Friday, May 9, 2025
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Profile: Ann Widdecombe

John Maier
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Profile: Ann Widdecombe

I meet Ann Widdecombe in Pembroke College. She is addressing the Theology Society. Her manner is brisk and acerbic; she is, in every gesture and utterance, the Ann Widdecombe who occupies such a curious position in popular culture—precise, idiosyncratic and faintly comical.

The former shadow-home secretary enjoys a unconventional post-political career. She resigned her seat in 2010, “just at the point when I would have been going into the cabinet” she remarks. But then, “that’s political luck”. Since then she’s continued writing detective novels, and won a more unlikely fame on Strictly Come Dancing, followed by a run in pantomime. I ask whether watching Ed Balls’ weekly performances make her regret her brief flurry onto the dance floor. (In particular, I remember one episode involving the use of a hoist of sorts). “No!”, she retorts, “it makes me quite nostalgic for it actually. Obviously I set a trend… I was the first actual politician to do it. Everybody at the time was saying that I shouldn’t be doing it, that it was undignified… Nobody’s saying that about Ed Balls! Everybody now takes it for granted.”

There’s a barely suppressed pride in Widdecombe’s reminiscence, yet simultaneously a characteristic desire to distance herself from the frivolities of celebrity. “I didn’t have any makeover… I didn’t have fake tan, I refused hairpieces, I refused false eyelashes.” “You didn’t give any ground?” I ask – in my best sceptical voice. “Oh, I gave some ground”, Ann concedes, “but I limited the glitter” and preserved ‘the integrity of what I really thought was important.”

Despite Widdecombe’s coolness, one can’t help feel there’s something rather cruel and mocking about the attention focused on figures like John Sergeant, herself and now Ed Balls—something rather degrading, both actually and metaphorically, about the motions they go through. Even before Strictly, Widdecombe was a figure of some bizarre fascination—peculiar, because of her unflinching views, outlandish in her unchanging appearance and antediluvian manner of speech. I can’t help mentioning the Victoria Wood sketch featuring a huge ensemble serenading Wood in a bowl cut, impersonating Ann; Did she watch it? “Of course I did…It was lovely”, Widdecombe only regrets not attending the recording. A sense of humour must be essential, I put it to her, not just on Strictly but in public life. “I couldn’t have lived without it.” she agrees. “I couldn’t have sustained twenty-three years in politics without it… The House of Commons is a pretty tense place. You’re dealing with matters that are massively important.”

“It’s also a place with a lot of cross-party friendships”, she adds, “and there is a lot of humour – a lot of the sardonic, gallows-type humour, as things are really going wrong.”

I ask about the Commons, particularly some of the reactionary anti-abortion positions she advocated there. “I don’t call it reactionary” she retorts immediately. “Some progress is good, some progress is bad, and some things that are called progress aren’t progress at all. And to me slaughtering children in the womb, just because you can’t see them and they cannot protest did not seem to me to be any advance in the right direction.”

I turn to her previously-expressed support for the death penalty—again, Ann’s response is ready and practiced. “What I’ve always said is there is a moral case for having it. I’ve never talked about reinstating it for one very simple reason… it ain’t gonna happen.” Each time the question has faced the commons the numbers in favour of reinstatement decline, yet, reflects Ann, if the question went to the public “it might well” go the other way. But doesn’t she think there’s a possible theoretical tension between her positions on abortion and the death penalty, I push on, finally reaching the end of my point. “No I don’t”, Widdecombe retorts, unfazed, “But if you cut me off every time I start speaking you wont know what I think about anything.”

Put in my place, I move to what might be more uncontroversial ground. Is she pleased that there is a women at Number 10? “I don’t give two-pence whether the Prime Minister of the day is male or female”.

“I thought you were going to say that”, I say, deciding I should give as good as I get.

“You were right” replies Widdecombe, quick as a ballroom-dancer. I now feel that Ann and I have established such rapport that it should really be us going into pantomime together. What does she really think about the new Prime Minister, then? “Theresa’s always been a very cautious mortal”, reflects Widdecombe. “During the Brexit campaign … She did not put her head above the parapets once.” But all that seems to have changed: “she’s being much bolder than I expected.” Does she hope May will drag the party to the right, closer where she herself would have liked it to be? “You’ve built in a presumption to that”, Ann scolds me. Of course she’s glad to see the end of the Cameron era. “I’m sorry for Cameron as a human being”, Widdecombe admits, but his behavior during the referendum was “extremely patronising” and fraught with ‘miscalculation”. “He assumed that it was going to go with him, that everyone who voted Brexit was a swivel-eyed loon of some sort.”

