Thursday 17th July 2025
Blog Page 966

One thing I’d change about Oxford… The Gladstone Link

Nicola Dwornik
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One thing I’d change about Oxford… The Gladstone Link

Haphazardly staggering along the flagstones, I clutch my illegal energy drink close to my chest and scurry towards the building. After passing through double-doors and threatening security barriers, I’m in. It’s dark, it’s wooden, it’s glorious—no place for a mere mortal. Godly figures of intellectualism sit in lines, radiating auras tinged with green as the lamps light up their books. I do not belong. I quickly veer right, descending the staircase and passing through another electric door. Fluorescent lighting immediately burns into the back of my eyes. A musty smell and superfluous piping. White walls surround me. Is this hell? Is this Tartarus? No—it’s the Gladstone Link.

The first floor is a scrapyard of abandoned metal—bashed into industrial shelving, with holes. The books, confused by these metallic ‘bookshelves’ and the edgy diagonal layout, frown as I fail to find them. I too scowl as I search for a place to sit, and I soon realise that at 9:20am I am twenty minutes too late. Fellow students, having already securing a famed expansive desk, smile smugly at each other, flaunting their battle spoils. Here they proceed to sit, like vegetables tanning under UV, until day’s end. The sofas dotted around aim to provide an atmosphere of comfort. The scratchy cheese grater floor provides the opposite.

Failing to find the books I need, I proceed down into a deeper circle of the inferno. The grumbling echoes from the floor above provide background music as I browse the books that cannot ever be exposed to the air of the outside. I quickly realise that I am in the land of the Lotus Eaters. Apparently, people sometimes have sex here. I guess the scraping sound of people walking above is slightly erotic, as is the fear of being sandwiched between two bookcases. Silver linings I guess.

The Gladstone Link is a cave: a fluorescent and stuffy one. In the land of dreaming spires, I really don’t understand why someone would willingly submit themselves to such sterile torture.

Liberalism can no longer ignore anti-globalisation

Daniel Curtis
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Liberalism can no longer ignore anti-globalisation

One unexpected result is an outlier. Two is a trend. It seems there is now a western revolt against internationalism and globalisation. While those two concepts have certainly brought their benefits, we cannot turn a blind eye to a result simply because it contravenes our 21st century progressivism. It is well documented that Brexit and now Trump are ‘protest votes’. What UKIP and Trump have done is provide a conduit for this very real and very justified discontent.

Yet where the right would stir up division and fulfil political agendas, we progressives in Britain must use it for what it is meant. Namely, to re-represent those who feel abandoned by the political system, and to contribute to the defining work of historical progressivism: the NHS, better living standards, a more equal and just economy, instilling liberal social values.

All of these are under threat now that progressivism is becoming increasingly insular. Take the Labour party, torn between two histories, one an ancient, leftist dogma, the other a pro-capitalist, pro-globalised Third Way. Both had their time, their merits and their successes.

Clearly we must provide bold answers to a Western public who are visibly antiglobalisation by securing jobs for Britons who, in post-Thatcher Britain, are cut off from financial comfort and professional satisfaction. It means ensuring that social cohesion, something which Britain has treated with complacency, is at the forefront of our minds. It means restoring the craved sense of patriotism and agency.

It is no coincidence that Trump’s “Make America Great Again” and Vote Leave’s “Take Back Control” resonated so strongly with voters. Both relate to having a national identity. This desire is not necessarily jingoistic and certainly not racist.

Patriotism must be reclaimed. It should relate to the NHS, our literary history, our architecture, not simply to imperial throwbacks or blatant, rancorous nationalism. The common threads which bind us all together as Britons must be not just suppressed but celebrated—and that extends to making an ardent case for controlled immigration, not just pandering to the right.

And finally comes the issue of economics. While being anti-austerity is a given, modern capitalism and globalism go hand-in-hand. It is left to us to make capitalism fairer for all while also accepting the public’s growing antipathy towards it. Syriza, Podemos, Sanders and Corbyn all hint at the growing germination of post-capitalism. This article isn’t a call for it—I am a moderate, not a Marxist. However, it is a fallacy to believe that everyone who voted for the right’s ascension is right wing themselves. Rather, they simply want a more just society, one in which they feel listened to. Isn’t that what progressives have always worked for?

