Sunday 8th June 2025
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‘Ghost in the Shell’: A mind-numbing bore

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The original 1995 anime Ghost in the Shell is a strange and beautiful film. It’s been a source of narrative and visual inspiration for everything from The Matrix to Ex Machina. It is an incredibly prescient film about technology, identity and cyber-terrorism. It is contemplative, poetic, action-packed and, above all, philosophically intriguing. I bring all of this up to highlight how the remake of Ghost in the Shell not only manages to be absolutely none of these things, but is, even on its own terms, unutterably dull.

Set in a nameless city at some point in the future (yes, it really is that vague), anyone who’s anyone has cyber-enhancements like Wi-Fi chips in their brains and funky Geisha robot servants. But Scarlett Johansson’s Major is the first of her kind: her human brain has been transplanted into an entirely synthetic body. As a kick-ass cyber detective, she has all the benefits of both a human and a robot, as her brain has been wiped of all knowledge of her former life. Yet her efficiency appears to be hampered by visions she can’t explain, visions that her superiors claim are just “glitches.”

The philosophic introspection of the original anime has been completely excised, presumably to make the film ‘easy to follow’ (read: dumbed-down) for American audiences. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing—indeed, it makes the new film more streamlined and plot-focused – but what’s left is a couple of borrowed visual moments yoked to a run-of-the-mill amnesiac revenge thriller that’s as predictable as it is uninspired.

You’d at least expect the film to be well-directed to compensate but, despite a promising opening sequence visualising the creation of Major, director Rupert Sanders mostly fails to deliver. His last film, Snow White and the Huntsman, was visually stunning as well as surprisingly good fun, especially during the action sequences. Yet here all the action sequences are either uninspired or incomprehensible. You’re never given a reason to care about the characters: their motivations are never explained, and there’s never any peril because bits of people are easily replaced by synthetic parts.

The city feels like a backdrop rather than a lived-in place, the production design is distractingly complex, and the CGI is pretty ropey during key sequences. Elsewhere, thematic ideas are made eye-rollingly obvious with on-the-nose dialogue about “ghosts” and “shells,” until they’re dropped because even the film gets bored of them, and characters either mumble clichéd platitudes or look sad for most of the running time.

And this is where we get onto the casting, which is the film’s most serious failing. When the remake of Ghost in the Shell was first announced, it was mired in controversy over the alleged “whitewashing” of casting Johansson as the lead role in an essentially Japanese story. There were even reports that a visual effects company had been hired to digitally manipulate actors’ faces to make them appear “more Asian.” After all this trouble, you’d expect Johansson’s performance to be nothing short of outstanding—yet it’s surprisingly mediocre. There are any number of Asian actresses who could’ve played the role just as well, if not better (Karen Fukuhara, from Suicide Squad, would’ve been my personal choice). Johansson looks more than a little incongruous as a lone white face surrounded by Asian extras, and the film chooses to deal with this in a third-act twist which is both obnoxiously nonsensical and astoundingly racially insensitive.

To be honest, this level of unthinking idiocy is perhaps to be expected in a film that’s so poorly executed that the title literally appears twice in the opening credits. The film isn’t entertainingly bad, nor is there anything about it which warrants recommendation—it is simply mind-numbingly boring, and far too forgettable to get cross about.

Balliol triumph in University Challenge final against Wolfson College Cambridge

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Balliol triumphed in a thrilling final to snatch the crown as series’ champions of University Challenge 2017-18.

The team were presented with the winners’ trophy by the world renowned physicist Professor Stephen Hawking, after beating Wolfson College Cambridge by 190 points to 140.

Presenting the trophy to the Balliol team, Hawking said: “Congratulations to both teams and especially to Balliol College Oxford for becoming champions of University Challenge, a programme I have long enjoyed.”

The final had been highly anticipated, after the Wolfson captain, Eric Monkman, gained a cult following online as a result of his distinctive style of answering. The series’ finale had billed as the “heavyweight final” between Monkman and the impressive Balliol captain, Joey Goldman.

But on the night, Monkman answered several questions incorrectly, and Balliol went on to triumph in a tense match.

Wolfson took the early lead, taking points from questions on Mozart’s ‘The Magic Flute’, Medieval Earls of Orkney and European Peace Accords.