I wonder whether Widdecombeis depressed by the thought that a number of the moral causes she’s advocated seem doomed to inexorable decline. After all, she converted to Catholicism in 1993, following the ordination of women in the Church of England. “I’m never depressed if I’m standing up for what I think is right,” she insists. “I think of Wilberforce. It took years and years and decades to get to the point where slavery was abolished. He never gave up. He didn’t just say ‘I’m on the losing side.'” But surely the point is that it is her values that are those going into recession. “You are making another assumption. You are assuming that all the cause that I have taken are doomed to long term failure.” Well, doesn’t’ she think they are? “Frankly, I have no idea. All I know is one thing: you do what you think is right, not what you think may win.”

On the difference between victory and virtue, what does she make of Trump vs. Hillary? “That election is a disaster… it’s thrown up a choice between someone who’s pretty deceitful and someone who’s three quarters mad. I would vote neither – love to in fact.” We talk about Trump’s recent remarks concerning sexual abuse. “Obviously, I’ve no time at all for a lot of the things that Donald Trump says. All I would say to people is this: if he does get in don’t be alarmed… he’ll be restrained, as all American presidents are. They all find reality marches in.”

ill the same reality march in on the Labour party I wonder, or are they providing an effective opposition, despite what people say? “Well you are joking, aren’t you?”, Widdecombe fixes me with a look. “I talk to friends in the Labour Party and the consensus appears to be that they won’t split… [but] they’re going to ride it out and hope that the election result speaks for itself. I don’t know whether they’re right or wrong to do that.” The fear is, at least for them, that Corbyn will remain, regardless.

We move on to the campus politics of the young, in particular no-platforming. “It’s just unbelievable” – and she does seem truly lost for a rebuke, if only for a moment. She recalls the post-war atmosphere. “Colin Jordan and Oswald Mosley were still allowed to hold their rallies, in the name of freedom… because we believed as a nation that liberty of expression and opinion underpin democracy. We’ve lost that completely. That’s gone.

“When homosexuality was unlawful… nobody stopped those who believed that it should be lawful from campaigning for that… I might oppose the campaign, but I would never have said we shouldn’t allows the campaign. But the student attitude appears to be, if we don’t like what that person says we shouldn’t allow them to say it. How does that contribute to a democracy?”

In Widdecombe, one senses a passion for public life balanced by an uncompromising privacy. How does she account for her public notoriety? “No idea” she replies, rather unconvincingly. I suggest that she has a reputation for being quite private; perhaps this excites, rather than quells interest. “People don’t’ seem to mind what they ask these days… They’ll intrude anywhere.” That’s a cultural, as well as journalist trend though. “Like the Jeremy Kyle programme”, Ann chips in, “which just epitomises what’s gone wrong.”

“Are you a regular viewer?”, I inquire.

“Certainly not”, Ann corrects me. In all that we’ve discussed, I sense that faith plays a large role in supporting her characteristic stubbornness. Does she ever experience doubt? “Yes. But I think doubt is a means of growing… Faith is the antidote to doubt, but doubt is all a part of the growth of faith… Doubt can be a maturing force in faith.”

Might she, then, ever lose her faith? “No”, she replied, without a flicker of irony.

OUSU domestic abuse policies praised by national report

George Chantry
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OUSU domestic abuse policies praised by national report

A report released by Universities UK (UUK) last Friday on university abuse and violence praised OUSU’s eff orts to combat domestic abuse. It recommended Oxford’s First Response app to other UK universities, but insists “university responses are not as comprehensive, systematic or joined up as they could be”.

UUK “sought evidence from its members to capture existing activity underway across the sector” and received responses from 60 British universities.

The report follows a culmination of growing alarm about harassment, sexual violence and hate crime on university campuses. Last year a report stated that one in three women in UK universities would be a victim of sexual assault.

Universities UK represents the interests of universities to the UK government and lobbies with advice on higher education policy.

Earlier this month, The Guardian interviewed over 100 women who likened the scale of abuse in universities to the Catholic church and the Saville scandal at the BBC.

An Oxford University spokesperson highlighted the successes of university policy in recent years. They told Cherwell, “Oxford University welcomes the taskforce report and shares its commitment to a zerotolerance culture on sexual violence, harassment and hate crime.

“We are pleased to see the First Response smartphone app for sexual assault survivors, developed by Oxford University Student Union, highlighted as an example of good practice in the report. The app is one of many ways in which Oxford has strengthened its culture of respect in recent years.

“The Student Union has introduced workshops for all new undergraduates to improve understanding of sexual consent. Students also receive practical guidance from the University so they can make complaints in a safe environment and understand every step of Oxford’s robust and professional disciplinary process.

“We now have more than 300 voluntary harassment advisors right across the University, trained to support students in making complaints and guiding them to the range of counselling services Oxford offers.”

The University’s central Counselling Service off ers psychological support both in the immediate aftermath of harassment and on an ongoing basis.

In October last year, Oxford students launched an app designed to support survivors of sexual assault. ‘First Response’ takes victims through the options available to them and is the fi rst of its kind.

‘It Happens Here’, an Oxford based charity “dedicated to raising awareness about sexual violence and working with members of the University of Oxford and the wider community” have expressed disappointment with Oxford University’s current policy.

