Blog Page 955

My Cousin Rachel: a disturbing world of unanswered questions

Becky Cook
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My Cousin Rachel: a disturbing world of unanswered questions

This latest adaptation of Daphne du Maurier’s novel is directed by Roger Michell of Notting Hill fame, yet as a mid-19th century period piece set on the Cornish coast, it is a sharp departure from that classic romantic comedy. The audience is immediately thrown into the world of Philip Ashley (Sam Claflin), growing up in a rural idyll with his cousin Ambrose. The flecks of Hardy that are scattered through the film begin here, with sprawling shots of the pastoral landscape. This is set to an opulent score from Rael Jones, replete with sensational strings and woodwinds as well as menacing piano riffs.

Ambrose soon falls ill and has to leave Philip and England for Italy, where it is hoped the sun will help nurse him back to health. It is thus supremely ironic that Ambrose dies in Florence, after he has encountered and subsequently married his eponymous cousin Rachel (Rachel Weisz). This union and Ambrose’s illness are relayed back to Philip through a series of increasingly frenetic letters that culminate in a desperate plea for help. Philip goes to Florence but it inevitably too late; Ambrose has supposedly dies of a brain tumour, but Philip suspects foul play.

The film revolves around the unresolved question this initial fatality poses: were Ambrose’s insinuating letters due to hallucinations provoked by a tumour, or did Rachel contrive to poison him? The ambiguous atmosphere only intensifies once Rachel takes up residence on Philip’s estate in England; despite the proximity her motives become impossible to discern as Philip oscillates between trust and doubt just as the audience does.

The symbolism of Italy as the fiery passion of the soul that England suppresses, only to be released abroad, is reminiscent of Forster’s novels and is powerfully conveyed through the contrast between the two. The sumptuous scenes in Florence burst from the screen. The rich orange of the Duomo sharply contrasts the humble verdant English scenes. The cinematography alternates between the expansive coastal vistas as laymen scythe and the brooding darkened indoors scenes on the estate.

Michell’s introduces Rachel once the film is well underway in a splendid scene. Weisz’s silhouette is clad in mourning black, framed by an expansive bay window where the moon hangs high behind her. In that moment Weisz is the femme fatale epitomised. Yet, this is immediately subverted once she turns and is so startled she nearly drops her teacup and saucer, objects which become a motif for her obscure morality. Philip is spellbound. He becomes a man possessed; he ignores all surrounding advice and common sense in his hellish pursuit of this enigmatic woman, whose age and treatment of him tinges the plot with Oedipal connotations.

His rapture is understandable: Weisz’s performance is a tour de force. Her portrayal of this morally vague character is enchanting, defined by her inscrutable gaze which seems good one moment and sinister the next. Michell’s camera focuses in on the faces of the protagonists, revealing every minute twitch of emotion that flashes across their features. The unsettling nature of this scrutiny is compounded by the loaded silences that punctuate the dialogue, leaving the audience jarred, unsettled, and acutely conscious of the erotic tension between the characters. The audience sees Rachel as Philip does; alluring and feminine, but impenetrable.

The most intimate scene between the two is also the most revealing, where Philip and Rachel sleep together in the depths of the woods. While Philip is in the throes of ecstasy, the camera trains in on Rachel’s face; she looks skywards with disturbing distraction. Weisz’s expression is once again indecipherable. It could be an expression of ennui, yet it could equally be one of calculation. They finally dress and wander off, leaving a patch of crushed bluebells amid the standing beauties; they seem to be mimetic of the havoc Rachel wreaks on Philip’s life, regardless of whether or not she intended to.

“U2 still deserves a place at the forefront of modern rock”

Calum Bradshaw
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“U2 still deserves a place at the forefront of modern rock”

“What a dream to wake up in” mutters Bono into his microphone as the opening riff of ‘Where the Streets Have No Name’ swells to fill a packed Twickenham. His observation is apt – few bands as aged as U2 could hope to perform a 30-year old album with such energy, style, and biting modern relevance as Bono and co. have achieved with their The Joshua Tree album anniversary tour.

The concert opened in swaggering style, with the still razor-sharp drum intro to ‘Sunday Bloody Sunday’ beginning a medley of crowd-pleasing 80s hits including ‘New Year’s Day’ and the ever poignant ‘Pride’. Bono, now 57, showed no signs of age as his Cuban heels strutted up and down a tree-shaped stage jutting into a sold-out arena crowd.

