Monday, May 19, 2025
Blog Page 839

Northern Ireland’s abortion law is shameful. More must be done

Eimer McAuley
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Northern Ireland’s abortion law is shameful. More must be done

I was first introduced to the abortion debate in Northern Ireland in a religious education class at the age of 13. We were shown images from abortion procedures on pro-life websites, told in detail when a foetus forms fingernails, and taught, above else, that life was sacred. Afterwards, I went home and told my parents that abortion was evil, and that I would never have the procedure. Before I was old enough to imagine the circumstances in which I would need an abortion, I was taught not to want a choice in the matter.

Now, as a student in England, I’m acutely aware of just how problematic this education was. I now find it absurd that until this week I would have had to pay £900 for an abortion in a private clinic, whilst my friends based in Great Britain were guaranteed the same procedure for free. Women who reside in England, Scotland and Wales have had the right to free, safe abortions since the Abortion Act in 1967. Yet for 50 years, the only option for Northern Irish women who needed abortions was to fly to England and to go to a private clinic.

Abortion in Northern Ireland remains illegal under almost all circumstances, including fatal foetal abnormality, and rape. In the Republic of Ireland, it took the tragic death of Savita Halappanavar in 2012 for abortions to become legal in the case of fatal foetal abnormality. Savita, along with her husband, pleaded that her pregnancy be terminated as she feared that she would die from blood poisoning as doctors thought the foetus to be dead; yet despite their demands, a team of thirty medical staff denied the request as doctors had detected a foetal heartbeat. It shouldn’t take the death of another woman for Northern Ireland’s abortion policy to be revised. Nor should the issue of women’s rights in Northern Ireland be an issue reduced to another U-turn in Theresa May’s bid to cling onto power.

Following a successful campaign led by Labour’s Stella Creasy, which received cross-party support, the government have recently agreed to free abortions for Northern Irish women in England, having previously stated that it was “a matter for the NI Assembly”. However, this change only arose due to the risk of a party rebellion, leading the Liberal Democrat MP Jo Swinson to note that “women deserve better than having their rights reliant on House of Commons arithmetic” and Labour’s Yvette Cooper to accuse the government of “hiding behind the excuse of devolution.”

The reality is, whilst this change in policy has been hailed as a “landmark moment” for women’s rights in Northern Ireland, it offers little reassurance to the most vulnerable women in our society. The costs of travelling to have an abortion for Northern Irish women may be reduced, but it certainly isn’t universally affordable. The law as it stands is still an immoral one, which hits the poorest in our society the hardest, leaving working class woman facing prosecution if they can’t afford to travel to England. If I were to travel from Belfast to Liverpool now for the procedure it would cost £83 for a round trip, excluding accommodation. What’s more, even if a woman can afford these expenses, she has to fly alone, to another country, without the comfort of her family or home. While this isolated and potentially frightening experience remains the reality facing so many Northern Irish women, I find it difficult to celebrate recent developments as a break through moment for women’s rights.

The fact remains that this is an undeniably contentious topic. Last year, one student in Belfast who had no access to legal abortion bought drugs online to terminate her pregnancy – when her roommates discovered what she’d done, they reported her to the police. In court, her lawyer told the judge that if his 19 year old client lived in any other part of the UK she “wouldn’t have found herself in front of the courts”. She has since been handed a suspended sentence.

With Stormont no closer to forming an executive, it seems unlikely that the extension of the Abortion Act will come through the Assembly. On the same day that Theresa May’s government announced the change in policy, the High Court overturned an earlier ruling that NI abortion policy was incompatible with human rights. Yet there may remain hope, as in a surprising move, it invited legal submissions for the case to go to the Supreme Court.

I have every hope that the issue of abortion rights in Northern Ireland will now remain a priority for the UK, and that the politicians of Westminster will continue to stand in solidarity with Irish women until real change comes into effect. It’s only then that we’ll be able to truly celebrate a break-through in women’s rights.

Life Divided: Love Island

Charles Britton and Bessie Yuill
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Life Divided: Love Island

For: Bessie Yiull

I hate to make the obvious joke, but ITV’s Love Island did not seem like my type on paper. It’s easy to mock a show this shallow in concept. If you’re a humanities student like me, for example, you might feel it’s your moral responsibility to point out the show’s heteronormativity. And honestly? That’s fair, if a little predictable.

But for many of us, the show became a routine distraction from exams: a nightly check in on people living the dream. The sheer escapism represented by the lives of these beautiful human chess pieces is the ideal balm to a student’s irritations. This is an island with no lasting consequences! None of them have anything to do all day but tan and overanalyse their own interpersonal relationships! No one on Love Island has to worry about analytical reading at all – even if, judging by some of the strategic grafting, certain girls may be fans of Sun Tzu.

The only crime is being boring enough that you’re kicked off the island, like the plank of wood with a haircut they brought in and tried to pass off as a human being named ‘Mike’. Even he provided an inspirational positive message for today’s youth: with a complete absence of chat, or what could be called ‘anti-chat’, he still managed to disrupt several seemingly committed couples (even from outside the competition in Jess’ case). If he can do that, I can do anything.