The group told Cherwell, “Oxford does not currently follow the Zellick guidence, in that there are some procedures in place to deal with breaches of university discipline, which may also be criminal acts.

“However, these procedures lack clarity and are not wellcommunicated, which means that many students feel unsupported and unsafe, and the University is not currently fulfi lling its duty to respond as effectively as possible to disclosures of sexual violence.

“We also need to address the fact that colleges independently decide their own Harassment Policies, which means that procedures and standards of care can vary enormously.”

The UUK report’s emphasis on forming a “comprehensive”, “joinedup” response to sexual harassment reinforces It Happens Here’s concern “that colleges independently decide their own Harassment Policies, which means procedures and standards of care can vary enormously.”

The report has been criticised for ignoring the issue of harassment amongst staff in universities, and had to use data from the NUS, since many, even prominent, universities do not systematically record allegations of rape, sexual assault or sexual harassment.

A spokesperson from Oxford concluded, “Oxford has a strong culture where harassment is recognised as unacceptable, and has policies which underpin its commitment to a safe campus for all. We will continue to work with Universities UK and other universities on the recommendations in the report and look forward to participating in the national conference on sharing best practice.”

Review: The Lesser Bohemians

Benjamin Davies
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Review: The Lesser Bohemians

Eimear McBride’s second novel, The Lesser Bohemians, is devoted to untidiness. Not a romantic untidiness, such as we usually mean by “bohemian”. It’s just what it is. McBride is good at creating that sensation. She approaches her themes with just the right amounts of nuance and candidness, so that the darker aspects of the novel don’t feel gratuitous or put on for shock. As a piece of fiction, however, this book—like its characters—has significant problems with consistency.

The plot is simple: in the 1990s Eily, the narrator, has moved from Ireland to London to attend drama school. She meets and has lots of sex with Stephen, a middle-aged quasi-famous actor. More time seems to be spent in bed than out of it. Gradually, more of their respective backgrounds emerge, containing histories of disturbing sexual and substance abuse. The subsequent traumas cause their relationship to swing from the verge of marriage to fuming fits of infidelity on what seems like a weekly basis.

Narrated in stream-of-consciousness—that most slippery of terms and practises—one of the strengths of The Lesser Bohemians is how close things can seem. Some places, characters and moments are made vivid by a kind of layering. Eily adds thought to thought, impression to impression, until things feel quite real. This works very well in tactile—mostly sex—scenes, where her voice backgrounds the boring fact that things are touching, and pays attention to the feelings that blossom in response. These feelings become layered, too, and the maturing of Eily and David’s relationship, as well as the personalities of some other characters, gives the book real emotional depth.

There is, however, a big caveat to all this. Stylistically, this novel feels like a first draft. The basic idea of the style remains stream-of-consciousness, but McBride toys around with it in a way that seems more uncertain than confidently experimental. There are a few paragraphs wholly in italics, and small clauses which appear to be background thoughts are in a reduced text size. All-caps words make occasional appearances, and, most noticeably, sentences are split up by great blank gaps, as if McBride accidentally leans on the space-bar while writing.

These things happen with little regularity or much of a detectable pattern. Furthermore, the texture of the narrative changes quite frequently. The opening pages were exciting: they felt like the deep end of the stream. The thoughts were wandering and interruptive, and Eily seemed more sensitive to her environment—noticing the names of pubs and things on signs. This disappears quite quickly, however, and Eily’s voice becomes relatively banal. Perhaps this reflects her becoming used to London. But in the context of this change of voice, the formatting quirks start to feel like a gimmicky attempt to remind the reader that YOU are READING stream-of-consciousness, and not just a conventional narrative with jolty syntax.

Halfway through, Stephen is given 60-or-so pages to narrate his horrific upbringing— this part really divides critics. The story is beautifully told, and McBride really manages the voice well. By itself, I felt Stephen’s monologue was very successful, and a touching piece of storytelling. As a part of the whole, however, it sadly just throws the style off balance—returning to Eily’s voice felt more like a toilsome task than a pleasure.

This was a strong story, and McBride deserves some credit for sticking with a technique that still isn’t that common—her massively hyped A Girl is a Half-formed Thing also used stream-of-consciousness. But McBride’s adept handling of theme, and skillful characterisation, promises great things, and The Lesser Bohemians isn’t one of them.

Through the Looking Glass: Gerard Manley Hopkin’s Oratory

Daniel Curtis
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Through the Looking Glass: Gerard Manley Hopkin’s Oratory

Should you dare to venture outside of central Oxford and head towards Anne’s and Hugh’s, the chances are you’ll pass The Oxford Oratory, or the Catholic church of St. Aloysius Gonzaga. Aside from its pleasing architecture, set back ever so slightly off St. Giles’, it looks fairly inauspicious as far as Oxford buildings go – until you realise that this is the church where famed Victorian Gerard Manley Hopkins was curate between December 1878 and June 1879. It was here that Hopkins cemented the religious fervour which fuelled his later work, but he was actually an established poet before he held any posts at all.

