Friday, May 2, 2025
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Oxford ranked world no. 1 in four subjects

Jack Hunter
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Oxford ranked world no. 1 in four subjects

Oxford University has today been ranked as the number one in the world for the study of four subject areas in a new league table.

The QS World University Rankings by Subject found Oxford is the world’s leading institution for teaching, research, and employability in Anatomy and Physiology, Archaeology, English Language and Literature, and Geography.

Oxford was ranked ahead of Cambridge, which had no top spots this year, having lost its leading position in Archaeology, Mathematics, and History.

The analysis rated Oxford second in the world for History, Law, Medicine, Philosophy, Politics & International Studies, Social Policy & Administration, and Theology, Divinity & Religious Studies.

The survey, compiled by “higher education analysts” Quacquarelli Symonds (QS), ranked Oxford alongside Harvard and Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT) as one of only three universities in the world to record a number one position in more than one subject. Harvard had 15 and MIT had 12.

Ben Sowter, Head of Research at QS, said: “Though the University of Oxford, like the rest of the UK’s leading universities, is receiving challenges from more places than ever before – Chinese and Russian universities advance apace this year – this year’s rankings indicate that it has risen to the challenge, continuing to provide world-class teaching, research, and career preparation in a comprehensive range of subjects”.

According to QS, their analysis was based on over 185 million citations, 43 million papers, 194,000 responses to their Employer survey, and 305,000 responses to their Academic survey.

Last year, Oxford was named the best university in the world by the Times Higher Education world rankings.

A University of Oxford spokesperson told Cherwell: “The latest QS rankings show Oxford in the very forefront of the world’s universities, both for the quality of its teaching and the excellence of its research, across the full range of academic subjects.

“This latest league table is consistent with last year’s Times Higher Education rankings, which rated Oxford as the number one university in the world.”

“Even while expecting an hour of postmodernist drama, I couldn’t have been more unprepared”

Katie Sayer
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“Even while expecting an hour of postmodernist drama, I couldn’t have been more unprepared”

I entered the Keble O’ Reilly theatre on a rainy Friday night, looking forward to an evening of ‘experimental’ student theatre, perhaps along the lines of recent Oscar Wilde short story adaptation The Nightingale and the Rose, or OUCD’s avant garde dance piece Illuminated.

Even while expecting a cheerful hour or so of postmodernist drama, perhaps followed by a pint and a discussion about how ‘experimental’ it was, I could not have been more unprepared for the gripping and bold production that was awaiting me. Perhaps I should have googled the plot of Marat/Sade before arriving, or perhaps I should have known from the fact that the production team was Barricade Arts, whose most recent projects included A Clockwork Orange and Fear, that cheerfulness was definitively off the agenda. Certainly, the trigger warnings for murder, suicide, severe mental health issues and depression alerted me to the fallacy of my jovial expectations.

Marat/Sade depicts a group of inmates at the historical Charenton Asylum acting out a play about the assassination of Jean-Paul Marat, directed by the Marquis de Sade. Although set in 1808, the majority of the narrative comprises the play within a play, harking back to the height of the French Revolution in July, 1793. Although the premise seems grounded in history, really the focus of the production is the inmates who are acting out the drama, and their strained relationship with the figures of authority who govern their incarceration—Coulmier, the bourgeois director of the hospital, and the Marquis de Sade, both of whom occasionally interrupt the play within a play to bring us abruptly back to the world of 1808 and the sad, distorted reality inhabited by the inmates of the asylum.

The script certainly offers a lot to work with, and director Marcus Knight-Adams skilfully crafts together the Brechtian aspects of the play with an experimental staging that enhances the alienation effect—the inmates of the asylum interact with audience members as they try to find their seats before the play begins, and over the course of the final scene an entire lettuce is torn apart and thrown at the spectators; I can attest to having been a personal victim of this creative decision.