Balliol fought back, snatching starter-for-tens on the Greek letter Sigma and the mathematician Pointcarré. After a comeback from Wolfson, the Oxford team were able to clinch victory with answers on the philosophy of Plato and the Chinese Ming dynasty.

Following the victory, both teams travelled to Gonville and Caius College, Cambridge, where Stephen Hawking — who is a Professorial Fellow at the college — addressed the teams and awarded Balliol with the winners’ trophy.

Hawking told the two teams: “I have said in the past that it is not clear whether intelligence has any long-term survival value. Bacteria multiply and flourish without it.

“But it is one of the most admirable qualities, especially when displayed by such young minds.”

The Balliol team — which also encompasses second-year Historian Freddy Potts, DPhil English student Jacob Lloyd, and Australian Benjamin Pope, who is reading for a DPhil in Astrophysics – won the series for the first time and ended three years of Cambridge domination.

Following their victory, Benjamin Pope told Cherwell: “We’re absolutely delighted. It’s the first ever Balliol victory and the first for Oxford in a few years after some tough finals.

“Wolfson were an incredibly good team, beating us in the quarters, and we were extremely anxious going in but trained to try and beat their fast buzzing style.

“What is a very nice coda is that they are all also lovely people, and we have met up with them in Cambridge for drinks at the Eagle. University Challenge has been a great experience and one of the best things, for me at least, has been getting to know people so full of joy in knowledge.”

Students filled the Balliol MCR to watch the match on TV…

…including the Balliol team themselves.

Monkman added some hand actions to his typically entertaining facial expression routine.

Although, some viewers’ ‘Monkmania’ obsessions may have gone a little too far.

Thankfully, Goldman had some unique facial expressions of his own.

https://twitter.com/UniversityChal/status/851517503352303617

Potts’ shirt choice proved another major point of controversy.

https://twitter.com/HPYoungVoices/status/851511204870836228

https://twitter.com/JoLiptrott/status/851512114124640257

Congratulations have poured in for the champions.

BBC Question Time to be held in Oxford Union

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The Oxford Union will be the venue for the BBC’s Question Time later this month, it was announced today.

The debating society – whose former Presidents include Boris Johnson, Ted Heath and Michael Gove – will host the topical debate programme chaired by David Dimbleby on Thursday, April 27.

Speaking exclusively to Cherwell, President of the Oxford Union, Michael Li, commented:

“The Union is looking forward to hosting this prestigious and engaging event. We hope that many of our members and other students apply to be in the audience. The collaboration is yet another example of the Union’s commitment to hosting the conversations that matter.”

The announcement was also welcomed by many Oxford students.

Alex Yeandle, a first-year PPE student at St. Hugh’s College, said: “The Oxford Union has a rich history of free speech and debate, so is a fitting location for one of the most popular and long running political programmes in Britain.

“Seeing Question Time in the Union’s historic debating chamber will be quite something. I hope I’m lucky enough to be in the audience!”

Arjun Sharma, who is reading Ancient and Modern History, added: “I’m really excited about seeing Question Time coming to Oxford. I watch it every week, as I try to keep up with political issues, and have already applied to be in the audience.”

“This will be an invaluable opportunity for Oxford students to investigate political issues that matter to us.”

This is not the first time that the Oxford Union, which was founded in 1823, has hosted a major BBC event.

In November 2015, a debate in the Oxford Union on Britain and the EU was broadcast on BBC Parliament, with former president of the European Commission Jose Manuel Barroso, Conservative MP Bill Cash, former deputy prime minister Nick Clegg and UKIP leader Nigel Farage participating as speakers.

Students can apply to be in the audience here:

 

“A captivating, quasi-religious experience”

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London Grammar released ‘Truth Is A Beautiful Thing’ on March 24th, the third tantalising single to be unveiled after ‘Rooting for You’ and ‘Big Picture’. The track acts as a preview to their new album of the same name, due to be revealed on June 9th. The London-based trio rose to fame with their album If You Wait in 2013, which included the highlight ‘Wasting My Young Years’ and the band’s poignant version of Kavinsky’s ‘Nightcall’.