During his days as a student of Classics at Balliol, Hopkins was actually a socialite and poet. However, upon resolving to, in his words, “become a religious”, he burnt his early poetry, losing them forever. This clash between his artistic leanings and his religious devotion was to shape Hopkins’ career as poet. His life was often that of a Jesuit, unadorned and austere, a far cry from the yearning poetry he would write over the course of his later life. Although much of his poetry was rejected – primarily by Jesuit press – until his many works would be published and enjoyed after his death, his poetry was mostly rejected by Hopkins himself. Self-critical and largely ambivalent towards even his greatest works, Hopkins instead poured himself into his studies, but whereas he graduated from Oxford with a first, he failed his final theology exam, rendering him incapable of progressing higher up the clergy.

It was at St. Aloysius’, then, where he would have been cutting his teeth in the Church as well as coalescing his ideas on religious poetry to the point which would mark his final poems, often dedicated to God, or aspects of Catholicism. Soon, however, he was to leave the Church to return to academia at University College Dublin. He would soon fall into a crippling depression due to feeling like an outsider, writing his “terrible sonnets” of loss and darkness. Perhaps it was at Oxford, then, that he felt more comfortable and content in the city, and in the Church, that he loved.

On his deathbed, Hopkins’ last words were “I am so happy. I am so happy. I loved my life”. For six months, a small church off St. Giles’ played its part in that, while with his years here as student and theologian, the city of Oxford as a whole is marked by his presence.

“I’m scared Charlie please come”

Benedict George
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“I’m scared Charlie please come”

“Hey, you OK?”
“Fine, why?”
“You sounded weird on the phone.’”
Lo couldn’t recall speaking to Marty on the phone. It had been a rough Friday. She’d been tired that morning. Now she was finished, she thought. Homeward bound. On the bus, he asked her, “Going tomorrow?”
“To Charlie’s party? Of course.”
“Lo. Get over him.”
“Marty. I’m over him.” She wasn’t. They laughed. On her phone, she found Facebook. She’d seen Charlie leaving school with those other girls. He was not online.

“You text too much.”
“Actually, I don’t. I Facebook.”
“You text me.” She could have argued, but the bus had reached her stop. She said she’d see Marty at the party. When she got into her house, she sat in kitchen. Her sister came in and said, “You’re veggie, aren’t you?”

“What?”
“I can get quorn. For the Bolognese.” “Bolognese?”
“You said you wanted Bolognese.”
“When?”
“You texted me. I’m making Bolognese for dinner.”
“Oh. OK.” She wasn’t against Bolognese, but she hadn’t asked for it. She hadn’t texted her sister. At least, she didn’t remember it. As a rule, she didn’t text, she Facebooked. Marty had said she texted too. Was she texting without realising? Her phone buzzed. It was Charlie.

‘Call me.’

She couldn’t believe it. She and Charlie weren’t close. They didn’t demanded calls. Maybe he wasn’t with those girls, maybe he’d gone home. And sat in his room wishing Lo would call him… She ran upstairs. She sat on her bed and called him.

“Hey. What’s up?” This was good. She was controlling her excitement.
“Hi, Lottie. Not much.”
“What did you want to talk about?”
“What do you mean?”
“You told me to call you.”
“When?”
“Just now.”
“No I didn’t. Maybe it was someone else?”

“Oh. Maybe. Sorry.” She hung up, too abruptly. Embarrassing. She looked at her texts. There was a text from Charlie, saying Call me. What was his problem? Was it a joke? Were the other girls with him, laughing at Lo? She called Marty.

“I think Charlie just pranked me. It wasn’t funny, it was mean, and embarrassing. I don’t know whether to be annoyed. Maybe he expected…” Marty interrupted.

“Right, so that’s why you’re not coming tomorrow.”

“What?”

“Why you won’t come to Charlie’s party.”

“I am coming.”

“You just texted that you weren’t. It was another example of you texting.”

“I don’t text. I didn’t text. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“So are you asking Charlie to come round tonight?” She half laughed.

“Absolutely not. What are you on about?”

“You said in the text. I said it was a mistake. Don’t you remember this?”

“Let’s talk later, Marty.” She hung up abruptly again. She was worried, losing memories alarmingly fast. She’d considered inviting Charlie over. She regretted it, despite not remembering it. She shouted for her mum. No reply. Nor when she tried her dad. They were out. Sister? She must have gone out for quorn. Her phone flashed.

‘WHAT??! on my way stay put don’t move.’

It was from Charlie. She opened her phone and found texts. She had texted him.

‘Charlie please come, there’s someone here in my room.’

‘Im rly uncomfortable.’
‘Im scared charlie please come.’