Judge not, lest ye be judged: Article 50

Alex Waygood
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Judge not, lest ye be judged: Article 50

The press quickly came to grips with the most recent constitutional crisis. “Enemies of the people,” screamed The Daily Mail. “Who do you think EU are?” demanded The Sun. The Daily Express was the most forthright, calling its readership to arms with the headline: “Now your country really does need you…”

I’m glad that’s been cleared up. I hadn’t quite realised that a court ruling delaying Brexit was comparable to the horror of the Great War.

So what exactly is the cause of this dire peril? On November 3, three judges ruled that British constitutional law does not allow for the Government to begin the process of leaving the European Union without first passing a law through Parliament. The reason? “The most fundamental rule of the UK’s constitution is that Parliament is sovereign”—meaning that no law passed by Parliament can be overridden by the Government without passing new legislation.

It sounds boring and technical, and really, that’s because it is. It’s the job of the British judiciary to consult legal precedent and rule on the interpretation of Britain’s strange, amorphous constitution. Has Brexit been blocked? No; it will probably take Theresa May longer to begin the process of leaving the EU, but it still seems highly unlikely that a majority of MPs would choose to vote against the will of the people as expressed in the referendum.

So this isn’t a ‘power grab’ by ‘activist judges’ that ‘undermines democracy’. Far from it. Newspapers and politicians lambasting the judges should take care: the separation of powers between the government, parliament and the judiciary is one of the fundamental pillars on which our democracy is founded. The independence of Britain’s courts provides protection for the judiciary, ensuring that judges cannot be fi red should they choose to rule against the government. But it also provides important checks and balances on the Government’s power that protect the rights of us all. Crucially, these do not place limits on Parliament’s sovereignty, which remains supreme—our Supreme Court does not have the power to ‘strike down’ legislation. But the courts do have the power to call into question important procedural errors committed by the government, which is what has happened here.

The government decided, rather belatedly, to defend the independence of the judiciary. This is meant to be one of the primary roles of the Lord Chancellor. Yet the words of Liz Truss and Theresa May—the latter only qualifying her support by saying that she also values ‘the freedom of our press’—have been half-hearted and weak.

That is unacceptable. Freedom of the press is irrelevant, and a cowardly excuse. This Government should vigorously attack the tabloids for seeking to undermine our judicial process.

Perhaps the inherent suspicion of many Brexiteers that the country’s institutions are biased against them is reasonable. Yet, the decision seems technically uncontroversial. Perhaps this is why nearly all the accusations of political bias from pro-Brexit politicians seem to have come in the form of such dismaying and unqualified assertions.

A night at the clubs: Hypnotize

James Lamming
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A night at the clubs: Hypnotize

As the last ISIS night of Michaelmas Term jammed and funked its way to life last Thursday evening, the scorching rays of West Coast sunshine began to clear away the fog of Oxford’s fifth week blues. Promising a tantalising hip-hop fusion of Old Skool 90s classics (think Grandmaster Flash, NWA and Tupac) and the new kids on the scene, Cellar coaxed out every R&B purist in Oxford ready for a night of raucous bars and beats. Still, there was a sense of uncertainty before the event among some would-be Cellar-goers. Song selections on the event’s Facebook wall had been both sparse and eclectic, ranging from the classic Nas, Tupac, and Biggie Smalls to the ambitious selection of David Guetta’s ‘Titanium’, perhaps not strictly classed as a 90s hip-hop classic. Most meekly listed their names alone, unwilling to be named and shamed for insufficiently ‘hip’ song choices.

Despite this, a long queue wound its way from the High Street to the Cellar stairs and snatches of Nas’ ‘The World is Yours’ had those in the cold air nodding along in anticipation. At £4 entry and a pound a pint, the night easily offered some of the best value for money to be had in Oxford. Inside, Cellar had clearly put great effort into reproducing the heat of Southern California; the venue was both overcrowded and under-ventilated, without any of the romance of Venice Beach. Despite the heatwave, masterful DJs mixed up an excellent selection of the classic and the modern, fading the masterful lyrics of Tupac into Chance the Rapper’s laid back beats. Everyone agreed that Ice Cube had been right about Thursday of 5th Week: ‘Today Was A Good Day’.