It also (crucially for Oxford) provides a kind of in-between on the class scale for reality shows: the mix of accents means that the show’s neither a TOWIE or an MIC. In a supermarket allegory, it’s a middle-of-the-road Tesco’s, non-threatening to regulars of either Aldi or Waitrose (while the mum-friendly First Dates is naturally M&S.)

In these troubled times, Love Island has become a common ground for youth culture. Even if the friend of a friend you’re talking to has an objectively incorrect opinion, like ‘Chris is attractive’ or ‘Marcel bringing up Blazing Squad is not a funny joke anymore’, you can still bond over the compulsion to watch girls talk about what eggs they have in whose baskets. Feeling equally protective over Camilla is a guaranteed friendship starter, and in terms of communal experience, it literally wouldn’t be going too far to call 2017 Love Island a generational nexus equivalent to Woodstock in 1969, the 1989 fall of the Berlin Wall or Big Brother’s debut in 2000. The hippie dream of togetherness through entertainment is alive and well-toned.

Against: Charles Britton

Attacking Love Island is like flogging a dead horse at this point but, like that cliché, some things bear repeating when the destruction of our entire civilisation hangs in the balance. I won’t slight Big Brother Extra Flesh Edition for being ‘trashy’ or ‘low-brow’ – I don’t go into Love Island expecting to expand my vocabulary, after all – but it is worth addressing the underlying evils the participants, and viewers at home, are subjected to.

First of all, the misnomer that it is ‘reality television’ still baffles me. All I see here is a program which cherry-picks people society deems attractive, perpetuating a constraining and unrealistic body ideal. Like the Labour Manifesto, 20 minutes of Love Island has me demanding representation: “For the many, not the few”. The interior designer needs to be sacked, too, after producing this ugly mishmash of modern villa and fluorescent furniture. This villa has more fairy lights than one of those abnormally large Swedish Christmas trees. The imperatives scrawled over the bathroom such as “soak” and “rinse” perhaps suggest that the producers doubt the participants’ intelligence, but I for one resent the idea of my bathroom dictating my exfoliating regime.

Most of this could be forgiven if Love Island had any grasp of innuendo, an art form I will defend to the last. The less said about Iain Stirling’s narration, the better: I’ve heard subtler euphemisms in a Carry On film. A game the participants had to play involved the men forcing sausages down their partners’ throats, complete with only the most tasteful slow-motion shots of women stuffing their faces with baked beans. Another had the guys applying sun cream to their bodies using the women as some kind of oversized sponge, a very inefficient method of application: I know, I’ve tried. Subtlety, thy name is not Love Island.

I could continue to shower Love Island with praise for its thrilling viewing of role models so shockingly bored out of their wits that they while away their time by lounging about, sleeping, and bitching all day. I could talk about how I cannot believe that ITV cannot afford to ply their stars with good quality booze yet can afford to get Colin Francis to DJ at a private gig, but at the risk of sounding as desperate as a Love Island contestant, I will simply say this: you’re better off trawling through Oxlove.

 

 

 

When minimal becomes bare

Daisy Chandley
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When minimal becomes bare

Scrolling through the Instagram explore page at night, trying to calculate in your head how many hours of sleep you can get if you drop off in the next ten minutes, you’d be hard pressed to not come across a tall, slim girl in muted, tailored clothes. She’ll call herself a lifestyle blogger, whether or not she has a blog, and her feed will be a perfectly manicured mixture of uncluttered Parisian balconies, bowls of uniformly sliced exotic fruits, and crisp white bedsheets covered in angular floods of light. This, apparently, is minimalism, and you might call it one of the standard reigning style trends of the last five years – after all, the staggering following of a lot of these minimalist Instagrammers appears to be down to their impeccable sense of taste. I don’t think this is true, or at least I don’t think it’s the full story. Minimalism, at least this incarnation of it, isn’t really about aesthetics at all – it’s about money, class, and status.

As far as I can see, the main difference between decluttered and bare, or a cool white t-shirt versus a boring white t-shirt, is context. For a start, the person in question must have had the option to have more ‘stuff’ around them or a more lavish outfit and turned it down. As Stephanie Land puts it in her brilliant article. ‘The Class Politics of Decluttering’ in The New York Times: “minimalism is a virtue only when it is a choice.” If somebody lives in a bare flat because they can’t afford furniture it doesn’t seem to count, and nor does an awkward teenage girl wearing a hand-me-down white t-shirt and black jeans. Minimalism demands that the user to have a certain income in order that their living conditions are adopted by choice, rather than born out of necessity. The evident problem with this is that it creates a hard financial threshold on who can be a minimalist, which introduces a problematic element before the substance of the trend itself is even examined.

It might be countered that there’s a good reason that those on a low income with plain white plastic furniture fail to be minimalists in the context I’m using, other than the mere fact of their wage: minimalism is about being surrounded by a limited number of relatively unadorned things, yes, but those things are implicitly meant to be beautiful and well crafted, and craftsmanship costs money that some people simply do not have. Minimalism focuses our attention on the minutiae – a label, the cut of a hem, the exact length of a pair of black jeans – and it takes expensive designers to be able to master these small, beautiful art forms. In some ways this draws attention to elements of fashion that are arguably being lost; the art of tailoring with local, quality materials, and the architectural structure of pieces. This is the argument that many use to defend minimalism from an aesthetic point of view – it’s about appreciating the perfection of small and simple things.