She looked up at her room. There was no one but her. Of course. What was she doing? Inventing danger to get Charlie round? Forgetting she’d done it? She typed out, ‘hey charlie, sorry to worry you, im fine!! my sister was just messing around with my phone. see you tomorrow! :D’ She read it over. Her best damage control. She pressed send. She looked around her emp- ty room again. Her eyes fell back on her phone. In place of her explanatory message, she saw, I think shes gonna hurt me charlie HURRY UP. Fingers faltering, she called Marty again. He started speaking straightaway.
“No, Lo. I don’t want to talk to you. Don’t call me. I’ll see you Monday.” He shut the line. Her knees failed. She felt as though her stomach had shrunk. She ran through her contacts, trying her mum, then her dad, but their voicemail recordings pre-empted ringing. She sat absolutely still, staring at her phone with a new mistrust, still listening intently to the soundlessness of her room. Her phone flashed.

‘Lottie help me im at the back of the sports centre car park please come.’

‘I think shes coming.’
‘Shes here.’


Lo threw herself through her empty house, forced her shoes on and burst out into the street. It was one of those savage January nights, when winter’s chill had lost the charm of Christmas and settled down to spoiling the New Year. She flew through barely perceptible rainfall to the sports centre three streets away. She stopped in the empty car park. She looked around wildly. Hedges surrounded. She called for Charlie. Nothing. She almost dropped her phone when it rang.

“Charlie? Where are you? I’m here.”

“I’m at yours, Lottie. Your mum let me in. What’s going on?” Lo couldn’t think. She had scraped her fingers picking up her phone and they stung where she touched it.

“I’m sorry. I’ll be in two minutes.”
“Are you OK? What’s happening?”
“I’ll see you in a minute. I’ll be OK, thanks.” For the third time, she hung up without waiting for goodbye. She dropped her phone. She stamped her foot on it, until the pieces couldn’t be recognised. She picked them up and flung them, one by one, into the hedges. That phone had gone wrong, malfunctioned. She’d say she lost it. She had enough money saved for a new one. Back at her house, she gave Charlie the story about her sister messing around. She apologised and thanked him. She couldn’t help noticing how quickly he had responded to the call for help. She told him she was excited about his party. He said, “So am I.” He smiled and left. She started on the stairs. She went to bed at once, more exhausted than ever. As her mind wandered into the curious hallucinations of half-sleep, she thought she heard her mum come into her room and a tiny knock on her bedside table. She even caught words.

“Darling, I found your phone.”

Balliol joins protest against Yarl’s Wood

Lizzie Diggins
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Balliol joins protest against Yarl’s Wood

Balliol JCR passed a motion on Sunday pledging £100 of financial support to the upcoming protest at Yarl’s Wood Immigrant Removal Centre in Bedfordshire. The protest, which will take place on December 3rd, is being coordinated by a number of activist groups including ‘Movement for Justice’, which is running the fundraising initiative for the protest.

The Facebook page for the event criticises “the brutal, racist attitude of the guards” at Yarl’s Wood as revealed by undercover footage from Channel 4, as well as government inquiries. The protest’s aim is to shut down Yarl’s Wood and other immigrant Removal Centres.

A spokesperson for Serco, the security organisation that runs Yarl’s Wood, said, “We understand and appreciate the vulnerability of the people in our care and the legitimate concerns that many people and organisations have about them.

“We will continue to work to ensure that the residents are well looked after at this difficult time in their lives. Any instance of sexually inappropriate behaviour is completely unacceptable and any allegations are reported to the police. The last incident of this nature was in December 2012.

“Her Majesty’s Chief Inspector of Prison[s] were clear in their latest report that no residents at Yarl’s Wood said they were aware of staff involved in any illegal activity or sexual abuse of detainees.”

The motion was proposed by Balliol’s charities officers, Rivka Shaw and Sophie Conquest.

Shaw said, “The main thrust of our motion was actually to publicise the protest in question. Having attended one in the same vein in March, we feel that these protests are particularly important because of the tangible effect they have; the women inside the centre are able to communicate with the protesters, even putting messages out of the window that we could read.”

The Balliol General Meeting passed the motion with no opposition. On the ‘Movement for Justice’ funding page, they state, “As the demonstrations grow, so do the costs. Your money will fund coaches, train tickets, public transport costs and food/drink for the day.’

A spokesperson for Movement for Justice commented, “Racist and xenophobic attacks on immigrants post Brexit are becoming ever more menacing with the border encroaching into our schools, hospitals, housing and sweeping attacks on international students we need students to step up, to take up this struggle as their struggle.

“We’ve won so much in the past few years, detention is at the lowest point it’s been for over a decade with detention centres closing that’s no accident, it’s because of the movement now it’s time to build that movement in our schools, colleges and universities.”