Editing genes: Can we? Should we?

Calum Stephenson
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Editing genes: Can we? Should we?

It’s the year 2116, and the last person to die from malaria did so fifty years ago. Genetic demons such as Huntington’s disease and cystic fibrosis—whose heritability was a scourge on the psyche of those with a family history—can no longer hold prospective parents hostage. We’ve cracked the problem of world hunger and started bringing species back from extinction. Humanity has never had it better.

This is our future, or at least it could be. All of this is possible through the newest revolution in science, a technology affectionately known as CRISPR, the latest and greatest development in the field of genome editing. It allows the genetic makeup of an organism to be altered by adding, removing or swapping letters in the DNA nucleotide code.

Although similar targeted editing technologies have existed since the 90s, CRISPR is special because of its unrivalled accuracy and speed. Critical to the process, enzyme Cas9 is often described as the pair of ‘molecular scissors’ that snip the DNA at the point of modification. The enzyme is guided by an artificially synthesised RNA molecule to the appropriate sequence in the genome, meaning that researchers can manipulate where Cas9 cuts through changing the code of this guide RNA.

Earlier this year the HFEA, the UKs Fertility authority, approved a request allowing use of CRISPR on human embryos, as long as all embryos are destroyed after seven days of development. This allows study of the earliest stage of human embryonic growth, a major landmark in the history of the technology.

CRISPR has the potential to represent the next step in human evolution. However, there are many who would prefer to remain in the present, or even to turn and run back into the past.

Arguments against genome editing take a primarily ethical route. Critics propose that the concentration of these technologies in developed nations would mean they would only be accessible to the most fortunate of our planet, creating an evolutionary gap in class. Furthermore, eradicating conditions such as Down’s syndrome could devalue the lives of those afflicted, portraying them as less than human. And many feel that power such as this should not be wielded by humans that we would be playing God.

Are these arguments relevant? Yes, of course. But they are at risk of missing the greater point.

Science itself is unprejudiced and unemotional. It is not in itself evil, but it can be used for evil. Therefore genome editing must be monitored on an international scale to ensure the fulfilment of its potential to do an incredible amount of good and minimise undesirable social side-effects.

Those who say we would be playing God should be reminded that we live in an artificial world forged by us for us. Humans created dogs, dams and cities. We’ve eradicated smallpox while harnessing natural energy sources to generate power. We are becoming increasingly more aware of the villains of the future, from climate change and antibiotic resistance to overpopulation, and taking control over our own genetic destiny should be the next stage in our defence.

Every generation has a duty to the next to decrease the suffering it itself faced from genetic diseases, and we have an opportunity to do just that, beginning with CRISPR.

Interview: Elspeth Garman

Josephine Pepper
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Interview: Elspeth Garman

Elspeth Garman is a Professor of Molecular Biophysics in the Oxford Biochemistry department. Working at interface of all three core sciences, she has helped develope physical techniques in a field that has yielded 28 Nobel Prizes to date, unpicking the chemical properties of biological molecules. One of these techniques, cryo-crystallography, is now the principle method of protein structure determination worldwide. Elspeth told Cherwell about the Garman limit, misogyny she has faced in her career, and why, even after numerous awards marking her as a forerunner in her field, she is most proud of her graduate students.

How would you describe what you do to the layman in the street?

I like talk to all sorts of people that I meet on buses and in taxis and the way I explain what I do is find the three-dimensional shape of big, biologically important molecules—proteins, which are like strings of beads that wrap up like wet spaghetti. Why do we need to know the shape? Using insulin as an example, from knowledge of the 3D shape of insulin we have been able to see what’s on the inside and what’s on the outside [of this protein] and how the mechanism of glucose regulation works. From that shape it has been possible to make a synthetic insulin which is absorbed more slowly by diabetics, so they benefit by not having to inject so often.

The method we use sounds ridiculous: we grow crystals. The biological molecules line up like soldiers, but 3-dimensionally, so upwards as well. It’s not like a diamond crystal, which is hard and only has carbon in it, because we have gaps between our blobby molecules which have liquid in, so it’s like these soldiers are in a swimming pool. If they are removed they tend to bend and not stand to attention in same way; we rely on the fact that all the soldiers are standing to attention to get our [X-ray] scattering. We hit them with X-rays and from [the way X-rays scatter from the molecule] we can deduce the shape.