To say that Marat/Sade is intriguing is to do it an injustice – every aspect of the production is exceptional. Many of the technical aspects especially stand out, particularly the eerie set design (the focal point of which is a raised bath tub in the middle of the stage), the use of an extremely skilled live orchestra (who provide a dulcet accompaniment to the sombre action), and the thoughtful costume design (with characters like Coulmier donning an authentic 18th century style while the inmates are dressed solely in white pyjamas). The cast are also phenomenal; as well as the immensity of the physical theatre they perform, they are also all very talented singers, and the momentum of the performance proffers an intensity that makes the 80-minute production seem far longer.

Overall, Marat/Sade is a stimulating, thoughtful and provocative piece of theatre that is well worth the trek to the Keble O’Reilly. The cast and crew are both excellent, and the immersive nature of the piece means audience members are engaged throughout in an intense yet fulfilling performance that stays with you long after you leave the auditorium. My only sympathies lie with the stage manager, Chris Goring—good luck picking up all that lettuce.

 

 

Spotlight: Emily the Snake

Will Cowie
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Spotlight: Emily the Snake

We’ve all been a snake at some point in our lives, or at the least a slow-worm, but few can claim themselves to be a snakey band. Emily the Snake aim to set the record straight, and do so in joyous fashion.

As snakes go, they definitely fall under the rental snake category—in those moments when you’re having a party and you think, I just need a snake, they’re the ones to call.

Formed last year and rising quickly to slots at WadFest and the Bully, Emily the Snake may well be on their way up. The band injects passion into their soul/funk/Abba fusion, and it is intriguing to see what new material will be like when it comes our way. In terms of musicality alone, these guys are one to watch.

Unfortunately, however, Rowan Ferguson (on keys), is a deputy editor of an unnamed rival publication (you can guess which one), and so for any praise we give them we have to make a formal statement that this does not reflect the opinion of our publication.

In the wise words of Super Hans, however, “red next to yella’, cuddly fella”, and as luck would have it, this snake is one to become friendly with.

Life Divided: Cherwell

Nicola Dwornik and Emma Leech
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Life Divided: Cherwell

For (Nicola Dwornik):

Sitting on the expansive lawns of Christ Church Meadow, I crack open a can of San Pellegrino and recline.

I pull out a copy of this week’s Cherwell, perusing my editorial efforts in this week’s issue. Then, upon laughing a bit too heavily at this week’s satire section, I lose concentration as I turn a page. The newsprint slices into my hand and I bleed. But the blood is strangely coloured; it is the same slightly off-red colour of the Cherwell logo. Amid the serene background, I realise I can no longer deny the truth. I am a proud member of Cherwell, and it is a cult that I love.

I knew I was entering something greater than a student newspaper from my very first day. Upon arriving at the building, I was immediately chastised for calling the building an office—“it’s the Choffices, actually”. I soon realised that Cherwell, like a cult, maintains its own codex of grammatical preferences. Innocently named as the ‘Style Guide’, this document is the written belief system that Cherwell is founded upon. Within it, for example, the superiority of the em dash over the en dash is given great attention. After all, the former is the patron saint of Cherwell; there is even a shrine to the em dash in the corner of the ‘Choffice’.

Whilst Cherwell may seem full of pretentious peoples, at least there is a hierarchy that all members gladly conform to. Myself, as an editor of the notorious Life section, am a cult leader. The editors are mere pawns that feed (fake) news to OSPL, and deputies happily supervise the various section editors, subjecting them to hours of learning-through-struggle on the InDesign newspaper design system. It’s like one big happy family.

Like all good cults we have our rivals and renegades. Whilst we may very much express a superiority over other publications we appreciate their existence, as it only makes us a stronger and more cohesive publication. So, let us celebrate Cherwell. Members don’t generally bite and it’s all rather nice really. Besides, crewdates don’t permit blood offerings.

Against (Emma Leech):

The worst thing is that it is impossible to avoid. You scroll innocently through Facebook, and you are accosted by yet another article about Oxford’s pseudo-politics. You stroll innocently down St Aldates only to be barged out of the way by some blazer-wearing mini-Paxman, muttering something about the Choffices. You have to wade your way through thousands of unread papers just to make yourself a cup of tea in the JCR. Cherwell is everywhere and, even more annoyingly, so are its wannabe journalists.