Teddy Hall rugby team in“topless brawl”

Tony Diver
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Teddy Hall rugby team in“topless brawl”

Members of the St Edmund Hall rugby team were involved in a “topless brawl” on St Anne’s quad, and inflicted damage on the college bar area, Cherwell has learnt.

The bar, which was also being used to host the Anne’s versus Teddy Hall darts match, had its disabled toilet “smashed up” and its pool balls stolen, before the “brawl” began.

A source, who wished to remain anonymous, said that the damage was caused by Teddy Hall’s rugby team, who were hosting drinks in the bar that night. They had come to support the darts team in the match against Anne’s, Cherwell was told, and significant damage was inflicted on the bar area after their 10-2 loss.

One St Anne’s second-year student said, “I was in the pool room of the bar and it sounded quite rowdy. Then some guy rushed in and shouted ‘quad wrestle’ so everyone went to see what was going on. These two guys were on the patch of grass between Wolfson and stacs and one of them was barely able to stand. Other people made them strip off their shirts and take off their shoes, then they started wrestling on the grass.

“All the Teddy Hall people had formed a semicircle around them and were shouting things like ‘I wanna see blood’”.

Arthur Norman, a second year biochemist, said, “They had generally been unpleasant throughout the night. One of their second years had apologised for their ‘rowdy freshers’. They all poured out of the bar onto a patch of grass that definitely wasn’t our quad. About 3 pairs of people arranged themselves opposite opposite each other, most were topless. The rest were standing around cheering them on.”

Another student at St Anne’s said, “I’m so glad I wasn’t there. It’s so frustrating. It’s also annoying in that the people that did it might get validation from the mess they’ve caused. I hope they get punished for it because our college has had to clear up the mess.”

Tom Dyer, the St Edmund Hall JCR President, told Cherwell, “The actions at St Anne’s bar are in no way acceptable and are not something which we want any student or society of Teddy Hall to be associated with. I cannot comment on the nature of the events as I was not there and the college investigation into the incident is ongoing. The events occurred whilst a darts fixture was going on in the adjacent room to the bar, however I understand it was not a member of the darts club responsible.

The Teddy Hall dean will be working to ensure that appropriate action is taken against those responsible. I would like to take the opportunity to apologise on behalf of those there to the bar staff, dean and students of St Anne’s. As I have said, this is absolutely not acceptable and not something we wish to be associated with Teddy Hall.”

St Anne’s College and JCR President declined to comment.

Fanny Price: Unsung heroine

Thomas Peet
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Fanny Price: Unsung heroine

Poor Fanny Price. The virtuous, earnest and shy protagonist of Mansfield Park is undoubtedly Jane Austen’s least popular heroine. She possesses neither the wit nor vivaciousness of Elizabeth Bennet, neither the glamour nor fortune of Emma Woodhouse. Equally she does not undergo any major transformation like that of Marianne Dashwood that allows her to become adored by the reader over time. No, instead Fanny spends most of the novel wandering about the edges of the titular estate, lamenting the hardship of her position as an outsider, frowning upon the immoral behaviour of her spoilt relations, and bottling up her long-held love for Edmund, the one cousin who treats her kindly. One can easily deduce, therefore, why critics like Clara Calvo find Fanny “priggish, passive, naive and hard to like”. Indeed, Austen’s own mother famously thought Fanny was “insipid”, a view that has often been perpetuated by current audiences.

Mansfield Park was Austen’s third novel to be published, and is certainly one of her most profound works; however for too long it has been neglected by readers and scholars alike on the grounds that it is less ironic, less comical and perhaps less typical than the rest of the author’s output. Clearly, the main character herself is not often liked.

Nevertheless, I believe there are more subtle conclusions to be drawn about the character of Fanny Price. Many of her defenders invoke a kind of paragon of Christian virtue, summarised by Claire Tomalin’s view that “it is in rejecting obedience in favour of the higher dictate of remaining true to her own conscience that Fanny rises to her moment of heroism.” Essentially she is suggesting we realise our affection for Fanny by the end of the novel because she has endured a difficult upbringing away from her parents and because she refuses to compromise her integrity for the sake of fashionable tastes. Such a view carries significant weight amongst modern readers. Although it does not include certain aspects of the Mansfield Park narrative.

Fanny’s story is also about class, in an era when social justice discourse was still infantile. She is not upright or frigid out of personal choice, but because the role of representing the dutiful purpose of a less-privileged background is forced upon her. It may well be Fanny would enjoy an indulgent, care-free existence, much like the frivolous lifestyle of Mary Crawford, but her circumstances do not allow it. Her personal difficulties in a more troublesome environment at Mansfield presents her with stronger insight, and in this way, she offers a much more realistic portrait of women’s life in Regency England. Fanny is, after all, a poor relation offloaded by her overburdened parents who is sent away at a young age to be raised in the opulent surroundings of her cousins’ estate. Her mean-spirited aunt, Mrs Norris, continually reminds her of her social inferiority in this context, despite displaying warmth at the start.