As the centrepiece of the evening, The Joshua Tree itself simmered and roared, an inescapable reminder of just quite how good the pioneers of stadium rock were at their height. With anthemic choruses, as in ‘I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For’, and moments of touching and raw emotion, as in ‘Running To Stand Still’, not a second of the album dragged. The Edge’s soaring guitar hooks and Larry Mullen Jnr.’s frenetic drumming delivered energy and passion most modern rock bands would struggle to match. Far from a pedestrian nostalgia trip, there was a sense of unrelenting urgency and belief which proved that U2 still deserves a place at the forefront of modern rock – they played the album like it had been released yesterday, and you believed it.

Visually, the gig was stunning. A 200-foot screen behind the stage played host to a series of hauntingly stark monochrome films by Anton Corbijn, the man behind the original 1987 album sleeve photo. There was a tangible sense of awe in the stadium as the camera rolled down a desolate road through the featureless Mojave desert as the juggernaut-like ‘Where the Streets Have No Name’ built to it’s climax. Despite its obvious huge size, there was nothing bombastic about this strikingly effective visual component – haunting shots of America’s wilderness provided a perfectly understated backdrop to an album often called ‘cinematic’.

An Irish love letter to a sweeping, romantic American wilderness, The Joshua Tree is, as Bono noted in pre-tour interviews, still thematically as relevant in 2017 as it was 30 years ago. ‘Exit’, a brief track often lost at the end of side two, became a blistering attack on Donald Trump, while the heart-rending ‘Mothers of the Disappeared’ paid tribute to the victims of cartel violence in Latin America.

Intending initially to play only two shows, one in Europe and one in America, the band were inspired by current world events and a desire to “honour this album that meant so much to us”, expanding their effort to a 51-date tour, with The Joshua Tree played in its entirety every night.

Bono’s ego is often a talking point, yet it seemed to take a backseat for the evening. The band, often stood close on a massive stage, played as one indivisible unit. Watching them, one can see why these four teenage mates have stayed together for so long with not even the slightest hiatus or lineup change – a feat so few have managed. Bono was in fact uncharacteristically humble, giving fans and long-serving crew alike credit for the successes of his career, while joking before ‘Trip Through Your Wires’ that he never properly learned to play the track’s spiky harmonica line.

The most overtly political statements were saved for the gig’s closing segment, a cavalcade of recent hits including ‘Vertigo’, ‘Beautiful Day’, and a heartfelt rendition of ‘Ultraviolet’ dedicated to women’s rights campaigners including Malala Yousafzai and murdered MP Jo Cox. ‘Miss Sarajevo’, originally recorded by U2 and Brian Eno before being popularised by George Michael, played in front of a film shot in a Syrian refugee camp – the lyrics are as resonant today as they were to Bosnia in the 90s.

By this point in the evening, U2 could do no wrong. Even the usually lukewarm ‘Elevation’ (home to moments of lyrical brilliance including “a mole digging in a hole”) soared. The show closed, as is traditional, with ‘One’, a sweeping ballad whose message of unity feels oh so timely in an increasingly fractured world.

If the aim was a bid for modern relevance, U2 could have done little more. They play with the drive of their teenage punk selves, which, coupled with the experience of a 40-year old band, provides a masterfully accomplished and impressive experience. An often divisive group, U2 have proven all naysayers wrong with a blistering, up-to-date return to form.

“Charlie Fink is a genius, and ‘Cover My Tracks’ a triumph”

Katie Sayer
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“Charlie Fink is a genius, and ‘Cover My Tracks’ a triumph”

The unexpected release of Charlie Fink’s new single ‘Firecracker’ in April was surrounded by ambiguity. A vague link to the Old Vic website with the title Cover My Tracks, some dates of performance, and no other information, sparked a riot of questioning and speculation in the Fink fan community. The marketing that emerged over the succeeding few weeks did little to assuage the intrigue; fans knew that performances would take place at 10pm (a typical gig time) in a theatre (typical play venue), with an accompanying album (gig?) and a credited director (play?).

Consequently, I really did not know what I would be watching when I sat down in the Old Vic for the final performance of Cover My Tracks. I do know that I certainly wasn’t prepared for the hilarious, moving and unexpected journey I was taken on by Charlie Fink and lead actress Jade Anouka.