The actual growing of the crystal is more luck than good management. It’s trial and error. In a recent project we tackled, the tuberculosis enzyme, we set up seven thousand crystallisation conditions and we only ever grew one crystal which was only 23 microns [one fiftieth of a millimetre] in size.

I gather you are very instrumental in improving the techniques used rather than working on the results.

The things I’m known for is development of cryo-crystallographic techniques. Now nearly 90 percent of Protein Data Bank [the primary protein structure reference database] entries are determined like this. We plunge-cool the protein crystals into liquid nitrogen and then we collect data with a gaseous nitrogen stream at 100K [-173°C]. Why do we do that? Because we get on average seventy times more data at cryo-temperatures than we get at room temperature. At room temp you need tens of crystals because the radiation damage is so intense.

I [helped by] putting some systematic physics onto the problem, and we made a lot of gizmos. I found that my baby’s hair could make very nice loops [to hold the crystals]. It is quite difficult to tie the loops so I made a little machine which helps you do that, then we would loop the crystals, like bubbles, using surface tension of the liquid to hold the crystal in the loop, then plunge-cool it.

What my group looks at now is trying to understand the damage the X-rays are causing [to the proteins] to give people an idea of how many X-rays they can put on their biological sample before the information yielded is compromised. In 2006 we published a [seminal] paper which gave the experimental dose limit, embarrassingly called the Garman limit. It is great to have something named after you, it was the best experiment I’ve ever thought of and I’m very proud of the way my student and I did the experiment.

What makes you get up in the morning?

My graduate students. The greatest fun I have is with my graduate students. They give you three years of their life to study something you’re interested in; it’s an amazing gift! I feel a responsibility to make sure they network, do something positive, enjoy what they’re doing, get publications, can get a good job afterwards, and learn respect for the human race. In my view I owe them. All my research has been made possible by graduate students.

One hears a lot about the gender gap in science. Having spent your entire working life in science, particularly in physics, how much of an issue do you feel it to be?

It’s not changing as fast as we’d like and yes it is an issue. The problem in physics was I was the first female graduate student for fifteen years in the area I was in, so you bore the flag for all women-kind. If you did something stupid it was because women were stupid, not because Elspeth made a mistake. I found that difficult. And when I was younger collaborators and people who wanted to talk science with me got teased by the other men. I tended to just plough on. But there were advantages as well as disadvantages; the worst moment—the worst I can put on record anyway—was when I went to my first international meeting in Berkley, San Francisco with 992 men and eight women. The equal rights amendment had just come in in the States and the physics department had been told it had to recruit a female nuclear physicist. In five days I was offered twelve jobs, only one of which was a genuine ‘fit’ for my experience and research interest. It was the most demeaning, degrading experience—job offers just because I was female. Unfortunately in the States in nuclear physics a few women were taken on who shouldn’t have been, filling quotas rather than selecting the best candidate, and then subsequently more women weren’t welcomed as the earlier one had been no good. This back lash was quite serious and makes me very hesitant about positive discrimination, so I am torn.

It’s not really about being a woman in science, it’s about being a scientist.

Bah, humbug: An Oxmas Carol

Charles Britton
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Bah, humbug: An Oxmas Carol

Michaelmas term fading on the winds of goodwill, tickling the spires in their sleep. Blackwell’s admitting nobody, but quietly shunning a few wayward party-goers. All Oxford seemed arrested in either expectant slumber, or festive fervour.

And yet, tucked away at the top of staircase nine was Edward Stooge, a miser in a youth’s body. While his surroundings throbbed with excitement, he paced his cramped cell, clad in his onesie of loneliness. Procrastination, that cruel spectre, haunted him there. A knock at his door brought him to his senses. How stunned was Edward’s friend Matthew to see such ghastly attire! His grin seemed to blurt out without moving.

“Eddie,” (Edward resented the nickname) “you are going to Lola’s tonight, right?”

Edward tried to excuse his own misanthropy, but Matthew’s dog-like loyalty was insufferable. He would not understand.