If a gust of wind blows the paper open in the JCR every once in a while, or more likely, one of your token journo friends shoves it in your face because, “no but you simply must read this article I wrote,” then this is what you’ll see. The news section desperately tries to intersperse dull local events with ‘fun’ JCR motions, pretending that seeing “dank memes” in print isn’t vomit-inducing. Comment is like leaving the Union after a debate and having a series of bumbling boys following you down Cornmarket going, “oh and another thing about globalisation…” If you have the stomach to continue, you are faced with culture. Recognise those names? Yeah, they’re the ones whose profile pictures change every thirty seconds to advertise their new play. And, as if that wasn’t enough, they’ve written about it too. If it’s not them, it’s the music writers who are too cool for Cherwell. No really, they even go to Cellar. Investigations remind us, helpfully, each week that Oxford is still living in the eighteenth century. And, honestly, I just commend you if you make it to the back for Sport.

Essentially, Cherwell is a conglomeration of all the worst people in Oxford: the Union hacks, the politicians, the thespians, and everyone else who thinks their opinion is more valid than yours because they have managed to get it down in ink. Thank goodness for the Life section. Once described to me as, “The Tab-iest part of Cherwell,” here you can find solace, at least, in the self-awareness of the editors.

We get it. You hate us.

Food diary: the bagel shops of Beijing

Esme Curtis
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Food diary: the bagel shops of Beijing

In my first year at Oxford, every Sunday, I would get up and order a bagel with chives at G&Ds. No matter how hectic things seemed, I would find time to sit in the same spot, take the same messy first bite, and let the usual roar of life at Oxford dim to a gentle hum.

Last year though, I was in Beijing. It took some hunting to find good bagel shops, but they were there. Hidden among silver skyscrapers and shining shopping centres are half a dozen upscale foreign bakeries. Rather than being comfort food though, bagels slowly became laden with guilt.

You are not here to eat bagels, I berated myself, you are here to get to know China. I felt embarrassed to have “caved”, to be craving food many of my Chinese friends had never heard of. Embarrassed, in essence, to be foreign.

I usually loved eating nothing but Chinese food. Many of my happiest memories in China are focused on what I ate, particularly the Beijing street food. There was so much choice: crunchy, soft pancakes from bicycle pulled stalls, steaming sticks of meatballs dipped into sesame sauce and of course, the baozi. Fluffy, stuffed steamed buns costing no more than 20p each, and plopped unceremoniously into a plastic bag, baozi are an integral part of any breakfast on the go in northern China.

And oddly enough, standing in line—well, never quite in a line, but in a hungry huddle—for baozi in the morning made me feel like a part of Beijing. Even though I stuck out there so much more than in a foreign bakery, at the baozi stand I felt “normal”. Trying to fit in made me feel proud. Admitting how much I missed bagels did not.

The best way to get to know a culture is of course to meet with locals and to eat with locals. Eschewing Chinese food—even only rarely—felt like I was missing out on a part of Chinese culture. And even though I knew logically on my year abroad there shouldn’t be anything wrong with eating food from home, it became something I felt I should resist.

In reality though, that’s not how people or cultures work. Cultures are dynamic, not static, and food is one of the clearest examples of this. Chutney, hummus and pasta—to name but a few—are dishes are of course beloved by the British, but not invented by us.

My situation in Beijing was much more privileged than that of many people who migrate, my needs easily catered for. Nonetheless, experiencing how surprisingly intense the need for a taste of home can be gave me a deeper understanding of why people take their cuisine with them, even when it’s hard to do so. I am very grateful to them. Now, when I find myself dreaming of baozi in Oxford, they’re only a ten minute walk away. And that’s wonderful.

 

Occupy Mars with Kyle Grant

Cherwell Broadcasting
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Occupy Mars with Kyle Grant

Last week, we went to the Oxford University Aeronautical Society event with Kyle Grant. In collaboration with NASA, his project specialises in the design of bacteria and plants that can colonise and survive in Martian and Lunar settings aiming to provide crop plants for the support of astronauts on space missions. We went to find out more.