The format of the evening was unique, somewhere between ‘play’ and ‘gig’, but completely bypassing ‘musical’. The curtain opened to Fink sat on stage with a guitar, to be joined by Anouka, whose opening lines described the way the story should officially have ended, with the funeral of an unnamed character. David Greig’s outstanding script took the form of an open letter from Anouka to the dead figure as she looked back in time over the history of their relationship before deciding to search for her lost lover, via a series of dramatic (and sometimes comedic) monologues, with Fink’s softer musical interludes complimenting the story both structurally and tonally.

This initial dyadic separation broke down after the opening scene, as Anouka’s monologue moved from describing the funeral to a remembrance of her first meeting with the dead man, at which point it became apparent that Fink would be acting as well as singing. What followed was a beautiful duologue, charting the relationship between a hotel worker and a suicidal pop star, as they met, started a band and toured the country, before the eventual disappearance (and supposed suicide) of the singer.

A fairly simple premise, based around Anouka trying to find Fink’s character after his disappearance, unable to accept his suicide, was elevated by the care that went into the production. The use of songs from the album to foreshadow plot twists credited the viewers with a perceptive ability to appreciate the two mediums, and the simplicity of the staging, with Anouka stood and Fink sat in front of a microphone, meant that the production could be both minimal and ethereal. In particular, a monologue from Fink’s character addressed to Anouka from heaven could not have had the dignity or the power that it garnered without this minimalist context.

Rising star Jade Anouka excelled in her role, and seeing Charlie Fink try his hand at acting (after stints producing and writing film soundtracks) was delightful. The script was powerful, and the direction effective – it is only a shame that Cover My Tracks did not play for more than 12 performances.

For me, though, what made this production more than just a five-star play was its meta-theatrical value. The relationship between music and theatre was richly manipulated; both the album and the play could stand up alone, but the combination is what really made them. Indeed, while the songs may not represent a return to form for the former Noah and the Whale front man, the play definitely represented a return to the raw, personal form of his work that defined albums like The First Days of Spring. And Fink’s portrayal of the tortured artist, recovering from his brief fame as a one-hit wonder, seemed so close to home that the person I was with expressed a legitimate fear that the album constituted a suicide note. (Fortunately, this doesn’t seem to be the case, and Fink is touring the album across the country, beginning with Latitude this weekend.)

As well as offering a richly rewarding standalone narrative, Cover My Tracks paid homage to its heritage with a number of embedded gems for Noah and the Whale fans. Those who remember final album ‘Heart of Nowhere’, an album defined by its character-driven story ballads, will recall the defiant titular track with the story of ‘Sarah’ who runs away from suburbia to try and be with her lover, promising that “I would follow you to the heart of nowhere”. There are definitely parallels between the character in the song, and Anouka’s angst-ridden, angry protagonist, who spends most of the play searching obscure locations where she thinks her lost lover may be, ignoring the overwhelming evidence for his suicide. It was only while researching this article that I chanced upon the ‘Cast and Creatives’ page of the Old Vic website, which gave identities to the otherwise nameless characters. Anouka’s character name? Sarah, of course.

The play was modest but powerful, socially and politically charged, intelligent and funny, but if I had to describe it in one word, it would have to be unexpected.

Charlie Fink is a genius, and Cover My Tracks a triumph. 5 stars without a doubt.

Gus Poyet: “You have to be clear in what you believe”

Daniel Curtis
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Gus Poyet: “You have to be clear in what you believe”

Interviewing footballers can be the journalistic equivalent of pulling teeth: an arduous process which ultimately leaves both parties unfulfilled. With Gus Poyet, I needn’t have feared.

The Uruguayan has always cut a popular figure throughout his career, from promotion to the Championship with Brighton, to last-gasp Premier League survival with Sunderland. He’s on a brief visit back to the UK from China, where he manages financial powerhouse Shanghai Shenhua. When I sat down with him in the belly of the Union, he was on good form, having already let loose at the balloted pre-event drinks and in the Q&A on a host of topics.

A word which cropped up constantly throughout both was “pressure”. I opened by asking what marked the difference between the good pressure to which he frequently referred and the negative pressure which can derail entire seasons.