This latest single clearly reflects the style of their first album, showing notable similarities to the songs ‘Interlude’ and ‘Stay Awake’. The song is marked by singer-songwriter Hannah Reid’s ethereal, echoing vocal, which is thankfully not overwhelmed by the simple piano accompaniment and subtle clear electro beats. The lyrics are addressed to that elusive ‘you’ present in all London Grammar songs.

There may not be much that is new in this single, but yet again the band manages to capture feelings of intense yearning, loneliness and pain. They conjure such feelings without falling into the same trap of many songs which fit under the ‘emotions & piano’ umbrella, which can tend to convey a Kodaline-like self-pity, or a vaguely overwhelming torrent of feelings as seen in the likes of Adele.

London Grammar’s distinct approach can be heard through the sheer simplicity of ‘Truth Is A Beautiful Thing’. The recurring lyrics of ‘to hold your heart, to hold your hand’ and ‘I do not think you’d take this pain’ give the track a rhythmic, almost hymnal quality. Repeated echoing piano chords and distant delicate electro sounds make listening to the track a captivating, quasi-religious experience. The uniqueness of their music makes it difficult to compare London Grammar to any other bands; they sound similar to Tom Odell with an electro-spin, or some Bat For Lashes songs with a more haunting feel.

Ultimately, ‘Truth Is A Beautiful Thing’ is a non-radical release which serves to confirm the singular path which the British trio is on. However, it definitely increases anticipation for their new album, as well as their appearances at Glastonbury this June and Lollapalooza Paris in July.

Tate Britain celebrates the playfulness and dynamism of David Hockney

Tate Britain’s current retrospective, showing until 29th May, celebrates 60 years of the Yorkshire icon’s life and is a display of art in its purest and most playful form. The chronological exhibition is an extensive and panoramic homage to Hockney’s evolution as both an artist and worshipper of the human form and nature.

In this exhibition, David Hockney’s childlike exultation and joy in being alive is aptly captured. He is an artist who is self-aware, yet not self-conscious. Like Picasso, a constant source of inspiration for him, Hockney refuses to be pigeonholed into one genre. Instead, he cherry-picks his way through various styles and mediums. This hybridity is visible in the second room of the exhibition, entitled ‘Demonstrations of Versatility’, which displays Cubist shapes and Bacon-esque figures that draw attention to the actual process of picture-making.

The paintings in the exhibition are not only commentaries on the conventions of art but also autobiographical. They chart Hockney’s progress from the genteel puritanism of his Yorkshire childhood to the unbridled liberalism and sexuality of California. The paintings from the early sixties capture this transition, on canvases filled with graffiti and sporadically placed words. These images are not concerned with symmetry or life-like depictions, and instead act as subversive statements on sexuality. The following room, ‘Sunbather’, hosts his most famous works. Paintings such as ‘A Bigger Splash’ pay homage to Hockney’s life in Sixties California where unending indolent summers meet with crowds of pleasure seekers. Here, Hockney’s technical skill is illuminated through his depictions of rippling swimming pools and still afternoons, where inert figures—supposedly former or current lovers—lie in a soporific daze under the sunlight.

In an interview, Hockney himself confessed to a lifelong fascination with the constant movement of water, and his canvases attempt to capture this dynamism that is often lacking in photographs. The paintings in this room flaunt his fascination with the geometry and symmetry of LA’s architecture, a far cry from the meandering country lanes and pastoral views of his Yorkshire upbringing. In ‘Peter Getting out of Nick’s pool’ he juxtaposes the azure blue fluidity of water against the Spartan geometrical grey building. His fascination with the illusory nature of art permeates his work as each painting is surrounded by a border, reminding the viewer that it is a 2D depiction of reality. Hockney’s art, by this time, no longer expresses his homosexuality and male desire in a covert way. Instead, he declares it openly, depicting the naked athletic male bodies that he was so captivated by.

What shines through most clearly is Hockney’s sheer exultation in being alive and his appreciation of nature in all its permutations. This is particularly true of his landscapes. Bright and colourful depictions of California and the Grand Canyon are reminiscent of the works of Picasso and Matisse. These are followed by equally magnificent works depicting the Yorkshire countryside through the changing seasons, which are almost Van Gogh-like in their use of colour and tonality. His paintings of landscapes in vivid primary colours with strong sinuous forms are simple expressions of joy. He does not romanticise or favour the faraway land of Los Angeles over Yorkshire, and instead illustrates the same sense of joie de vivre in his British native land.