An important point to make before I get around to my main problem with this line of reasoning is that in reality, the individual sewing fifty pound white tees is probably not working with vastly better fabrics, and likely not much better working conditions, than the individual sewing those that line high street bargain buckets. The idea that cheaper stores are to be avoided or frowned upon simply for their ethical practices or mass-production is therefore something to be greatly suspicious of.

With this in mind, let’s suppose that Primark brought in a fantastic but totally unheard of tailor to craft a new range of blouses from reasonably good quality fabrics. Even if these blouses end up being indistinguishable from a COS blouse, and would last precisely as long, I don’t think it’s plausible to believe that both would be treated anything close to equally by a minimalist blogger perusing the shelves. Of course, there’s probably no trend where two pieces from brands with vastly different connotations are treated equally, but within more eccentric, loud and fun trends it’s not at all unusual to see well regarded bloggers raving or even bragging about having found a particularly brilliant piece at a cheap and cheerful store. For the long-legged minimalists of Instagram to distinguish themselves from those who merely cannot afford more, they have to have a name or label to flash. This is because minimalism is selling more than just clothes, and it’s no coincidence that almost every minimalist dresser you see online is also a ‘lifestyle blogger’, an ‘influencer’, or the like. Minimalism and the understatedly glamorous way of life that appears to surround it go hand in hand, and to wear a Primark blouse rather than a Ghost one is the equivalent of posting a bowl of apple and banana slices, rather than kiwi and dragonfruit. It shatters the constant implication of exclusivity.

The most glaring way in which this exclusivity is maintained, and the final suggestion that it indeed exists, is arguably the most nefarious of all: the minimalist themselves must fit the same prescriptions as their surroundings and their clothes. You might think that this means the typical minimalist would be anyone with a simple or natural hairstyle without too many tattoos or piercings, but this isn’t the case at all; vast number of minimalist bloggers have heavily processed hair and bodies more doodled on than a thirteen year old’s dream journal. What you don’t tend to find, with a few exceptions, is established minimalist bloggers and influencers who are black, fat, disabled, or even simply fail to live up to every aspect of modern western beauty standards. The primary caveat to this is Japanese women, but this isn’t too surprising: for the most part, those who succeed on social media are still very slim and able-bodied, and in addition to this they are often reductively viewed as part of an aesthetic culture which is sufficiently focused on clean lines and careful technical engineering for their bodies and identities to work with the minimalist trend. This leaves us with the question of why body modifications – the seeming antithesis of minimalism – are acceptable, but blackness, being above a size 8, and visible disabilities are not, and I don’t think we have to look too far for the answer.

When you combine the fact that minimalism is selling a specific, elite ideal and its requirement that simple clothes and bare rooms are chosen rather than necessitated (and add a good dash of the biases that we’re all subconsciously imbued with), it’s not too surprising that certain bodies don’t fit into our notion of 2017 minimalism. While it’s certainly not far fetched to put the absence of these bodies down to simple ableism, fatphobia and anti-blackness, other style groups in the social media sphere seem to be amplifying these voices and faces somewhat more successfully, and there’s an additional idea that could neatly – if unsettlingly – explain this. When we see people of colour, people over a certain size, or disabled people wearing what might otherwise be regarded as minimalist clothing, we are perhaps more likely to instinctively read plainness and bare rooms as necessity rather than choice, assuming they are both less financially comfortable and less clued up on trends than their tall, white, slim, and able bodied counterparts. While complex intersectional wage gaps are of course a very real problem, this by no means justify these assumptions, especially when it’s so often made with distain in mind rather than solidarity, and when women of colour have been the driving force in so many trends and styles that we take for granted.

A simple blouse or vest with nice trousers, worn in various shades of monochrome, can manage to look slick, smart and relaxed all at once on all manner of bodies, and decluttering is certainly something that helps some people from all manner of backgrounds feel less stressed and distracted. The problem is that minimalism in its current mainstream format is more than just these things – it’s an exclusive lifestyle reserved for those who we perceive to be successful, beautiful and glamorous enough to be commendable for choosing it. It’s unattainability, and secrecy, and black and white Chanel carrier bags. It says, loudly and clearly, that the difference between embarrassingly bare and beautifully effortless isn’t how carefully or interestingly a person can put an outfit together, but who it is that’s wearing it, which makes it precisely the kind of trend that we need to identify, question, and reject.

Glastonbury and the Corbyn effect

Julia Alsop
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Glastonbury and the Corbyn effect

A single man, delivereing a performance on the Pyramid Stage at the Glastonbury Festival, attracted the largest crowd the event has seen since The Rolling Stones performed in 2013. No, he wasn’t an international pop star, or an ageing rock icon, but the long-sock wearing Labour leader, Jeremy Corbyn, who delivered an empowering speech urging festival goers to, “build bridges not walls.”