The door was thus slammed upon him, not without some force. “Suit yourself,” Matthew was heard to say, totally unaffected. “I’m gonna get sloshed. I’ll be seeing ghosts after tonight.”

With the chuckles retreating down the corridor, Edward retired to his desk, cackling, “Is this the meaning of Oxmas? Bah, humbug!” as he skulked. Yet it did affect him that in this time of repose and warmth he should be snowed under his work: not even the collective cheer of Broad Street could reach his window.

In a stupor of overwork, he fell asleep.

When next his eyes opened, there was a persistent knocking at his door. He was certain a ‘sloshed’ Matthew was playing a trick, so armed himself with a slipper. Then, suddenly, a ghoulish wraith forced his way under the door. He looked remarkably like Matthew, and borrowed his voice.

“Eddie,” his voice boomed with uncharacteristic urgency. “Let me show you your past.” The room was transformed into a nightclub Edward faintly recognised. The two stood, voyeurs to a more liberated player of Edward downing Jägerbombs to the rhythm of cheering crowds.

“Is that…” Edward started.

“Yes. Look upon but a term’s work, what it has reduced you to. Never will you rekindle that Fresher’s spirit.”

Edward tried to disguise his mourning.

The bedroom materialised as he protested, “We all have to grow up at some point,” but his defiance cracked mid-sentence. This ghost of Oxmas past needed only grin as he vanished into the aether.

Edward inspected his tea to see if it had been in any way spiked, before splaying himself out on the bed. “Hemingway and Earl Grey really do not agree with me,” he muttered drowsily.

Edward’s next visitor was too eccentric for the frippery of the door. This next phantom rapped at the window out of courtesy before phasing in. The fiend was unmistakably in the garb of Edward’s lecturer: shabby shirt, bowtie and all. Rearing his head, Edward feared the ghost might do what its visage implied.

“Edward Bartholomew Stooge,” hollered the ethereal academic. “Let me show you how insignificant insecurities be.”

The pair were lifted into a well-known auditorium, suspended above the stage. Though he stood where generations of superior intellects had inspired and blunted the imagination, Edward was bombarded with the thoughts of the audience, his peers. “What does this guy mean?”, cried one poor youth. “How will I read all my books?”, soliloquised another. “Does he really like me?”, “What am I having for dinner tonight?”

Trifles all! They were heavy burdens which satirised Edward’s own.

As the teacher deposited his pupil in his room, he said, “You are not alone, even in your petty concerns.” He determinedly made for the window, but an impulse stopped him. “One more thing: essay for Monday, no run-on sentences.” He took his leave.

Judging by the rule of three, Edward, alert, in the foetal position, was determined to be ready for the appearance of his final guest. This crafty poltergeist caught him off -guard still, by erupting from the floorboards. From his bright green chinos, Edward could not fail to identify the chaplain in this apparition. Edward refused to sit dumb. “What can you show me, then? Success? Love? Family? Disappointment? It’s hardly very Christian of you to appear in such a fashion.”

“I will pretend I did not hear that,” replied the chaplain. “And I can show you all of the above, if you neglect my words.”

To his surprise, Edward found himself not far afield, but in his very room. Something was amiss. Books began raining from the ceiling, clattering around his ears, sealing him in a hardback igloo. Outside his door, he could make out the laughter of his friends, an uproar which drowned out the simultaneous conflagration of his term’s work. The flames licking his skin, Edward begged forgiveness. And his call was answered.

In a cold sweat, Edward listened closely to the chaplain’s closing words. “We have shown you all we can. Think on your welfare—and come to Evensong on Sunday.”

Edward had what he wanted, to be solitary once more, yet it no longer sufficed, but created a hole: one which craved friendship, a desire work could not imitate.

Imbued with new purpose, Edward flew downstairs. His destination was that chaplain’s abode, the chapel. It was as if he knew the tower door would be open to him. Perched high above the dreaming spires, he sought to stir them with the most heartfelt “Merry Oxmas, Everyone,” a man could muster. In the avenue below, a drunken, home-bound Matthew returned his call jocularly, swaying to the symphony of bells.