I didn’t expect his words to be quite so applicable to the Oxford experience: “I think it’s untenable when you can’t control it – when it starts affecting your personal life or your health or your sleeping or whatever. Without pressure, you don’t care. But when the pressure is dramatic, and really big, it can start affecting your life.”

He goes on to talk about its impact on his own life, and I get the sense that his handling of the stresses of managerial life has greatly improved as he has got older.

“Sometimes we need to be strong to control it. It’s not for everyone,” he says. “At Sunderland, I was finishing the games – for example playing a game in the afternoon—and I wouldn’t even reach Match of the Day because I was so exhausted mentally. For five, six hours, I was asleep like I was on another planet. Gone.

“But then you wake up and you start thinking at five or six o’clock in the morning. I think it was all the pressure and demands of the Premier League. For example, I’m in Shanghai now, and I’m struggling to sleep after the games. It’s a different kind of worry. There’s less pressure than in Sunderland – or it feels less.

“But it’s dangerous and it’s a shame because if you put too much pressure on yourself, you’re going to have a problem for sure. I think the League Managers Association here help managers a lot, and I learned incredible things about how to control it, to manage it, how to improve it, how to rest. That’s one of the biggest problems with being a manager: we never rest, we never stop.

“The manager will go to the game, and then will check the game, and then will go through the game again, and then will do the next game, and will never rest. Sooner or later you’re gonna collapse. It’s important to have the strength to know.”

His approach to a work/life balance is now more healthy than ever. He talks me through his post-match schedule: “For example, now the day after the game I do no football related to my team. It’s not negotiable. If I had said it to you five years ago, I wouldn’t have believed it myself. It was impossible.

“Of course, when my wife is here, I can spend time with her, I can do something different. When I’m on my own, it’s a little bit more difficult, but it’s key for me to completely stop thinking about training, the game, the result. It makes me recharge my energy and be fresh for the next game.”

I wonder if that negative pressure he speaks about is exclusive to the Premier League. “I think it’s a little bit yourself, but the Premier League is incredible because of the repercus- sions,” he says with an air of experience. “I was in Spain and there was a lot of pressure and I didn’t enjoy it. There’s pressure in Shanghai, but the Premier League is unique. The Premier League repercussions are amazing. Wherever you go in the world, it’s the Premier League first.”

With that in mind, I worry about those young men my own age or younger who are thrust into what seems to be an unforgiving world, and ask Poyet if the pressure has changed his approach to coaching young players. He points me to the impact of social media on young millenials, and again, the answer is far closer to home than I was expecting.

“Everything they do on social media is them, and they feel the repurcussions good or bad. If they make a mistake, they know it because they get killed for it when they open their phones for a text or a tweet.

“On the other hand, social media keeps them away from football because they are watching and doing 100 things that have nothing to do with football. The problem is not to be in the extremes. We try to show the players what is best for them, depending on their characters – they are not all the same.

“One of the biggest lies for me in football is when people say, ‘He’s a great manager, he treats everyone the same’. It’s not true. You cannot treat everybody the same because they are different people.”

It’s an inspiring answer. Even the most teleologically-minded of football fans would concede that the game is now a machine which gobbles up young players and spits them out bereft of footballing or personal futures. For Poyet then, pressure affects both managers and young players, even if in different ways.

It’s at this point that I ask if the press contributes to this cult of pressure. He inhales. I perspire pre-emptively, expecting to be put in my place as an MSM hack. However, he’s contemplative when it comes to the topic of managerial sackings.

“It’s a little bit of everything,” he explains. “It depends on how you’re doing, depends on the comments. Everybody comments now – newspapers will publish an article, and there are 300 comments on it, and from those comments it becomes a bigger issue. I would say that it depends on how the people at the top accept your responsibilities and the pressure.”

When he talks about his sacking from Brighton, he twice calls it “funny”. For a man who was essentially given his P45 live on air when working as a pundit for the BBC, it seems anything but. Indeed, as his characteristically relaxed demeanor becomes tense, I get the sense of what it would be like to sack Gus Poyet.

He recalls that a small minority of fans started to stoke rumours on the forum citing “somebody at the club”. One example which seems to particularly sting is an accusation that he turned up to a 7.45pm match fifteen minutes before kick-off.

“How on Earth am I – the manager – gonna arrive fifteen minutes before the game when I was in the hotel, when we had pre-match together three hours before the game, when we had the meeting in the dressing room an hour and a half before the game?”