This exhibition reminds us of Hockney’s versatility and endless capacity to push the boundaries of art. It also includes the series portraits he made of family, friends, and acquaintances. Here, he combines the traditional form of portraiture with elements borrowed from the contemporary world, demonstrating his insistence on the fluidity of different art forms. The final room, consisting of his iPad series, exemplifies the British icon’s constant desire to experiment. Hockney’s art sees no limits and is open to all mediums. Even at the age of 80, he refuses to be considered traditional, moving with the times and embracing today’s technology.

Hockney refuses to be overawed or indeed be silenced by ever-changing methods and mediums of art. This is the kind of exhibition that uplifts you through its celebration of life, colour, and beauty. His paintings are a welcome antidote to a bleak world characterised by misery, oppression, and violence. Unlike many contemporary artists, Hockney is not concerned with elevating his art through pseudo-intellectual or conceptual meanings—his art speaks for itself. You don’t have to be a Hockney fan to enjoy the exhibition, as his versatility and exuberance guarantees there will be at least one painting that you will fall in love with.

 

Femininity, fashion and feminism

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Fashion is typically perceived as an industry dominated by women, but in reality this is not the case. Only one third of the top roles in the business are occupied by women. For an industry where ostensibly the overarching aim for many designers and retailers is to clothe women, why is it so sparsely populated by women themselves?

Throughout history male designers have posed problems for women when creating fashion and defining ideas of femininity. The age-old myth of suffragettes burning their bras and girdles does not exist without good reason and a similar occurrence took place at the Miss America protest of September 1968 where underwear, high heels, and other garments perceived to be ‘instruments of female torture’ were ceremoniously flung into garbage cans. Coco Chanel remarked that Dior’s New Look in the 1950s was clearly of male authorship as it was so ‘uncomfortable’.

However, even today, women’s fashion still seems to be mainly directed by men. At this Autumn’s Louis Vuitton show Nicolas Ghesquière’s approach was committed to concepts of modernity; he emphasised pragmatism and practicality with chunky fur gilets, loose woollen jumpers, and thick soled boots. In terms of evening wear, he did not seem particularly committed to the concept of femininity at all—the oversized dresses presented seemed like parody pieces of classic styles. Disregarding femininity is not in itself inherently problematic, as it is clear in this day and age that femininity extends far beyond the typical ‘girly’ florals and frills that the industry tends to presents as ‘feminine’. However, presenting any one definitive concept of femininity certainly is, especially when that image is constructed seemingly uncritically by men such as Ghesquiere who are ostensibly in a more privileged position than their female consumers. The concept of men somewhat ‘preaching’ to women about what they should or shouldn’t be wearing, especially considering the aforementioned history, feels somewhat uncomfortable.

Similar criticisms can be made of Karl Lagerfeld’s efforts at Chanel; his past few fashion shows have been celebrated more for their theatrical presentation (the Chanel Supermarket and the rocket ship of his AW17 turnout) than for any diversity in the actual clothing. Surely, it is somewhat ironic for a brand that was initially created as a means of abetting the increased independence and mobility of women to be characterised by such stagnation? By releasing near identical skirt suits and tweeds every season is he simply catering to the so called conservative Chanel-customer, or perpetuating a projection of idealised femininity? How close is this customer to real women, anyway? These are questions that can be posed to the majority of couture houses at the moment, because, and here we hit on the fundamental issue, it is men who occupy two-thirds of the top level jobs.

On a positive note, many fashion houses are beginning to pass the milestone of installing their first female head of houses. Maria Grazia Chiuri, Dior’s first female creative director, has used the brand as a medium for presenting femininity in a far more realistic way. Her debut collection for the house draws a strong contrast with that of Raf Simmons’ which occurred four years earlier. Both harken back to Dior’s own revolutionary ‘New Look’ of the 1950s, yet where Simmons took this to mean wasp waists and harsh neat lines, Chiuri takes a softer approach, filling her collection with floaty chiffons and t-shirts bearing the slogans ‘We Should All Be Feminists’. Furthermore, it is notable that Alexander McQueen has become significantly more wearable since Sarah Burton’s tenure at the company, and the overarching theme to come out of interviews with Burton and Chiuri is an aim to provide women with a wardrobe that ‘empowers’ and is ‘easier to wear,’ respectively.