However, in amongst the joyous welcome he received from the festival crowd, public figures such as Nigel Farage announced how appalled they were at the apparent politicisation of a music festival, broadcast on national television. As a music student, I find this reaction strange – music is a way of representing our identities, political or otherwise.

A close relationship between political affiliation and music is nothing new. Take the concept of national anthems: ‘God Save the Queen’ is  forcefully pro-monarchy, underpinned by Christian ideology, and expresses ideas about how Britain should relate to other cultures that are rather questionable in the modern world. But this anthem is used at public events as a way of instilling a sees of national pride, and British identity.

Famously, musicologists have debated the role of political ideology (and possible rebellion) in Shostakovich’s music during the Soviet era, at a time when political leaders held tight control over what art was considered to be appropriately ‘Soviet’. The Communist Party  used music as a tool for establishing political unity, but it can also be a force for political change: think of The Sex Pistols in the 1970s, releasing songs such as ‘Anarchy in the UK’, with a fan base intent on questioning government and societal expectations.

Indeed, there are many historical examples of the success of music that seeks political and social change  – the global hip-hop movement (shout out to Prelims Music!) has revolved around minority demographics identifying with the struggles of Black Americans. In Tanzania, hip-hop has become a channel for speaking out against governmental corruption, the widespread AIDS epidemic, and for artists such as Zay B to empower young women to persevere with education, rather than slipping into prostitution.

Now if we look back at British music festivals, Corbyn isn’t the only politician to be seen at one by any means. Whenever I attend Glyndebourne Summer Festival (at an opera house in East Sussex), I like to indulge in a tongue-in-cheek game of ‘spot the Tory MP’. The music itself is exceptional, and the audiences are diversifying all the time, but they are still dominated by the wealthy, white, and elderly. It is true that the Tories aren’t there explicitly making speeches with political motivation, but the obvious demographic alongside a few recognisable faces do indicate an element of class and political leaning that is no different to Glastonbury. Although, I must confess I found it particularly amusing spotting a notable politician who has voted against gay rights issues at an opera by Benjamin Britten, a famously gay composer of the last century.

So where does Glastonbury fit into this political and musical landscape? It has not shied away from political musicians performing in the past. The Rolling Stones, who fielded a spectacular audience in 2013, have never been adverse to discussing politics, and Mick Jagger has famously described himself as an anarchist.

The real reason that people have complained about the politicisation of Glastonbury is because they recognize how powerful a tool it can be in the hands of a politician like Corbyn. He is the only political leader of the moment who seems to be able to appeal to the younger voters en masse and, if the General Election results and turnout of young people are anything to go by, he is going from strength to strength.

Jeremy Corbyn has cultivated the image of the unexpected bonafide ‘cool’ politician, and perhaps Britain’s first for a significant amount of time. Us Brits frequently gawp at Justin Trudeau in rainbow ‘Eid Mubarak’ socks, twirling through the streets at Pride in major Canadian cities (could I have a bigger crush?), or cringe at David Cameron as Barack Obama’s effortless backhand shot causes him to sweatily hang off  a ping-pong table. Corbyn is not perfect, but he does have a public persona that is at ease with itself  – whether it’s when confiding that the naughtiest thing he’s ever done is far too naughty to say (wheat farmers needn’t worry), or engaging with residents of Grenfell Tower, or attending a music festival popular with younger generations. And it seems that for the moment at least, it is those with whom we identify that we ultimately vote for.

Corbyn’s speech at Glastonbury was about, “building bridges not walls”, and this is a message that many musical acts also strive for: creating a community of shared identity and values. The music and politics of Glastonbury are intertwined with the identities of the majority of British youth. But whilst this identity is associated with young people, it is not defined by them, but also by an ideology of progression and innovation, as can be seen in the new musical acts appearing each year.

Better Caul Saul: Season Three Reviewed

Nancy Epton
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Better Caul Saul: Season Three Reviewed

In Breaking Bad, Vince Gilligan sustains tension across the 60 minutes of one episode solely through a series of encounters between two men and a fly in an enclosed indoor environment: ostensibly dull, but of nerve-pounding excitement when played out on screen. Three seasons in, and its prequel retains the same static suspense.

Although the primary arc follows the fallout of Jimmy’s (Bob Odenkirk) recorded confession, Jonathan Banks’ gruff, stoic fixer Mike remains the standout. His efforts to find the individual responsible for his tracker and failed attempt to kill Hector might have felt cumbersome in the wrong screenwriter’s hands, but Gilligan’s minimalist dialogue coupled with the skill of Marshall Adams’s cinematography imbues each individual shot with intrigue and unease. Even though there is no clear enemy in sight, the claustrophobic close-ups as Mike inserts trackers to bait the perpetrator inexplicably increases the sense of dread and tension. Gilligan revels in slow pace; even though we know that Mike will survive, and that Jimmy will transform into the cult icon we all know and love, we’re more than happy to sit along for the slow yet exhilarating ride. The transformation of the mundane into something more exhilarating and enthralling is what sets Breaking Bad apart, and the same certainly applies to Better Call Saul.