I nod appeasingly as I realise that I may have become a vehicle for pre-existing anger. He returns to his 300 commenters. “250 of them believe it, and then you’ve got 50 of them saying no.”

“And then, the people in charge are gonna read that – and people do care about what the fans do – then they think maybe it did happen. You have to be clear that it didn’t happen. Everything is put in a context and leads to you keeping your job or losing your job.

“It’s four or five who provoke from what they’ve been reading and they shout at you questioning what you’ve changed. Change is part of the solution, remember that. Like Leicester: they were going down. And they got rid of [Claudio] Ranieri and they didn’t lose another game with the assistant.”

“But why?”, he asks, doing my job for me. “Why change?”

“It’s part of the game,” he answers himself definitively.

Given the ridiculously high turnover of managers in the Premier League, I often wonder why they’re so keen to throw themselves back into the fray, fresh from the disappointment of dismissal. I expect some comment in response about how it’s a bug, or a love affair or some such stock phrase about ‘The Love of the Game’. Rather, his drive is far more personal. “You have to be clear in what you believe. You’ve got two options: go to the highest level or get to a place where they understand you and believe in you and give you time. That would be the dream job. It’s not about money. It’s about believing it’s possible and letting you do it.”

Ah, the ‘M’ word. Seeing as Gus broached the topic, I bite, and ask him if managerial power is watered down by new money.

“Yes”, he immediately replies, “because there is too much money to spend and it is dangerous. You cannot spend that much. I think the problem with money is that in every single job in the world, where the product produces money, there is money.

“The amount produced by TV is incredible. Is it too much? Yes, it is. But people shouldn’t blame the players. It’s the product. It’s extraordinary. It’s incredible. The Premier League is watched in every little town in the world, and that costs money, and I don’t think it’s bad that the money that is paid goes back to the players.”

But isn’t saying there’s too much money slightly hypocritical when he’s managing in China, currently one of the world’s big spenders? Shanghai Shenhua – under Poyet’s leadership – are reportedly paying former Manchester United, Manchester City and Juventus striker Carlos Tevez £615,000 per week.

Poyet argued in his Union talk that most of the squad decisions were made before he joined, but he still manages in a league which boasts Oscar (signed from Chelsea for a reported £52m), Ezequiel Lavezzi (reportedly earning around £200,000 per week), and the much-coveted Jackson Martínez (signed for £31m).

Not the first time, he answers altogether too quickly. “I think it’s a little bit too much. I have always thought the extremes are bad. Too much or too little is bad. It’s about the balance. If I was in charge I would tell you what it is, but I’m not—so I take advantage of it.”

That final sentence is accompnied by a knowing laugh, and it is a disarmingly honest answer from a man who, for many, can do no wrong. It’s hard to begrudge a fan favourite his time among new money – even if many of us hope that soon he’ll return to old friends back in the Premier League.

He certainly talks about the Premier League with striking regularity during our short time together. I wonder if, despite the bright lights and hefty cheques of Chinese football, he may yet have unfinished business here.

Denis Healey’s archives to be stored in the Bodleian

Fred Dimbleby
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Denis Healey’s archives to be stored in the Bodleian

The personal archives of former minister Denis Healey have been acquired by the Bodleian Libraries.

Lord Healey, who died in 2015, was a senior Labour politician who was twice defeated in bids for the party leadership. He was an MP from 1952 to 1992 and served as both Defence Secretary and Chancellor of the Exchequer during the 1960s and 1970s.

The documents were provided through the Acceptance in Lieu Scheme, which enables taxpayers to pay inheritance tax by ‘transferring important works of art and other important heritage objects into public ownership’.

The Labour minister’s “extensive” archives were accepted by Arts Council England, which runs the scheme, in lieu of £75,670 of inheritance tax, and date from the 1930s until 2015.

He was a popular political figure who was famed for his use of, sometimes inflammatory, political rhetoric and his bushy eyebrows. In 1978, he referred to Geoffrey Howe’s criticism of him as being akin to being “savaged by a dead sheep”.

However, some of his language caused controversy at times. One comment, describing fellow MP Ian Mikardo as “out of his tiny Chinese mind” caused an upset in Anglo-Chinese relations.

