the victim of colonialism could only imitate his oppressor.

When looking over the press release for Philippe Girard’s new biography of Toussaint Louverture, I wondered how successful James’ endeavour really was. Littered with clunky comparisons such as “the black Napoleon”, it seemed that scholarship on the subject of Haiti had gone back to the future, to a situation where black historical figures could only be evaluated through the prism of Europe’s annals. It was a relief then, on reading Girard’s book, to realise the fault lay with the cliché ridden jargon of public relations, and not the good professor, whose portrait of Louverture is rich in detail and scope.

Toussaint Louverture: A Revolutionary Life is foremost a useful book, updating the scholarship of the revolutionary period with the many developments and discoveries made in the near 80 years since The Black Jacobins. But it is also entertaining, as the historian wrestles throughout with the conflicting stories of Toussaint the idol, and Toussaint the man.

In some of Louverture’s actions, particularly those that have come to light in recent times, it is difficult to recognise the legendary hero of modern anti-colonial and socialist movements. We now know that at the beginning of the revolution, Toussaint came to the aid of his former owner, Bayon, who had freed him from slavery. With supreme duplicity, Louverture used rebel resources to hide the Bayon family, the only people who would be able to verify his status as a freedman if the revolution was stamped out in its early stages. In another example of Toussaint’s collaboration with the slavers, Girard reveals that he traded a 22 year old woman with the Breda plantation owners in place of his mother. These actions are not indicative of a ‘revolutionary life’, instead suggesting that he was a man fighting for himself and his family, rather than higher ideals.

With this in mind, Girard is slightly too imaginative at some points in the biography. Records show that through coincidence, Toussaint must have had some encounters in the pre-revolutionary period with those men who would go on to fight alongside him against the forces of European imperialism. Yet we can perhaps afford to call Professor Girard a little far-fetched when he writes: “One can almost imagine the revolutionaries-to-be whispering to one another in the courtyard.” Evidence instead suggests Toussaint was quite complicit and self-interested in the days before 1791. Far more heroic were the so-called ‘maroons’, slaves who (in a premature form of industrial action) abandoned their plantations for temporary periods if their limited rights under the 1685 Code Noir had been violated.

Under the horror of slavery, Toussaint’s questionable actions before the revolution can be justified. Saint Dominique was not a welcoming environment for idealism and moral fortitude. Yet at the turn of the century, when the revolutionaries finally expelled the western powers from their island, Louverture assumed the role of what was to all intents and purposes a military dictator. His work reforms, implemented from 1800, forced his comrades back onto the plantations in a system of mitigated slavery: the whips and chains were gone, but the threat of extreme punishment for dissent remained. The ‘military-agricultural complex’, as Girard terms it, soured the memory of Toussaint Louverture for generations in Haiti, and successor Jean-Jacques Dessalines was far more highly regarded by the people of the new nation.

In this biography, Girard never answers the central question of whether Toussaint Louverture led a truly revolutionary life. Instead, he provides us with a powerful illustration of one flawed man caught in the movement of history.

Hokusai: Beyond The Great Wave – a man possessed by the Japanese landscape

Becky Cook
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Hokusai: Beyond The Great Wave – a man possessed by the Japanese landscape

The British Museum galleries are initially cramped – closer to muggy than balmy – as throngs of people lean in to the small rectangles of blue that dot the walls. The crowds seem to be inescapable. The work is that of an acclaimed artist after all, and the extensive promotion for the British Museum’s latest exhibition has promised a rare insight into the nature of Japanese artist Katsushika Hokusai. This popular summer show does not disappoint: indeed it reveals the unexpectedly erratic and eccentric nature of a man dedicated to his art.

Hokusai lived a nomadic existence in Edo (now Tokyo) with his daughter, changing his name almost as often as he did his dwelling. It seems that his life of constant movement and flux reflected his perpetual struggle for artistic mastery. He worked like a man possessed, producing a staggering array of work.

The pinnacle of this is his woodblock print series, Thirty-six Views of Mount Fuji (c. 1830-32), containing the infamous image adorning the posters and adverts promoting the exhibition, ‘The Great Wave off Kanagawa’ (1829-33). These prints are hung early in the exhibition and were pivotal in Hokusai’s life, saving him from severe debt and poverty. The artist elevates Mount Fuji to a deity to be worshipped here, shrouded in the modern synthetic pigment of Prussian Blue. The rich hue saturates the mountain and its sprawling landscape to unnatural and dizzying degrees, set in sharp contrast with the stark white of the gallery.