Colour choices imbued with heavy symbolism is another central feature of both original and spin-off. We can trace the moral change of Walter White from the passive plum shirt during his cancer diagnosis in Season One right through to immorality and pitch black garments by the end of Season Five. The pigmentation of garments is also a central aspect of BCS: the colours chosen for Jimmy’s clothes in first two seasons reflects his vibrancy as an anti-hero. Yet as his wavering principles become more pronounced, we meet the lawyer increasingly in grey and black attire, with only the occasional glimpse of blue remaining under his jacket.

Contrary to the sleek, groomed figures of Don Draper or Josiah Bartlet, one of BCS’s many uncommon geniuses lies in the visible age of its characters. Jimmy, for all his whimsical eccentricities, is an individual living in the waning glories of his lifetime. Gilligan doesn’t rely on casting a well-groomed all-American heartthrob to develop his narrative or develop a character dichotomy within a romantic relationship, but chooses to focus primarily on two brothers. Whilst Micheal McKean may be known more for his comedic performances, his turn as Jimmy’s bitter and self-righteous older brother Chuck expertly reveals inherent human hypocrisies. By all rights, we should be rooting for Chuck’s hard-nosed sense of justice and law, but his deep-seated resentment robs us of any possible sympathy. He almost always maintains an astounding level of control towards clients and colleagues, versus the cold apathy he directs at Jimmy. Therefore, the moment when this balance begins to fail in the season’s latter half counter-intuitively elicits a glorious cry of triumph from the audience, though McKean’s ability to still evoke a sense of humanity from his struggles in each pained and contorted facial movement exemplifies his nuanced performance.

Rhea Seehorn also remains a highlight, and stands out as one of contemporary television’s rare examples of an engaging and forceful female lead. She deals with Jimmy’s grievances with measured restraint while continuing her independent work with Masa Verde with fiercely determined resolve. One of the episodes details a montage of Kim’s morning routine; instead of returning home to wash, she showers at the gym and then continues her work at the office. Although she eventually suffers a moral crisis over her actions, Gilligan does not depict her character in crying distress, but through more subtle acts; as she persistently checks over legal documents, she wavers between the use of a full stop, semi-colon or colon, and refuses Jimmy’s pleas to stop working overnight in order to complete documents for her new client. The dramatic irony that her character doesn’t make it onto the screens of Breaking Bad only increases our tension and regret at the absence of such a brilliant and slow-burning character.

Season Three remains at the same remarkable standard as previous entries, and remains one of the most compelling TV series of the decade so far. And with Season Four already in the works? S’aul good, man.

My town and my gown: from boogie boards to bicycles

Kathleen Farmilo
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My town and my gown: from boogie boards to bicycles

Whilst Oxford is known for its historic buildings and cobbled streets, one of Adelaide’s most famous attractions is colloquially named ‘The Mall’s Balls’. These are, literally, two giant metal balls stacked on top of each other in the middle of our shopping mall. This, I think, gives you a pretty accurate insight into the differences between the two cities.

Adelaide was founded in 1836 as Australia’s first non-penal colony (big up), yet still manages to be the murder capital of the country (slightly less of a big up). Despite this setback, it’s also frequently listed as one of the top ten most liveable cities in the world. This pretty much captures Adelaide: comfortable, beautiful, safe (notwithstanding the murders), and a little bit boring. Oxford, whilst eminently beautiful and mostly safe, is the opposite of boring, despite an alarming amount of time spent in the library.

One marked difference centres around the food on a night out. Ali’s kebab van is a haven of hummus and grease after another long night trying to fit in with the edgy crowds of Cellar. For my friends back home, a kebab van doesn’t come close to the unparalleled joys of a late night Macca’s run. But though I do occasionally hanker for a 3am Zambrero’s burrito (sorry Oxford, Mission Burrito pales in comparison), the £1.50 ‘St Anne’s Special’ has definitely found a new place in my heart.

Adelaide is also nicknamed ‘the City of Churches’, but we’re not really sure why. Somehow the Seventies architecture of the Anglican church near my house doesn’t quite match up to the All Souls’ chapel. Indeed, in this sense, ‘the city of dreaming spires’ seems slightly more impressive. I would, however, trade all the college chapels in the world for slightly closer access to a beach. Frolicking in Port Meadow has its merits, but it doesn’t really compare to the surf at home.

I will commend Oxford for its wildlife. I don’t think I’ve seen a single spider since I’ve been here, and that alone has made the move worthwhile. The trauma of possum-mating season is also behind me, as is the fear of being terrorised by homicidal magpies during spring. Also – no snakes! The novelty of seeing carefree students wander through the long grasses of Port Meadow with bare feet will never wear off. The compulsory ‘Snake Bites 101’ lessons we had to take in health class now seem slightly less relevant over here. All in all, it’s quite nice being able to go for a leisurely stroll around University Parks without the imminent threat of a wildlife attack.

Despite their obvious differences, the most striking similarity between Oxford and Adelaide has to be the tourists. If you’ve ever been to Cornmarket Street on a Saturday, or been trapped behind a throng of tourists on the way to a lecture, you’ll know all too well what I mean. The classic ‘I Heart Adelaide’ vests usually found on the sweaty, sunburnt English tourists roaming the streets back home are nowhere to be found. Instead, every time I venture into the city centre, I’m thrown into a heaving melee of school students in Oxford University hoodies. The days of being asked to point out the nearest place to buy sunblock/hats/more sunblock have been replaced by giving directions to the Rad Cam.