The archives themselves contain a number of personal documents – including photos, diaries and press cuttings – which portray the role that Healey played in 20th century politics.

They also include personal correspondence with major political figures, such as Clement Attlee, and personal notes taken during meetings of the Wilson cabinet, as well as an account of a visit to Nazi Germany in 1938.

Chris Fletcher, the Keeper of Special Collections at the Bodleian Libraries, said: “We are delighted that the Bodleian Libraries has been allocated Denis Healey’s personal archive and it’s particularly appropriate that it will be kept in Oxford where he began his political career.

“We are very grateful to Healey’s family and to the AIL scheme for this excellent outcome”.

The Chairman of the Acceptance in Lieu Panel, Edward Harley, said: “I am very pleased that the Acceptance in Lieu Scheme has helped it to find a home where its potential for scholarship will be fulfilled.

“I am confident that this archive will prove of great interest to scholars of 20th Century politics.”

Gangster rap with glimmers of uniqueness

Joe Baverstock-Poppy
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Gangster rap with glimmers of uniqueness

Vince Staples’ Big Fish Theory might be the most unique mainstream rap record to be released so far this year. Staples’ latest project takes modern rap music and twists all its aspects, from production to subject matter, into a style both distinctive and familiar.

For songwriting, Staples makes a clear departure from the nostalgic gangster storytelling that dominated his debut album: Summertime ’06. Instead, Big Fish Theory focuses on more abstract discussions, paralleling Kendrick Lamar’s departure from concept albums on DAMN.

For subject matter, Staples offers a refreshing perspective on the perils of fame, seeming far more genuine and less of humble brag than fame focused My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy. Staples reveals his conflicting feelings surrounding the detachment wealth and fame creates between rappers and the gangster lifestyle Staples grew up in.

In ‘Big Fish’ Staples celebrates escaping the poverty and crime that takes the lives of so many from his hometown, expressing his remorse for and desire to help those still stuck there. Elsewhere, Staples expresses anxiety over the new expectations placed upon him. Staples argues that somethings never change, likening the destructive competition between rappers to gang wars and police brutality in ‘Crabs in a Bucket’. ‘Homage’ describes Staples’ frustration at being stuck in the middle: between his roots who view him as too “cultured” and the upper echelons of show business who view him as too “ghetto”, consequently snubbing him for awards: “Where the fuck is my Grammy?”.

Whilst Staples’ musings and insecurities are engaging, they are often over shadowed by his more boastful side that often dominates his hooks. Whilst it’s all good for Staples to admit in ‘Party People’ that this is “false bravado, masked by wealth”, one can’t help but still feel this bravado lets the core message down somewhat.

Another refreshingly unique aspect to Big Fish Theory is the production style throughout the album. With heavy references to UK Garage, Tech House, and Jungle in tracks such as ‘Crabs in a Bucket’ and ‘Love Can Be…’. This choice of sonics is a tribute to UK talent that seems far more heartfelt than those of other American rappers. Whether it be Drake adopting questionable Patwa and naming songs after random British cities or Kanye using respected grime artists as stage props, previous US-UK rap crossovers have come across as thinly veiled opportunism. The standout instrumental, on ‘Yeah Right’, comes from PC Music stalwart SOPHIE, who offers a track with subtlety that has been found lacking in most of his colleagues’ works of late. The whole album maintains this glitzy, fizzy sound, most overtly in ‘745’ and ‘Big Fish’

Big Fish Theory is by no means a perfect album – some tracks like ‘745’ fail to maintain the momentum and lyricism of the rest of album and Staples can often slip into tired rap tropes. However, the album is a refreshing spin on modern rap music that shows there is plenty of talent and potential within Vince Staples. Staples is definitely someone worth keeping an eye on.

Stormzy receives ‘person of the year’ award from Oxford ACS

Jack Hunter
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Stormzy receives ‘person of the year’ award from Oxford ACS

Today Stormzy consolidated his iconic status after being named ‘person of the year’ by the Oxford African and Caribbean Society (ACS).

The award-winning grime artist – real name Michael Omari – was in Oxford to receive the award.

“Today I received the “Person Of The Year” Award from the Oxford University ACS,” Stormzy wrote on Instagram.