But we still haven’t come far enough. What is the solution then? Hiring more women in the top levels of the industry would be a good place to start. Chiuri and Burton have proved the success of women designing for women, producing diverse yet equally inspired collections. This is not to say that there is no place for men in the industry—the statistics certainly establish that. Male designers play an integral role in the creation of a diverse industry, but perhaps it is time for them to take a slight step back to make space for the equally, if not more able, women.

Balliol to battle Wolfson Cambridge superstar Monkman in University Challenge final

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It’s being billed as the “final showdown” between two quizzing heavyweights. Balliol behemoth Joey Goldman is set to face off Wolfson College Cambridge’s internet sensation Eric Monkman, in what looks set to be a legendary University Challenge final on Monday.

The hype ahead of the series’ finale is no doubt largely thanks to Monkman’s online superstar status – the Wolfson captain has been the inspiration for an astonishing number of memes. Variously described as “the quiz show king”, “clockwork-jawed”, and “the most intense contestant ever”, his dog bark-like answering instantly made #Monkmania a serious social media movement.

Brow-furrowed columnists and puzzled Radio 4 profilers have pontificated the significance of the Canadian economics masters student’s ascendancy to semi-stardom. Is he a “standard-bearer of expertise and intellectualism” in our inane post-Brexit political climate? Is he the bespectacled anti-hero against a “homogenous celebrity culture”?

We are set to discover in Monday’s highly anticipated match. Yet Balliol have a polymathic genius of their own in “sassy” Philosophy and Theology student Joey Goldman. Not only has he impressed viewers with his astonishingly quick processing speed – effortlessly answering questions correctly on cognitive scientific literature and English kings in last week’s semi-final – but also for his taste in puppy printed shirts.

The Balliol team – which also encompasses second-year Historian Freddy Potts, DPhil English student Jacob Lloyd, and Australian Benjamin Pope, who is reading for a DPhil in Astrophysics – are looking to win the series for the first time and end three years of Cambridge domination.

Speaking to Cherwell ahead of the final, Pope — who has since been offered a NASA Sagan Fellowship to New York University — said: “We played Wolfson in the quarters where they beat us, so we were certainly very apprehensive going into the final match.”

He added: “I don’t think University Challenge helped get the NASA fellowship, but it was certainly fun to do in the second last year of a DPhil. It was a great experience, in that as an Australian I’d never even watched it before – and somehow wandered into a fantastic team of people who became fast friends.”

Based on their respective semi-final performances, the winner of Monday’s showdown is anyone’s guess. In their previous quarter-final encounter in January, Wolfson were victorious – but only just. They took 165 points to Balliol’s 135 in a tightly fought contest.

My analysis puts Balliol ahead on an average score of 214 to Wolfson’s 185 per match across the series (I am taking this seriously). But the Cambridge team impressively beat Emmanuel College’s intellectual giant (and brilliantly named) Bobby Seagull in their semi-final, and who knows what “The Monkman” can produce when the heat is on?

Naturally, Twitter is struggling to contain its excitement.

Many are admiring Monkman’s entertaining facial expressions.

He’s also been the inspiration for several potential blockbuster ideas.

However, others have lamented the show’s continued lack of diversity.

University Challenge, BBC 2, 8pm, 10 April.

The guilt of gaming at Oxford

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When I’m studying in Oxford, video games are not exactly my highest priority. They rank somewhere between earning that degree I’ve paid 21,000 pounds to study for, and clipping my toenails (I’ll let you decide in which order). Perhaps it’s in the process of developing into an ‘adult’ that I inevitably have to forego saving a virtual princess in a virtual castle, in favour of saving myself with a sobering bowl of Cornflakes following a night out at Park End. That said, there is always a part of me that wants to swap books for controllers, group reading sessions for let’s plays, intense academia for just a tiny taste of escapism. The world of Oxford University seems to have been engineered at the most minute level to be out of kilter with the virtual world. They are virtually incompatible.