And yet Fanny is resilient, unperturbed and uncorrupted by the more luxurious situation landed upon her. To me this displays a strength of character which we should not only sympathise with, but admire and appreciate as one of Austen’s greatest portrayals, especially since her authorial genius in this novel is so remarkable, for she does not just set about making you fall immediately in love with the book’s heroine from the first chapter. She does not glorify her with flattering gentlemen, skills of flirtation or noble actions. Instead, she patiently sketches out the humility, respectability and overall good nature of an underloved and under-appreciated young woman, which is why Fanny Price’s happy ending is perhaps the most deserved out of all Jane Austen novels.

Red on Blue: How can we best help refugees?

Liam Astle and Matt Burwood
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Red on Blue: How can we best help refugees?

Red: Liam Astle

At this moment we are living in an increasingly global world – something we all prosper from. We can travel across continents with relative ease and study in other nations than our own; we can spread ideas with the press of an upload button; we can get a job in almost any location, and become informed on global happenings by turning on the TV.

Yet we can’t just reap the benefits of being British citizens in a global community without accepting the duties that come with it all. Refugees are people in the most vulnerable position we can imagine: without homes, without nations and in total desperation. If we accept that a community has a duty to help those in need, why do we refuse to directly help the most desperate on a global scale?

By only accepting 20,000 refugees into Britain per year, the government has done the bare minimum. Canada is letting in 25,000 per year; Germany has already received 800,000; and Turkey has received 2,500,000. Britain, meanwhile, has dodged its duty to the international community by only allowing a small amount into our nation.

The natural rebuttal to such an argument would be that by funding refugee camps we’re doing our international duty by supporting refugees in vulnerable positions, ensuring there are institutions open to them so that they have immediate relief available. What this disregards is the value of a stable environment where people can move past the trauma of war, outside the limbo of a camp and to a new life. The opportunity to have a fresh start is one which cannot be understated. The opportunity to raise a family in peace, to get an education and the safety that can often be found are a stark contrast to the war-torn zones refugees escape from.

Take Ahmed Hussen. He arrived in Canada as a refugee from Somalia in 1996 at the age of 16. He finished his secondary school studies and attended York University in Toronto, graduating in 2002, followed by a degree in law at the University of Ottawa. He began practising law in 2013 – and in 2015, he became the first Somali-Canadian to be elected to the Canadian House of Commons.

Such a story shows the transformative opportunities presented by the chance to settle in a new nation, to have clear opportunities to develop one’s education and to have a clean break.  What we can offer is opportunity along with stability, something which cannot always be ensured by funding distant refugee camps.

We have a duty to the global community and to the most vulnerable to share the burden which we face more evenly across our nations; a duty to offer people a direct chance to better their condition and give them a fresh chance at life. We owe it to the world and we owe it to the refugees themselves.

Blue: Matt Burwood

The government can scarcely be accused of holding back when it comes to their response to the Syrian crisis. By now, over £3.2 billion of public funds have been committed to the UK’s response. We can be proud of this tremendous donation which goes to support some of the most vulnerable people trapped in Syria and displaced in the region, and goes a long way to fund regional and international organisations as they go about their extraordinary relief work. It’s worth finding some perspective on just how significant the UK contribution has been, and I refer you to Oxfam’s “Fair Share Analysis” for 2015, which compares national GDP to relief contributions. The UK was deemed to have provided 237% of their theoretical “fair share”, eclipsing Germany, France and Russia at a decent 152%, meagre 45%, and abysmal 1% respectively.

In terms of cash, then, we are not one of those countries flagrantly shirking their responsibilities to some of the most beleaguered and desperate people in the world. But there is the question of how British generosity should be directed – whether the government should continue to focus on regional support rather than the acceptance of refugees. Fundamentally, both approaches have the potential to achieve great things for those touched by the conflict, but we must make sensible choices which lead to the best results given our limited resources.

Accepting refugees is a costly business; the charity War Child UK estimates that while providing basic food, water, education and opportunity to a refugee in Jordan would cost circa $3,000, the equivalent cost in Europe is more like $30,000. Advocates of large scale acceptance of refugees into Europe have to explain why the benefits of moving one refugee to Europe outweigh the opportunity cost of ten refugees in the Middle East who might otherwise have benefitted from our support. I am not arguing that refugee camps are a comfortable or in any way satisfactory compromise – as four million refugees in camps remain without access to work or education, their lives indefinitely on pause, it is essential that we work hard to uphold our commitments to help these people meaningfully and quickly. We could certainly pour resources into helping tens of thousands of additional refugees relocate Britain, or we could choose to stretch those funds ten times further by bringing some basic human dignity to the vast camps in Lebanon, Jordan, and Turkey.