Rewind: Miracle on 34th Street

Susie Finlay
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Rewind: Miracle on 34th Street

Beginning with the inevitable disappointment of my ‘Secret Santa’ present, followed by a festively violent round of musical chairs and reindeer ice cream at lunch, the course of the last day of the autumn term was the same every year. Then, back at home and revelling in the luxury of a half day at school, I’d slot in my old video cassette of Miracle on 34th Street.

Set in Macy’s department store, you’d be forgiven for assuming that the film would be soullessly, depressingly commercial. Even the nature of its release in 1947 points towards a penchant for mindless consumerism. Arguing that warmer weather would sell more cinema tickets, the studio-head of Twentieth-Century Fox insisted that despite being set at Christmas, the film should be released in early summer.

Indeed, the film reflects a sense of the creeping consumerism which had latched itself to the festive season over the previous decade. In 1939, the retailer Montgomery Ward created a character called Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer in order to attract children to its stores. And only a few years before, Coca-Cola launched its advertising campaign featuring a fat Santa in a red coat, altering the public’s perception of Father Christmas forever and heralding the rise of the newly commercialised Christmas of the 20th Century.

“Make a buck, make a buck”—the mournful refrain of Alfred, the sensitive Macy’s employee, seems particularly apt in this context. The influential Catholic Legion of Decency went so far as to dub the film to be “morally objectionable in part”, primarily because Maureen O’Hara played a divorcée. But Macy’s is a far cry from the manger, and the wholly anti-religious department store setting can’t have helped.

But there’s something commendable about the shamelessness of the setting. It seems refreshingly honest, especially when juxtaposed with the dewy eyed sentimentality of today’s anxiously awaited John Lewis adverts, for example. Instead of shying away from the reality of modern Christmas by retreating to a quaint polar landscape, or indeed the moon, director George Seaton had the guts to embrace the frantic commercialism now synonymous with the festive season with perceptive wit and dry humour.

So I don’t necessarily subscribe to Alfred’s insight that “there’s a lot of bad-isms floating around this world, but one of the worst is commercialism”. After all, what could be more Christmassy than frenzied crowds of shoppers, hour-long queues and overdrawn bank accounts?

Graham Greene and Oxford’s pubs

Daniel Curtis
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Graham Greene and Oxford’s pubs

Have you ever had to down a few drinks to pluck up the courage to speak with someone you fancy, so intimidated by their attractiveness or by your own burgeoning emotion?

You’re in good company. One of the greatest British novelists of all time, Graham Greene, recalled his crush on a Lamb and Flag barmaid, “who we all agreed resembled in her strange beauty the Egyptian queen Nefertiti. What quantities of beer we drank in order to speak a few words with her”, in his Fragments of Autobiography.

Greene is known to have been a frequent face at the Lamb and Flag, off St Giles. Much like Gerard Manley Hopkins, the subject of this feature a few weeks ago, Greene was prone to bouts of depression and religious doubt both during his degree and during his life, affecting his relationships and work. He graduated with a second class degree, so clearly his skills as a novelist surpassed his abilities as an essay writer.

Greene was to write a number of books, both serious novels and what he called ‘entertainments’, after leaving Oxford. But even these lighter works, Brighton Rock and Our Man in Havanna being just two, were classics which explored twentieth century anxieties, through a lens of tortured Catholicism. It was during his time at University that he first tried his hand at creative writing, publishing a poorly-received poetry collection, Babbling April.

Pub-going authors abound, and when walking down St Giles from North Oxford, it’s sometimes impossible to make it into town without first stepping off the pavement to avoid the usual congregation of tourists crowding round The Eagle and Child. This was where the Inklings, a group of literary-minded friends and tutors which happened to include C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien, met. Here, the literary worlds of Narnia and Middle Earth were dreamt up in hazes of revelry and creativity. Would that my own pub trips this Oxmas might be quite so productive.

A “tinsel-covered silver lining”

Safa Dar
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A “tinsel-covered silver lining”

It’s that time of year again: you can start bracing yourself for the onslaught of high-pitched jingles and ‘Christmas special offers’ designed to lure you further into the trappings of capitalist society as soon as you make your way into any shop or department store. The cheerful tunes may well be poison to your ears because you’re neck-deep in an essay crisis and not quite feeling the holiday vibes yet. This was me a year ago, and it’s not too far from where I’m at right now. Oxford has a knack for making it difficult to think beyond the present, but at least this time around, I know there will be the tinsel-covered silver lining that is Oxmas.