Firstly, gaming is an expensive hobby. I won’t defend it there. Every year, those cunning developers make miniscule adjustments to a series that you’re just too invested in, and before you know it, you’ve traded fripperies like eating for virtual swords and lances (Freud would have a field day). On more than one occasion, I’ve forked out a couple hundred quid on a brand-spanking new time-waster, and shamelessly never looked back. At university, however, whenever my desires re-emerge, I can practically hear James Joyce chastising me from the bookshelf. Prices aren’t getting any lower, and I’m not getting any richer.

I don’t need to explain how much of a concern time is for an Oxford student. Every minute has to be spent doing something you can justify to yourself as ‘productive’. Being a gamer adds a new dimension to this frustration because, for whatever reason, companies have decided to release all their 100+ hour-long games all at once this year. Games like Zelda: Breath of the Wild, Horizon: Zero Dawn, Mass Effect: Andromeda, and Persona 5 all point towards this trend of games getting larger and more ambitious; sadly, the same can’t be said for my career prospects.

You’ll get bang for your buck, sure, but only if you can find the time to consume these hyper-products. As a general rule of thumb, justifying your essay being late by saying that you were too busy slaying mechanical dinosaurs with only a bow and some arrows is never going to sit well with tutors. Trust me, I’ve tried. And inevitably, online gaming and Eduroam do not make for a happy couple.

And yet, while Oxford has become an uncomfortable third wheel in an already strained relationship, I find this long-distance thing somewhat refreshing. It allows me to focus on both my work and on the diverse range of societies Oxford offers. Gaming’s influence is not dead in Oxford, either. Everywhere I look during term time, I see the vein of cyborgian commodity fetishism alive: people are always talking about when their phone contract expires, about their designs on a new IPhone 90 S Note Gear VR HD 4K (now with .1 times more zoom).

The group chat is constantly flooded with notifications about some bandit usurping the highest scorer in Snake, and you just know there’s going to be tension around the dinner table. Some might say it’s a cruel instance of cosmic irony that my neighbour has a professional gaming PC while I suffer from withdrawal symptoms, but if one day he announces he’s holding a horror game and drinks night, and I happen to have finished my work for the day, there’s no better feeling than getting the squad together for some mindless fun.

These trends are evident in the industry as a whole, too. The decade has seen mobile games dominate, as no one seems immune from those seductive, bitesize morsels of Candy Crush Saga or Temple Run. Handheld gaming continues to be the preferred method of play in Japan, and among those commuters who grew up in the infant years of gaming and now find themselves having to balance their hobby with ‘real life’. The release of the Nintendo Switch, if anything, proves that flexible, adaptable gaming is paramount in the confusing and busy state of modern life. Gone are the days of having to glue yourself to the sofa to play something; now you can play full-scale console games on the trot!

As an English Lit student, I already inhabit a perpetual fantasy land (just ask any science student), so maybe I’m more sensitive to the implications of gaming as a cultural medium. I’m totally guilty of playing something, or watching a film, and having to take a timeout to analyse the formal and structural qualities working to provoke a response from me. Now that gaming has had time to evolve in a similar style to cinema, developers are experimenting with plot, and using gaming’s most unique feature, player interaction, to create immersive and complex experiences. I only hope I live to see the day when someone writes a dissertation comparing the subversion of conventional family roles in To the Lighthouse and The Last of Us. Wait…that gives me an idea.

Joking aside, I accept that gaming is a niche, but ever-growing, pastime, but I find the healthiest attitude to adopt towards it is that it is just another element of culture. Television, film, music, visual art, literature, video games: they are all products of our culture, of human experience.

The hawks take flight over Syria

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There’s a flare. From the base of the missile, a rumble of force as the burst thrusts the twenty-foot metal shell and its deadly contents into the air. A thick spume lingers on the deck of the vessel in the aftermath as the Tomahawk tears its way skyward and angles into its trajectory toward the target: a sprawling Assad regime airbase. The process repeats over fifty times. In the meantime, all the world can do is watch—and wait.