A disturbing worldview undercut by patchy acting

Olivia Cormack
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A disturbing worldview undercut by patchy acting

It takes me a while but about halfway through the play I recognise the pun in the title—contract, contractions, pregnancy—and it makes me chuckle slightly inappropriately. Written by Mike Bartlett for the Royal Court Theatre in 2008, Contractions is part of a tradition of plays that aim to provoke questions and to perturb the audience. The play explores the extent to which a company is entitled to invade the privacy and regulate the personal lives of their employees. Undergoing a process of what I can only term the bureaucratisation of romance the plot unfolds through a series of meetings between the unnamed Manager, played by Cat White, and employee Emma, played by Sophie Stiewe.

Walking into the studio, I was immediately struck by the layout of the space. There is no raised stage and the play unfolds between two banks of seats set up to face each other. It is a fitting set-up for a play about invasion of privacy, and as the audience watch it unfold we are made aware that we are not only watching, but that we are also being watched.

The minimalist staging is reminiscent of Lisa Blair’s 2016 production of Contractions in Sheffield, but sadly this production falls short of the sterile sleekness that Blair’s production achieved. Linden Hogarth’s (the set designer) decision to use a backdrop made out of a cardboard cut-out city-scape detracts from the professional polish achieved in the rest of the set, and White’s costume is, unfortunately, in need of an iron. However, the attention to detail that has evidently gone into matching the blue and black biros on the desk to the blue and black outfit the manager wears is impressive. It is this attention to detail, along with the decision to have White remain on stage between scenes, which adds to the sense that the Manager is so assimilated into the company that she is practically part of its material fabric.

The strong overhead lighting fits with the themes of exposure in the play, and shines not only on the stage but also partly on the audience, heightening the sense that we too are being observed. The production encounters some technical problems halfway through the play, as the dull purple lighting that has, up until this point, been used between scenes fails to turn on, but this difficulty can be attributed to first night hiccups.

The intimate two-person cast means that the roles are highly demanding. I enjoy White’s portrayal of the Manager; she achieves a mechanic sterility in her acting that is fitting to the role. The frank and indifferent way in which White poses increasingly personal questions to Stiewe’s character hovers between funny and disturbing, and at many points throughout the night provokes uncomfortable laughter from the audience. Stiewe’s portrayal of Emma, is, however, a little disappointing. Stiewe’s character has the potential to provide some counter-balance to the sterility of the Manager, and yet I found myself getting frustrated by the repetitive nature of her facial expressions and tone of voice. If this formulaic portrayal of emotion was a conscious choice on the part of Stiewe and director Lisa Friedrich then I think they may have missed an opportunity to imbue the play with a little more tension. The acting is, overall, a little haphazard, with both White and Stiewe stumbling over their lines on a few different occasions. However, this can again be attributed to first night nerves, and didn’t have too much of an impact on the quality of their performances.

Overall, I am left underwhelmed by this play, which has the potential to offer a perturbing and nuanced exploration of the nature of the corporate world. Although the set design and stage layout are promising, the slightly-inconsistent acting and the absence of tension between White and Stiewe mean that for me the play fails to provide the discomfort that a title like Contractions promises. To sum up the experience in a word: ‘flat’.

England Rugby in Oxford

Cherwell Broadcasting
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England Rugby in Oxford

 

This week, England Rugby are training in Oxford ahead of their remaining 6 Nations fixtures. They are the defending champions, and are currently top of the table after their 35-16 win against Italy last weekend. Yesterday, Cherwell Broadcasting went along to their open session at St. Edward’s School to see them in action.