The globally celebrated image of ‘The Great Wave of Kanagawa’ proves the cornerstone of the exhibition. A print of small boats ride a vast swell at the point of breaking, its individual ripples like claws that will come crashing down over the men and attempt to pull them under. It seems to encapsulate the futility of man’s endeavour when faced with the roaring ferocity of nature: these men almost appear to be bowing down to this startlingly dynamic cresting wave.

Hokusai used the Western concept of deep perspective in this image, creating a sense of space between the almighty wave and the ubiquitous mountain behind. The spray that emanates from the wave almost becomes snow falling on the eternally snow-capped Mount Fuji.

This fusion of Western and Eastern artistic techniques has since become a crucial feature associated with the work of Hokusai, one that marked him out from his contemporaries. His use of a single light source – a European tradition – was wholly new to the colours and designs of Japanese art. The meeting of the two traditions as such, has been heralded as the birth of modern art. Some have even mused that the thick outline of his prints, and their dynamic movement, was a precursor to the vibrant animation of Disney films.

The most engaging element of the exhibition is how it charters Hokusai’s frenetic rise, and showcases his dramatic alteration in style, as he approached the apex of ‘The Great Wave’ print. Early versions of this watery swell on display here demonstrate how Hokusai evolved as an artist in the interim, progressing from a static, two dimensional image to the forceful result.

The failing of the exhibition lies in its titular assertions. It is a misleading suggestion that it will delve into the artist beyond the masterpiece, and unveil the later gems of his work. The displays talk of the fevered genius Hokusai demonstrates in his twilight years, yet there is scarce evidence of this evolution. While the illustrious silk scroll paintings that conclude the exhibition are impressive, they do not seem to offer something which supersedes the superb Mount Fuji series.

Nonetheless, the exhibition certainly succeeds in showing fresh aspects of Hokusai’s repertoire, from a chilling set of ghost story illustrations that exude vitality to animated images of people trudging across a series of bridges. Hokusai dedicated several prints to the depiction of humble men and women at work. These scenes of everyday life and toil become charged with significance as he attempts to capture human existence in the framework of the Japanese landscape.

The exhibition also expertly captures his character for the crowd. He was a man who, when his house caught fire in his final years of life, jumped out of a window carrying nothing but a paintbrush. He was dedicated to his art to the end, and truly believed in the maxim that one only improves with age – maintaining that as he reached his centurial birthday, he was approaching a eudemonia of talent. Unfortunately, he never got there, dying shortly before his ninetieth birthday. However his devotion never floundered, as he continued to paint through his last days.

Hokusai: beyond The Great Wave is exhibited at the British Museum from 15 May – 13 August

Inside the madness of the MLS

Shiv Bhardwaj
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Inside the madness of the MLS

Towards the end of my first week in the summer quarter at Stanford University, I heard that the San Jose Earthquakes were hosting LA Galaxy in the MLS. As a regular at my beloved Chelsea, I was at once gripped by the opportunity to experience American ‘soccer’, a world that was wholly alien to me. Having found out that the game was taking place on campus at the Stanford Stadium, which seats a staggering 50,000 fans, my decision was made.

On a typically warm Californian evening, my friend and I found ourselves at the centre of an MLS derby just a twenty minute walk from our accommodation. Across the pond, Americans invest a lot of time and money into their undertakings – rarely do they do anything half-heartedly – so it is hardly surprising that football has grown in the USA so rapidly since the league’s foundation back in 1993. The evidence was on display outside the ground as thousands of fans made their way through the turnstiles, clad head-to-toe in team merchandise. For a country where football is perhaps the fifth most popular sport, this was quite a turnout.

Our tickets advised that the match would begin at 19.15, but curiously as the time drew nearer there was no sign of any football. It was then that I realised first-hand how American sports involve so much more than the game itself – the pre-match entertainment was about to commence. Given the proximity to the Independence Day holiday it was a patriotic affair, with the spotlight on war veterans and an abundance of stars and stripes. By the time ‘The Star Spangled Banner’ was complete, it felt more like an international match than a domestic league fixture.