It’s President Trump’s first conventional military attack on another country. It comes amid increased pressure on the White House from interventionists and hawks to act in response to the chemical attack believed to have been perpetrated by the Assad Regime in Idlib on Tuesday. That attack (utilising the deadly nerve agent sarin) resulted in the deaths of approximately one hundred individuals. Twenty-five were children.

For those who criticised the jaw-jaw of the UN Security Council’s finger-wagging at Russia and Syria one would expect the US strikes to be greeted with aplomb. Surely here was the decisive action that the bleeding-heart hawks of the world so desperately sought? But no—there is instead a sense of graven dread. It conjures to mind the myth of Pandora’s box, or the adage of the genie being let out of the bottle. Events are apace, terrible events, the like of which our world has not seen for near half-a-century.

Last year I would quip that when the US rejected Hilary Clinton, it dodged not just a bullet but a nuclear bomb. That was because the hawkish proclivities of Mrs Clinton were abhorrent to my concern for the peace of the West, and the relative calm of the world. Clinton seemed set to embark upon a campaign of bellicosity against Assad and Putin which many thought would usher in the dreaded war to end all wars: World War III. The threat was very real, as was highlighted by the Russian President himself, who predicted that if Clinton took power war between the two international titans would ensue. She did not. And for a time, those of us averse to the prospect of global conflict with Russia could breathe a sigh of relief.

Then came today’s events. A few hours prior to the missile strikes, Clinton, in an interview, suggested the US target Assad’s airbases. From her, such action would be expected. But not from Trump. This is a man who flirted more than once in his rallies and debates with the idea that Assad would continue as President, even temporarily, in the aftermath of the civil war. The indifference which characterised Trumpist isolationism presented a more tactile, pragmatic approach to the Syrian situation; an acknowledgement that the only credible power in the region was Assad, that there was no tangible opposition that could fill the void in his prospective absence, and a recognition that the greatest threat in Syria was not the incumbent Government, but ISIS.

Tuesday proved a watershed moment for the Trump Administration. The President was visibly shocked responding to questions in the aftermath of the sarin gas attack—and he was uncompromising in his acknowledgement that the Syrian leader had “crossed many, many lines”. Trump’s response was an emotional condemnation which betrayed his oft-ignored humanity. But it was also a red flag. For here was the danger of heart ruling head.

Trump’s previous position on this matter was at least plausible. A conclusion to the civil war under the Assad regime (giving way to democratic reforms) was distasteful, but was at least achievable. The rag-tag band of rebels that battle the Government are lame ducks, distractions, that hover at some times dangerously close to the realms of Islamic extremism, at others frustratingly near to feebleness and anonymity.

Imbecility abounds, and dangerously so. For those that call upon the West to swoop down, with unbridled zeal, talons bared, in a clamour of compassion upon Syria, I ask: have you forgotten so quickly the cause of these problems—our intervention in Iraq in 2003, our support for the revolutions of 2011? Have you a plan for just how we might force Assad from power? Indeed, have you any idea what might replace him? And above all, are you prepared to see the embers of this skirmish in Syria reignite into total war with Russia? I am not, and I defy anyone to say that they would sacrifice the peace of the world for Syria.

Those images of men, women, and especially children, gasping for air, convulsing as the confounded poison gradually works through their systems, are an indictment upon humanity. Harrowing and horrific, they make us numb, they tear at our hearts, they scar our souls. But they are not an excuse for us to take leave of our senses. They are not a casus belli for us to initiate World War III. They are not a reason for us to repeat the same blasted mistakes of the past. They are a warning from history of the danger of heart ruling head. This civil war is after all a revolution: and revolutions are passionate and not rational in nature. As such, no civilised country should have a part in their promulgation.

Today’s strikes were conducted with cruise missiles. No US troops were engaged, no pilots required. It would behove the Trump Administration to remember that a core appeal which it made to its supporters was in its promise to keep America out of foreign wars, and moreover to prevent further deterioration in the West’s relationship with Russia. I for one will not condone the spilling of Western blood in a war that is not our own, for an end that is not to our favour. Trump’s impassioned defence of his actions makes clear the vigour of his regime, the unpredictability of it. For this I am prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt, and commend his show of strength. He has put the fear of God into them—and that is not a bad thing. But let us hope our intervention ends there, that this “limited” missile-strike is just that: limited. For I remind the President of the words of his able and much admired predecessor, John Adams: “Great is the guilt of an unnecessary war.”