While Oxmas may seem like another branch of the broader commercialisation of Christmas, occurring months in advance of the actual thing and adding to an already rampant consumer culture, it is possible to enjoy Oxmas despite being generally critical of the premature holiday fervour because it focuses more on the communal aspects (Oxmas bop, dinner with friends) than consumerist ones. Admittedly, my fascination with Oxmas stems from my status as an outsider and the sense of foreignness in which Christmas is shrouded for me.

Before you start picturing a naive girl gawking at ornament-laden Christmas trees in wide eyed wonder, let me clarify that I was familiar with the cultural paraphernalia surrounding Christmas: I’d watched my favourite characters on TV unwrap presents and cosy up to watch It’s A Wonderful Life with their families (or not, in the case of poor Kevin). I’d read A Christmas Carol when I was a child but hadn’t particularly liked it. Every December, when my aunt, who lives in London, would visit us in Lahore, my younger sister would have a special request: “Can you bring some Christmas crackers with you pleeeeeeeeease?!!”

And so the crackers would come and in the relatively mild winter of Lahore we’d have our share of Christmas fun. Be as that may, I’d never seen it celebrated in the flesh before. The Christmas markets on Broad street may pale in comparison to the German markets my friends spoke about, but they were the only ones I’d ever seen, and the Nutella crepes I bought from there brightened up my otherwise foggy emergency treks to Tesco.

In the run up to the (free) Oxmas dinner, the weather becomes unbearably cold and grey, and as everyone duly cracks out their worn and well-loved Christmas jumpers (though this could be me romanticising what may well be recent purchases from Primark), I feel a little envious. I decide I want a cosy Christmas jumper too, and roam Cornmarket in search of one. But alas, the only remotely Christmassy jumpers I can find are either overpriced, unbearably gaudy or have Olaf’s face on them.

Week seven rolls around and you can see Christmas trees being carted around college. I’d never seen a real life Christmas tree before, and although I can’t say it was a life changing experience, I can now fully appreciate how horrible my five-foot self would be at decorating one. I was already familiar with the culture of festive gift giving: growing up celebrating Eid in Pakistan, the excitement of waking up to presents, albeit without the dramatic flair of them being positioned under a tree of the pine variety, was a familiar one. But where Eid normally involved visiting family and friends with the intention—for me at least—of coaxing Eidi, gift money, out of them, the markedly less commercialised nature of Eid means that we don’t have an equivalent of ‘Secret Santa’.

Nor, sadly enough, do we have anything like John Lewis Christmas adverts. When I first heard some friends having a heated discussion about their favourite—was ‘Man on the Moon’ trying too hard to be a tearjerker?—I was mildly amused, but when someone actually showed it to me, I must admit my heart melted a little. ‘Buster the Boxer’, in comparison, is looking like a bit of a disappointment and has managed to spark controversy already. Apparently keeping the Santa Claus myth alive for kids is important enough for some parents that they don’t want their children watching the father assembling a trampoline for his daughter.

Others have gone far enough to compare Buster to Trump, who snatches the opportunity to jump on the trampoline away from the more experienced and deserving young girl. Clearly John Lewis ads are no joking matter. Thankfully, we are told to keep our ‘Secret Santa’ gifts simple, so the ads are as far as my acquaintance with the John Lewis Christmas catalogue goes.

Oxmas bop is, appropriately, a blur. The dining hall is packed full of people on the evening of the Christmas dinner, and although I wasn’t a huge fan of the food itself, the atmosphere — probably fuelled by wine and the relieved realisation that this collective nightmare called Michaelmas would be over soon—was ebullient. The exuberant Oxmas cheer was a welcome light at the end of a long, cold tunnel and its location at the end of term meant that it glossed the gruelling work of Michaelmas in a warm haze, leaving me with echoes of Mariah Carey’s voice singing ‘All I Want For Christmas’ on repeat in my head.

On this note, I pack my bags and fly back home across continents, humming upbeat Christmas tunes and feeling oddly disoriented by their sudden absence when I arrive in Lahore.

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