I was relieved to hear the referee finally start the game, but the opening ten minutes were a sloppy affair with neither side threatening and some wayward passing. The crowd were quiet and the atmosphere flat. But out of nothing the visitors from LA had their goal. A free-kick from the left found its way to centre-back Van Damme who, somehow unmarked, fired home with a neat volley. Remarkably, the Earthquake fans behind the goal continued their collection of chants, seemingly oblivious to what had happened on the pitch.

It took until the thirty fifth minute for the home team to turn up, as they then began to apply some pressure to an untroubled LA defence. A series of corners were met with the home crowd stamping their feet to live up to the team’s name, whilst the players adopted the unusual tactic of crowding round the goal line.

Around us the crowd, packed with children and families keen to see the firework display that was to follow the game, was consuming vast amounts of candy floss, popcorn and hotdogs as the half came to an end. The lacklustre football on the pitch was not going to stop them having fun. As the half-time whistle blew we decided it would only be fitting to indulge in some nachos ourselves to get the true experience. Long queues meant we missed the half-time entertainment, which involved yet another rendition of the national anthem.

The second half began as the first, but suddenly a spark arose out of nowhere in the 75th minute. San Jose keeper David Bingham made a fine save to keep his side in the game, before launching an NFL-style kick downfield (refreshingly simple in comparison to the Premier League’s nuanced tactical approach). It found captain Wondolowski, who swivelled and fired home emphatically to level the scores. The 15 minutes that followed were tense with both sides having chances, but it looked as if the Cali Clasico was headed for a draw.

Then, in the 93rd minute substitute Shea Salinas finished off a neat move from the home team to spark wild celebrations. Galaxy’s earlier goal scorer Van Damme was sent off for dissent in a feisty end to an otherwise subdued game.

Whilst it was impressive to see the growth of football in the USA, I couldn’t help feel that the game was more the background to an evening out for most fans. Big international stars such as David Beckham drew vast global attention to the MLS, but the rise of football in China is threatening to drag players away from the USA. The Independence Day fireworks that followed were mightily impressive, and seemed to be the highlight of the evening for many. A new influx of talent could go a long way to changing that in years to come.

In coming to the game, I had hoped that I would be able to demystify the madness of MLS football, but I left with just as many questions as answers.

Three-quarters of graduates will never pay off student loan, says major report

Mia Millman
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Three-quarters of graduates will never pay off student loan, says major report

Students are graduating with such large debts that a majority will not be able to pay them off, new findings by the Institute for Fiscal Studies (IFS) say.

Research shows that graduates will be still be paying off their debts into their 50s, after government legislation removing maintenance grants in 2011 significantly increased student debts.

Under the new system, 77.4% of students will never fully repay their debts, compared to 76% of students under the 2012 system, which featured maintenance grants, and only 41.5% of students under the 2011 system.

The think-tank found that changes to the system in 2015 will disproportionately affect students from poorer economic backgrounds, especially those with parental income below £25,000. The report states that, as a result of the scrapping of maintenance grants in favour of higher loans, “students from the poorest backgrounds will accrue debts of £57,000 (including interest) from a three-year degree”.

The report showed that while the changes increase the total cash-in-pocket available to students from low-income households by £1,500 per year, the removal of grants significantly increases their debt burden upon graduation. Students eligible were previously able to obtain up to £3,482 per year in grants under the 2012 system.

The report also found that, due to increasing interest rates, high earners could pay up to £40,000 solely in interest payments. It notes that interest rates on student loans are set to rise in line with inflation from 4.6% to 6.1% in September. Interest rates on student loans are set at RPI plus up to 3% (depending on income).

The report found: “The average student accrues £5,800 of interest while studying, meaning that they borrow £45,000 but find on the day of graduation they have a debt of £50,800.”

According to the report: “The combination of high fees and large maintenance loans contributes to English graduates having the highest student debts in the developed world.”

Universities minister Jo Johnson said: “The government consciously subsidises the studies of those who for a variety of reasons, including family responsibilities, may not repay their loans in full.

“This is a vital and deliberate investment in the skills base of this country, not a symptom of a broken student finance system.

“And the evidence bears this out: young people from poorer backgrounds are now going to university at a record rate – up 43% since 2009.”

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