Highway to hell

I have a terrible vision of what it will be like to walk into Worcester bar on my first day back for Trinity term. I shuffle through the dark doorway, head drooping, shoulders hunched. Casting furtive glances from left to right, I do my best to keep a low profile. But despite my best efforts, people begin to spot me; heads turn, and the mutterings begin. Some nudge their friends enthusiastically, thrilled at the prospect of a sighting. Others cast questioning glances, and are quietly filled in. ‘No!’ They reel back in shock. ‘She didn’t! Not again…’ I gaze up at the arched ceiling, feigning indifference, and am struck for the first time by the room’s resemblance to a tomb. My friends approach hesitantly, unsure of what to say, or where to look. Then, finally, the tension breaks, as one student simply cannot contain her disbelief. “You have got to be kidding me!” she shrieks. “No one at Oxford fails their driving test four times!”

No one, that is, except me. Well, not even quite me, not yet at least. My collection of test sheets­—crawling with the shaky ink scrawl of examiners desperately trying to record all seventeen majors as we take a medium-sized village at 65mph–as yet only amounts to three. But the stage is all set for the fateful fourth attempt: 8.10 am at Dorchester Test Centre on the Tuesday of 0th (if anyone would like to come along, I’m charging five quid for passenger seat rides, but the disclaimer form must be filled in). Only three so far, yes, but rather like those long-suffering teenagers in The Hunger Games, the odds never do seem to be in my favour.

There’s no need to dwell on the sordid details of my first three attempts. Imagine red lights that went unnoticed, hedgerows massacred, children who will never quite be the same again, and you’ll get the general idea. For anyone interested, the injury count has been relatively low so far: a couple of cats, the odd pedestrian sustaining minor fractures. What has not been left intact however—along with the wing mirrors of most of Dorset—is my self-esteem. To be fair, a tiny part of me finds it strangely thrilling. As I’m sure is the case for most Oxford students, not passing an exam is a bit of an alien experience. So this is what it’s like to fail. Wow. But for the most part, I have found the entire process fairly soul-destroying. I waltzed into the driving seat of my sister’s Peugeot 104 eighteen months ago, young and carefree, brimming with confidence and hope. I now totter out of it daily, a pale and bony skeleton of my former self, before crawling across the front steps towards heavy liquor and oblivion.

I really don’t know why I can’t do it. I’m not a hugely practical person, sure. I’ve never been much good at map reading or cutting in straight lines, or any of those things that reek of competence and career prospects. But what I can’t quite compute, the thing that snakes its way through the most fragile parts of my ego and seems to smack me in the face every time I crunch against the curbstone on a parallel park, or take out a passing cyclist, is that everyone can drive. I mean everyone. Roughly 75% of the UK population hold an active driving license, and the remaining 25% are mostly under-18. So, there we have it, in cold hard data. I am the only person in the country who cannot drive. It is a sobering thought.

And it’s not just my self-worth that this constant cycle of failure affects. My holidays for the past two years have been (and, let’s be real, probably always will be) spent secluded in the countryside, screeching across roundabouts in neutral, and terrorising local commuters. As one of the few friends I have left remarked the other day, as I produced yet another unconvincing excuse as to why I could not make it up to London to see her, “you used to have a social life. Now you drive.”

It is not just friends that have fallen by the wayside, however, even my family is beginning to crumble around me. My parents were at first amused, then confused, and now just abused by my abject incompetence. They take me out to practise—patient, helpful and outstandingly brave—while I gnash my teeth, bawl and berate them for their parental inadequacies as we rebound off lampposts. They spent the last two terms cowering at home, watching the days slide by with terrible inevitability to the beginning of the next vac, and the carnage that would ensue when I next got behind the wheel.

So, if you enjoyed reading this, if you chuckled at my incompetence or smiled at my pain, if you pity the friends who no longer remember what I look like, or the family who can’t sleep at night, then set an alarm for 8.10 am on Tuesday of 0th. Wake up, get out of bed, and get down on your knees and pray. Because it’s gong to take a miracle.