There are lots of things I miss about my town – the beach, the koala who frequents my backyard, not being asked whether I’m from New Zealand. But during term time, I’m happy for sand to be replaced by cobbled streets, and boogie boards to be replaced by bikes. Plus, I finally get to make the most of my extensive jumper collection.

‘A visual masterpiece’

Izzy Smith
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‘A visual masterpiece’

While incorporating moving character development and an entertaining plot, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child is most notably a visual masterpiece. Clever special effects make the performance truly seem magical, with actors replacing each other within the same robes on stage slickly to create a convincing illusion of a Polyjuice Potion transformation, and characters appearing to travel through the solid wall of a phone box to enter the Ministry of Magic. Lighting effects make the entire set appear to ripple as characters travel through time.

The set is well chosen, with permanent instalments in the style of Victorian station pillars, obviously effective for King’s Cross and the high ceilings of Hogwarts, but also movable to create an imposing forest. The attention to detail is stunning, with the entire theatre, including the ceiling, revealed to be covered in ultraviolet writing at one crucial moment. Even set changes were spectacular, with well thought out costume and choreography replacing the typical hidden stage hands with swirling cloaks. One particularly emotive visual was the dementors, imposing and dramatic, floating into the audience and truly seeming animated, although uncannily not quite alive.

The Cursed Child tells a wonderful story in its own right, resisting the very real option of relying too heavily on nostalgia. New characters are foregrounded and complex, and both Albus and Scorpius are very different both to their actual fathers (Harry and Draco) and from the legends built around them. The choice to take Albus’ fear of being placed in Slytherin, as expressed in the final novel, and construct a ‘what if’ narrative around this idea was an excellent springboard for examining a complex and shifting relationship between Harry and his son. The boys are also often extremely funny, with Albus, disguised as Ron, trying to divert Hermione from his friends’ secret misdemeanours by declaring, “I want a baby!” and then, backtracking, “or a holiday.”

The plot impressively had enough to give for a play of such great length, although had a fairly weak villain, with both her dialogue and actress Esther Smith lacking nuance. It drew off and asked moral questions about old storylines while having the courage to forge completely new ones and focus on the development of relationships between new characters.

However, I am doubtful how accessible the play would prove for new viewers unacquainted with the original series – although I suppose this is a lesser risk when it comes to Harry Potter. Without this context, the significance of much of what is revisited through time travel would be lost. I also did really enjoy seeing familiar characters grown up (although this term seems generous in the case of Ron!) Seeing Hermione as the Minister for Magic, typically earnest and hardworking, whilst more confident and settled, is immensely satisfying. Noma Dumezweni’s performance wonderfully combines the character’s sincerity and warmth. Ginny as Sports Editor of the Daily Prophet is a less predictable great fit.

It is wonderful to see a developed and interesting adaptation of Ginny, who retains her fire and spirit from the books, after the films’ wet interpretation. While it was frustrating to see her fall into the common trope of a highly competent female character whose primary role is in helping the male lead grow, mature and ‘find himself’, the play otherwise does well on this count: when McGonagall compliments Albus, Harry agrees and compares him to Ginny, and Hermione is as formidable as ever.

Something I have always loved about Harry Potter is how it plays out fundamentally human experiences within a magical world, often using magic to render psychological experiences visceral. Boggarts explore how fear can be attacked with laughter: the charm cast by Lily’s sacrifice examines how active and protective a force love can be. The exploration of Harry’s trauma within The Cursed Child follows this tradition beautifully, and shows how everything does not simply return to normal with Voldemort’s death. The medium of stage allows for vibrant portrayal of Harry’s re-experiencing through nightmares, with the past just as solid and present on the stage as Harry himself. While Harry’s nightmares and paranoia hold magical significance, they also explain a great deal about the man he’s become.

The Cursed Child is rich with humour and warmth, with difficult and complex relationships at its heart – and if none of that draws you in then just go for the special effects.

The rise of nuclear weapons

Cherwell
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The rise of nuclear weapons

From sticks and stones to nuclear bombs, it’s common to find that with most advancements in technology, there is some advancement in weaponry. No case is more prominent than nuclear weapons – weapons so devastating that they have never ceased to leave the public eye. The destruction demonstrated by nuclear weapons have captivated the world in decades of paranoia, plaguing public perception of all things nuclear.

To an extent, this fear could be said to have kept large-scale war at bay between developed nations. However, questions are now being asked of proliferation as the actions of unpredictable states grow increasingly menacing. What devastation could a nuclear weapon bring?

The development of the first nuclear weapons begins with the discovery of nuclear fission in 1938. Fission was experimentally found to be induced by neutrons hitting nuclei of heavier atoms – Lise Meitner and Otto Frisch first theoretically modelled fission like a raindrop being split into two by an incoming neutron. Energy arising from fission can be thought of as arising either as the energy from the mass difference of the products and reactants, or as the energy of the repulsion between the two nuclei formed from fission.