Blind Date: Emma and Nicky

Cherwell Life
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Blind Date: Emma and Nicky

Emma Leech (Second year, French & Italian, St. Anne’s)

Nicky tried to impress me from the off with talk about her upcoming ‘movement audition’ but her moves on this date left a lot to be desired. We treated ourselves to the local liquor of Balliol bar which proved only slightly more colourful than her language (see: “we need to work, bitch”). Our conversation flowed well, as we did a detailed character assassination of every other Cherwell staff member, proving true the old tale that Cherwell people are, in fact, very boring in conversation. The date was interrupted halfway through by a visit from her friend. I’m a modern girl, but the unsolicited addition of a third person to our date frankly put me on edge. The date was unceremoniously cut short with the proclamation of, “I was hoping you’d be gone by eleven thirty,” and her retrieval of her laptop so she could apply for an internship. And so I was ejected, drunk and alone, onto Broad Street. Lovely.

Out of 10? 3.6

Looks? Increasingly fuzzy with time

Personality? Funnier in print

2nd date? Like a Balliol Blue, this was fun but never again

 

Nicola Dwornik (Second year, AMH, Balliol)

Emma was one of those ‘I’ll drink my cider with a straw’ kind of gals. I suppose I should have expected such animalistic behaviour given that she’d just expressed an overt desire to order a Balliol Blue—something Emma liked to call a ‘cocktail’. Yet, despite wearing edgy sky blue creps, letting a crisp topple from her mouth (only to later eat it from her lap) and spilling her drink twice, Emma definitely surpassed my initial expectations. Her conversational topics proved impressively varied, spanning from bitching about Cherwell staff, to bitching about Cherwell staff some more. But, with time catching up with us, and sparks still flying, I quickly realised I had to make my sentiments known. Living out of college, I expressed a deep regret at the impossibility of showing her a Balliol room. This disappointment was overcome quickly though—with half-price vodka shots.

Out of 10? A solid 5

Looks? Like she should learn table manners

Personality? Funnier than in print

2nd date? Perhaps if her taste in alcohol improves

A bloody nightmare

Heather Cant
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A bloody nightmare

Nearly every woman in the country shares the experience of one day, usually in the early teens, pulling down her trousers to find a suspicious brown smear in her underwear. The teenage brain flicks through all the possibilities, ranging from pen (but how?) to poo, until it finally reaches the answer: the first period.

From that fateful day onwards she learns to become a mistress of discretion and picks up tips on how to avert the most embarrassing situations. Yet, there are some moments that one cannot preempt.

A favourite question of Year Nine boys was the classic “Have you started your period?” that was usually hurled at you, without warning, when you were standing in a large group. When your teacher asked you, “Why were you late?”, you couldn’t say “Well, last night I was kept awake from excruciating stomach cramps and I wasn’t actually sure whether I’d be able to move today.” Instead, you mumbled something about oversleeping and hope he bought it. When, at a job interview, you find you can’t respond to the missile question of “Where do you see yourself in five years’ time?” because of the heaving contractions and somersaults in your stomach, it doesn’t take a genius to work out why you may have not got the job.

This brings us to the biggest obstacle: pain. Those who have not experienced it love gloating about a kick in the balls being the unchangeable trophy-holding winner of the Pain Olympics. I bring a worthy competitor.

Two iron fists clamping onto the centre of your stomach, squeezing and twisting, opening and closing, before dragging your insides slowly down. The whole of gravity concentrating itself to your lower-half, drawing your guts to the ground. Persistent and echoey dull aching somewhere between the skin and bones of your back and legs. It’s painful.

It’s not all bad, I admit. Many female friendships are founded on the ‘Period Bonding Conversation’. A classmate or co-worker looks uncomfortable. “You ok?” you ask. They throw you a small smile and whisper the allusive “Stomach cramps.” You respond with hardly-concealed enthusiasm, “I hate that!” Often, other female ears in the vicinity prick up and before you know it five of you are discussing the woes of being women and the injustice of the uterus. Together you express your grievances whilst indulging in the exclusivity of the Period Party, a club in which every woman is a member, bonded by the common experience of our bodies.

But aside from the occasional glow of bonding, periods are a pain. And not being able to discuss them openly can have serious implications and damage opportunities. It’s a tucked away issue that needs to be opened up.

Let’s get the conversation, ahem, flowing.

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