“I was in a room full of young black Kings & Queens who inspire me more than they could even imagine. Our future Leaders, CEO’s, Moguls etc. You lot gas me and motivate me. Let’s get it”.

https://twitter.com/Stormzy1/status/884767295863738369

Stormzy, who won best grime act at both the 2014 and 2015 MOBO awards, recently donated £9,000 to an Oxford student, Fiona Asiedu’s crowdfunding campaign to attend Harvard University. Asiedu gave the award to Stormzy at a conference earlier today.

https://twitter.com/MansaCam/status/884789389729071104

Oxford ACS is a student-run society, which works to “celebrate and represent” students of African and Caribbean heritage at Oxford University.

In May, a photo campaign launched by the group – showing black students standing outside the Bodleian library – went viral, promising to “debunk myths on race”.

Stormzy received his award during the group’s annual access conference, a day-long event aiming to “demystify the Oxford application process” for prospective black applicants. Stormzy addressed over 150 state school students of African and Caribbean heritage alongside Oxford students.

Oxford ACS hailed Stormzy’s “amazing contributions” to the society.

Speaking to Cherwell, the President of Oxford ACS, Renée Kapuku, said: “The person of the year award is annual. Stormzy was awarded this year for his outstanding contribution to the society and wider community. He has served as a role model to many young people, and demonstrated a profound commitment to education.

“As a society dedicated to equipping young people of African and Caribbean heritage with the tools need to make the best choices for their future, Stormzy epitomizes everything we wish to impart on the students we engage with.

“He demonstrates a passion which aligns with ours – using our platform and using the space we occupy to positively impact future generations. The Annual Access Conference, one of the largest student-led conferences in the U.K. for students of African and Caribbean heritage, is one of our greatest opportunities to do this.”

Awkward singing and timely rain from Radiohead in Manchester

Thomas Athey
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Awkward singing and timely rain from Radiohead in Manchester

In opening their set with the melancholy classic ‘Let down’, Radiohead may have been referring to the auspicious circumstances surrounding their show in Manchester. Originally planning to perform two shows at the Manchester arena, the venue had not reopened in time after the horrific terrorist attack there earlier this year. Instead, they opted to play a single show at the Lancashire county cricket club, which despite its size was hardly an equally suitable venue. Unfortunately, this plagued the set with audio issues through parts for the show. In particular, the heavy synth on ‘Idioteque’ was barely audible, undercutting much of the tracks momentum.

No surprises? Not quite. The set list was for the most part predictable, with the obvious choices from most of their back catalogue being selected in line with a very similar set played to Glastonbury. Naturally Ok computer featured heavily, given it has recently had its 20th anniversary, and also it being one of the more crowd pleasing albums. In contrast, the latest release A moon shaped pool featured surprisingly sparsely, perhaps due to the heavy reliance of strings on that record which would be difficult to replicate. The unexpected song came near the end of the set, with a surprise performance of ‘The bends’. Released before I was even born, this classic was a real treat for life long fans, even if Radiohead did seem a bit unsure if they could still pull off the agro–rock required for the track. Thom Yorke even wryly remarked before starting “please sing along, because I’ll probably forget the first verse”.

The crowd did need a little bit encouraging. Many remained mute through most of the performance, although to be fair Radiohead are hardly the easiest band to sing along to. Thom Yorke’s vocal range is beyond impressive, with the unfortunate flip-side being a decline in audience participation. To compensate the crowd hummed along to bass lines and occasionally guitar solos, a spectacle that was unintentionally hilarious when applied to ‘Paranoid android’. Actual singing was mostly reserved for “oh Jeremy Corbyn”, which again received spontaneous outbursts and at this point should probably be included on the set list.

To be clear however, Radiohead themselves were on fine form, and it is unlikely anyone walked away from the show feeling short changed after a performance lasting over two hours. With all ages present, all generations of fans received what they wanted and lasting moments were created a plenty. My personal highlight being a light rain shower beginning during the refrain ‘rain on me from a great height’. Obviously this couldn’t be planned, (although they did choose to play in Manchester), but it is testament to their ability that Radiohead can create so many great moments for so many.

Life Divided: Lads’ Holidays

Katie Sayer and Molly Greenwood
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Life Divided: Lads’ Holidays

For: Katie Sayer

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

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

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

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

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

 

Against: Molly Greenwood

A lads’ holiday? God no.

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

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

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

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

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

Town versus Gown: queer culture in Oxford and Northern Ireland

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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