It took the discovery of chain fission reactions to take energy from fission from the atomic scale to significant energies. With a critical density of certain isotopes of Uranium, it was found that a self-sustaining fission reaction can be triggered as neutrons released from fission go and induce further fission reactions in other nuclei, repeating the process and releasing incredible energy along the way.

Scientists were quick to recognize the potential of weaponising the fission process, but it would take the collective effort of a generation’s greatest scientists to develop and produce a first-of-its-kind nuclear fission bomb through the now infamous Manhattan Project. The technological challenges were incredible and diverse, but the Manhattan Project scientists were exceptional – over two dozen had won or would win the Nobel Prize through their careers.

The Manhattan project would produce two archetypal designs of the atomic bomb and three detonated warheads: plutonium fuelled implosion mechanisms found in the ‘Fat Man’ and ‘the Gadget‘ bombs, and Uranium fuelled gun-type mechanisms in the ‘Little Boy’ bomb.

Gun-type A-Bombs work by shooting together two sub-critical radioactive bullets to increase their combined density past the critical point for nuclear fission. Implosion bombs work by placing a radioactive core surrounded by explosions that are focused like a lens to uniformly compress the core till it reaches critical density.

On the 16th of July 1945, the Gadget became the first Nuclear device to ever be detonated. It yielded a 20 kiloton (kt) explosion that rained hell on the New Mexican desert. To gauge the power of 20kt, if dropped over the Radcliffe Camera today, the image below predicts the scale of the impact.

Source: NUKEMAP. The yellow circle represents the scale of the initial fireball, with the red outer circle demonstrating the region predicted to incur almost a 100% fatality rate. Radiation effects are not included in the diagram.

To get a sense of context, the largest bomb detonated prior to the Trinity tests was the modestly named Grand Slam bomb, clocking in at the equivalent of 6.5 tonnes of TNT. The Gadget was over 3000 times more powerful.

And so, the nuclear rat race began. Superpowers developed their nuclear technologies to greater and greater heights, until in 1952 the USA broke through with the first ever thermonuclear weapon, the first H-bomb.

Kilotons became megatons as the H-bomb revolutionized warfare once more. The breakthrough came through the genius of Edward Teller and Stanislaw Ulam, architects of the Teller-Ulam configuration that is still thought to be the prevalent mechanism for H-bombs today.

Details of the Teller-Ulam configuration are strictly confidential – probably for the best – and so the exact mechanism of H-bomb is hard to come by. The general Teller-Ulam design of the H-bomb involves two separate stages – a primary fission bomb and a secondary fusion device.

The primary stage involves the detonation of a fission implosion bomb close to the fusion device. With fission bombs, a part of the energy is released as radiation. The H-bomb contains a special casing that reflects this radiation into the fusion device. The combination of the radiation, heat, and pressure from the fission reaction induces nuclear fusion to occur in the fusion device.

Nuclear fusion is the same process that powers the Sun – roughly, it involves the process of lighter elements binding their nuclei together. For lighter elements, the individual protons and neutrons have a greater mass than the combined nucleus. It’s this mass difference that is the source of the energy produced by fusion.

The largest H-bomb ever detonated recorded an exceptional yield of 50 megatons, an aggressive brag during the days of the cold war. However, modern nuclear weapons tend to lie within the 100-500 kt region with any more energy deemed inefficient and mostly unnecessary in times of war due to their lack of manoeuvrability.

Large nuclear weapons may still have a place in the modern day – from reinventing space flight to saving our earth from potential asteroid threats, the real challenge lies in whether we can trust ourselves to develop the technology for good. The development of the nuclear energy must involve rigour and thorough safety considerations – essential to heal decades of public distrust.

Robert Oppenheimer, leader of the Manhattan project, famously proclaimed that “physicists have known sin” – it’s time we start utilising the incredible potential of the technology for the good of humanity over the destruction of it.

Oxford ‘must do more’ to recognise potential in poorer applicants

Emily Lawford
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Oxford ‘must do more’ to recognise potential in poorer applicants

Oxford and Cambridge are not doing enough to make themselves accessible to more disadvantaged students, according to the government’s universities access tsar.

Speaking at the University of Buckingham’s Festival of Higher Education, Professor Les Ebdon, the Director of the Office for Fair Access (OFFA), said that Oxbridge still have a “mountain to climb” to improve their diversity.

Ebdon criticised the requirement from top universities for applicants to achieve A* grades at A-level, an expectation he said was unrealistic for most pupils from state schools, of whom only “very few” can attain those grades.

He recognised that Oxford does use “contextual data” on applicants’ backgrounds to judge candidates – but that it must do more.

“If you ask me, ‘Should they be doing more?’, the answer is yes, obviously, because they have… so few students on free school meals, so few students from different ethnic minorities”, Ebdon said.

“So yes, they certainly should be doing more, and that’s my job, to make sure that they do do more.”

When asked about Oxford and Cambridge’s attempts to encourage diversity, Ebdon responded: “Do I think there’s fair access at Oxbridge? Well obviously not.” However, he acknowledged that both universities had improved in their outreach, as “we’re seeing the highest level of state school students at Oxbridge for over 30 years”.

But, he said, he required Oxbridge to “do more work than anyone else” to tackle inequality in their admissions processes.