Besides this general argument in favour of supporting refugees in the region over large scale resettlement, I feel it is right to note a few more details about our government’s approach. Firstly, 87% of Syrians claiming asylum in the twelve months up to March this year were accepted into the UK. Secondly, the Syrian Vulnerable Person Resettlement Programme provides a route for refugees to enter the UK who have suffered torture and sexual violence, or who are elderly or disabled. Thirdly, there is the intention to resettle 20,000 in the next five years, and a more recent commitment to accept 3,000 vulnerable child refugees. These policies are abundantly sensible and compassionate when considering the significant but not limitless resources of the British public. Amid a tragedy on the scale of the Syrian Civil War, it is nearly impossible to reach satisfactory resolutions. Ultimately, hard decisions must be made, and the ones being made by the government are for the right reasons.

Rediscovering Halloween

Emma Leech
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Rediscovering Halloween

If you walked down my street ten years ago, a few days after Halloween, you would be greeted by spooky-themed carnage: moulding pumpkins, tattered paper skeletons and littered sweet wrappers. It was, almost ironically, a Halloween ghost town. A few days prior, the streets were filled with DIY ghosts, sugar-fuelled witches and laughter. The quiet cul-de-sac was lit up with can- delight glinting off sparkly costumes. Huddles of parents chatted as children extorted their neighbours for the sweets which would become the main point of familial contention over the coming weeks.

Eventually, the children went to bed with smudged face pain and stomachs full of E numbers. Happy. However, like those mould- ing pumpkins, my experience of Halloween has been somewhat ravaged with the effects of time. As a small child, my house was the hub of festivities when the spooky season approached. Weeks of planning went into the night: papier mâché decorations, hand-sewn costumes, apples to be bobbed. The community came out in its masses to celebrate the one holiday that brought us all together. My cyclical alternation between cat and witch costume sufficed to help me garner all the sweets I could carry as I went around my neighbours spouting a joke for which I had spent the previous week trawling through tattered joke books. It is a Scottish tradition to say a joke to earn your ‘treat’ so this was a vital part of proceedings and “What is brown and sticky? A stick” was a family favourite. In a rare display of un-Britishness, we would voluntarily interact with the people we lived around. Elderly neighbours would meet the kids whose screams kept them from their afternoon naps and those who were more reclusive would be, if willing, welcomed into the neighbourhood circle. Under the guise of spreading Halloween fever, we were actually spreading neighbourly values and friendship. Of course, those who did not want to participate were respected as were encouraged only to approach houses with decorations. I am under no illusions that the appearance of a ghost is always unwelcome to some people, even if it is just an eight-year-old under a bedsheet.

My memory of these years may sound hyperbolic, and I will admit, at the time, I was more focussed on the food and that one neighbour who gave out actual money (a whole 20p each!) than the social barriers being broken down, but hindsight is a wonderful thing. As all the children in our street bobbed for apples in my living room, we shared more than a basin. Our common childhood experience of Halloween is something we will always treasure. It was never high-budget or flashy, but it’s amazing how far doughnuts on a string can go to entertain a village’s children. I accept that memories are embellished over time, and I don’t deny that there were Halloween mishaps, but having your face painted as a spider witch instead of a regular one is not exactly catastrophic. As Halloween rolled around every year, we dusted the cobwebs off the faux-cobwebs and prepared for one of our favourite nights of the year. However, just as carved pumpkins cannot last for- ever, neither could this wonderfully juvenile experience.

As we entered our later teenage years, we no longer wanted our parents accompany us around our block as house parties beckoned. Influenced by swathes of Halloween parties in movies (Mean Girls I’m looking at you) the aim was now to look striking, not sinister. Witches cloaks were replaced with short skirts and fake blood with high heels—although, admittedly, the way I staggered in them was almost zombie-like. Outfits were planned for weeks, not for realism but for the opportunity to strategically smuggle vodka past our parents. As a non-drinker at that time, I stood aside awkwardly as Aladdin flirted with Cher from Clueless and the entire cast of Anchorman vomited in the middle of the dance- floor.

Admittedly, this new-found freedom was exciting, but the hyperactivity from too much sugar was easier to sleep on than the nausea from too much off-brand gin. My meticulously planned costumes would last an hour at most before someone was sick on them or the party was shut down. I would return home, exhausted and disappointed, to my parents who would tell me of all the trick-or-treaters who had come to our door and a small part of me wished I could have joined them instead. One of my favourite days of the year had been marred by adolescence and insolence. However, in the depths of my heart, a lit pump- kin still flickers. Those memories of traipsing the streets surrounded by friends and neighbours, weighed down by bags of chocolate will always prevail in my mind and my love of Halloween endures. I am in no way demonising (excuse the pun) alcohol for its involvement in these years. We were naïve and thought we were untouchable, which some found to be untrue the hard way through the intervention of a stomach pump, but I’m taking back control of my Halloween. This year I am going to lay on the sweets, decorations, and judgement if people don’t make an effort. Yes, there will probably be drink involved (sorry, mum) but I assure you, if someone is sick on my decorations then there will be no need for fake blood.

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