“Oxbridge need to make a decision, and it is a decision for them as to what the balance of subjects is. They have a series of decisions to make and I actually am legally not allowed to interfere with the admissions process. But I wish they would recognise potential more than they currently do.”

Admissions data released by Ucas displayed that only 45 places were awarded at Oxford to black applicants in 2016, out of the 2,555 overall offers – a drop from the 50 offers made to black students in 2015.

Application rates were also unequal in terms of wealth, as over 5,000 students from the wealthiest 20% applied, contrasted with only 420 from the poorest 20%.

Oxford University has hit back at the claims, citing its provisions to increase access amongst disadvantaged pupils.

“The University already makes extensive, systematic use of contextual data to identify high potential in students from disadvantaged backgrounds,” an Oxford spokesperson said.

“Our academic tariffs are also set to take account of these students’ performance in specific subjects. For example, the tariff is AAA for the majority of our humanities courses. We back this up with one of the UK’s biggest outreach programmes, worth more than £4 million annually.”

The spokesperson added that their “fair and effective system” is delivering significant progress.  “In 2016, 35.2% of our accepted undergraduates came from a disadvantaged category, compared to 31.5% in 2010,” they said. “For 2017 entry, disadvantaged candidates have, for the first time ever, been more successful in winning offers to Oxford than the UK average.”

Some Oxford students and campaign were also quick to question Ebdon’s remarks, highlighting University measures to aid more disadvantaged students.

Ebdon’s remarks came as his annual report on widening access to UK universities was published. It found that the number of poorer students dropping out of university had reached the highest level in five years.

In March, Oxford announced a new summer school with the intention of targeting “white British” working class areas for admissions. Date shows that “less well off” white boys are the demographic group least likely to go to University in the UK.

Misleading media coverage of Oxford must stop

Maxim Parr-Reid
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Misleading media coverage of Oxford must stop

As I arrived home from the Trinity Commemoration Ball on Saturday, I was greeted by the spectacle of weary stragglers snapped by the tabloid press. It was as if the paparazzi had been ready to pounce as soon as they caught wind of another frivolous Oxford ball. Hardly a surprise, I thought to myself, this is yet another episode in the long-running saga of the media’s obsession with Oxbridge. The fixation is hardly surprising, they are two of the best universities in the country, populated by those who may one day run the country. This obsession, however, appears to be skewed towards viewing Oxbridge exclusively as a paragon of privilege. This is emblematic of a narrative that Oxford is a toy-town world, seemingly off limits to everyone bar the lucky few.

Such an idea is, of course, palpably untrue. The hyperbolic media coverage of Oxford plays to the knowledge that potential candidates form part of the ‘social media generation’. They are therefore the most likely to absorb the impressions portrayed in the media. If I hadn’t conducted my own research and visited the University myself, my idea of what Oxford was would rest on The Riot Club and a smattering of statistics from The Guardian indicating that the colleges I was considering were public school strongholds. The media’s obsession with Oxbridge might be justifiable, given the aura and the pull of our oldest universities, however the narrative that Oxbridge remains a bastion of elitism and exclusivity is highly damaging.

One only has to trawl through the headlines of leading newspapers to see daunting admissions figures circulated and sensationalised; just last year The Guardian published articles entitled ‘Oxbridge fails to persuade state teachers to send pupils for interview’ and ‘David Cameron’s Oxford college admits fewest state school applicants.’

Indeed, there are entire sections of websites solely dedicated to “Oxbridge and elitism”. Clearly, it’s important for the universities to take note of these figures, but surely barraging and bombarding potential applicants with such statistics merely served to deepen doubts and reinforce reservations about applying. One can’t help feeling that the reported successes of the institution are being vastly swamped by its arguable failures. A quick search of the internet will likely yield far more stories about problems of exclusivity than advances in inclusivity.

It’s likely that fewer than half of Oxford students will attend a ball, let alone one of the few which are white tie. Despite this, barely one day after Trinity’s Commemoration Ball, a lengthy article sprung up, written almost in the style of David Attenborough, documenting the activities of the lesser-spotted Oxford student. Who knew that stumbling home after the ball would be fraught with the danger of being ambushed by the paparazzi, foaming at the bit for a sighting of dishevelled students. Far more coverage was given to this one event than all of Trinity College’s access work conducted in the past year. This is presumably because documenting outreach work is somehow counter to the compelling narrative that Oxford is exclusive.

In light of this, it’s unsurprising that the most many know about Oxford is the Bullingdon Club, which despite having fewer than 10 members, hasn’t stopped Hollywood capitalising on the mythology and mysticism of this and other student societies. In the context of this spotlight on what are very uncommon occurrences at Oxford and Cambridge, the narrative that the universities are somehow the plaything of a privileged elite is relentlessly perpetuated. In doing so, the media reinforces the sense of ‘imposter syndrome’ that one can feel when considering applying, a sentiment which my own experience reflects.

I worry that the current coverage of Oxbridge imbues many with the feeling that Oxford and Cambridge are somehow not for them. The media should be wary of how an indictment of Oxford elitism can serve to sustain the stereotypes they so clearly disapprove of.

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