Blog Page 983

The Japanese House – “I’ve never wanted fame at all”

Amber Bain, also known as The Japanese House, has forgotten about our scheduled interview until she picks up my call and I introduce myself. It’s lucky I caught her: she’s just got off the phone from a two hour chat with her mum. I give her a minute to light a cigarette, and then we’re off . Bain talks slowly, carefully, as matches the ebb and flow of her moody electronica. She seems relaxed yet thoughtful, often taking considerable gaps in her speech as she takes a drag on a cigarette or re-lights another.

As a musical project, The Japanese House is wonderfully unfussy. You may well know ‘Face Like Thunder’, though you may not place The Japanese House’s name to it. Taking its place as the lead single on 2016’s Swim Against the Tide EP, it’s an 80s-era pop tune hidden under swerving synths. It’s a tune much like Amber Bain herself, our conversation, and her whole musical output: inconspicuous and not at all showy, yet absorbing once you give time to its details.

Now, Buckinghamshire-born Bain is gearing up for the release of her fourth EP. She tells me the forthcoming single is her “favourite song [she’s] written to date”, with warmth, pondering, “I guess that’s how it’s meant to be.”

Bain talks about this upcoming track with tenderness. For a long while she hesitates, before ultimately confiding: “I had someone who I used to be really close with die a couple of years ago, and it’s about them. It’s about confronting those kind of issues.” For every song she writes, the way in which each element comes together is very different. But “this time I started the lyrics and melody at exactly the same time. My favourite songs are always the ones where everything comes at exactly the same time—the melody and the lyrics and chords or whatever.”

For such an understated musician, it’s interesting that Bain is so closely tied-up with outrageous pop successes The 1975. Drummer George Daniel co-produces The Japanese House with Bain, who first met the band in 2012 when they were playing The Barfly, Camden—a venue of just 200 capacity. Last December the Manchester quartet played London’s O2 Arena, capacity 20,000, which they sold out in just three hours. While Bain is every bit in awe of her friends, saying “it doesn’t even really shock me how successful they are because they work so hard. I don’t know anyone else that works that hard”, she is very aware that the band’s fame has a lot to do with their aesthetic identity.

I ask Bain what she thinks of this kind of 1975-level fame. Would she take it or leave it? “I’ve never wanted fame at all. It’s not something that I even think about or am interested in. There’s a difference between being famous and being a successful musician. Like The National, for example. If they walked down the street, I wouldn’t know what they looked like. They’re not really famous. Whereas The 1975—their identity is a thing.”

For the moment, the identity of The Japanese House is withdrawn and subdued. Bain’s Instagram account is all bleached colours, her blonde hair usually obscuring part of her face. I doubt she gets many people coming up to her on the street, though she’s playing impressive O2 Academy venues and London’s KOKO this May, and high critical acclaim is likely to follow once a full album arrives, even though she’d be far too modest to make that National comparison to herself.

After three EPs and a fourth on the way, a full debut album is on the cards, and she hopes she’ll have finished it by the end of the year. For now, she’s happier dissecting Ed Sheeran’s current chart success rather than being up there with him: “When I came back from America on Friday, the first song I heard in the UK was that ‘Galway Girl’ song. I just didn’t understand what was going on. I thought I was in some alternate universe. It’s a ridiculous song. It’s ridiculous.”

Once we start talking about chart music, Bain is suddenly animated. She “loves” Justin Bieber, thinks Lady Gaga is “amazing”, doesn’t “really get” the new Harry Styles, but wishes she could get James Blake on her album, like Beyonce did on Lemonade. “I obviously love Beyonce”, she tells me, “I’m not a fucking psycho.”

College Insider: Christ Church

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Regular readers of this column will perhaps be narked to be told that ‘the’ Christ Church student–posh barely visible behind reams of waxed cotton, clad in drinking society ties and astride Daddy’s pony, with a warbling RP accent that can be heard a few streets away—is largely a myth. It’s a friendly place, with big year groups and a diverse bunch of people. Some of them suffer from Barbour jacket syndrome, but it doesn’t seem to be contagious.

That said, as in most of Oxford, privilege pervades, and it might be fair to say that the biggest problem most of us face in our daily lives is the frankly barbaric number of visitors that clog up the quads like tourist cholesterol, making it impossible to get anywhere without being stuck behind a group being told blatant untruths by their enterprising guide.

Did you know that Harry Potter lived here for a few years in the eighteenth century, and used to smash up the windows in Peck Quad after one too many pumpkin juices? No, me neither. Speaking of booze, College discipline apparatchiks are reportedly concerned about the pretty rambunctious bops we host, and their famed four-for-a-pound, triple-vodka-Redbull deals. A recent bop charity event involving contestants downing litres of cold blended Happy Meals left a sour taste for the cleaners the next morning and, more worryingly, threatened the effective duopoly of McCoy’s kebab van and Artisan Pizza on Christ Church’s fast food consumption.

That said, the strictest discipline in College is enforced not by the authorities but by Classics students, who run a pretty tight ship in their wing of the library, and have been known to enact death by Plutarch on uninitiated freshers who make scratching noises when they write. Heaven forbid that one accidentally takes the place of a senior classicist: they’ll have to endure an afternoon of Latinate whispering for which even Caecilius didn’t prepare them at school.

Yet despite the House’s misgivings, we can draw strength and hubris from the words of Hugh Trevor-Roper, Regius Professor of History and notable alumnus, who wrote: “The Christ Church manner, that assumption of effortless superiority, is said to be galling to those that weren’t at Christ Church. But we can’t expect the world to be run for the benefit of those who weren’t at Christ Church.” Jolly well said, Hugh.

A titanic record for all the wrong reasons

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Humanz is billed in press releases as ‘the party album for the end of the world’. In some respects that’s true: there was a moment on ‘Charger’, which is the album’s eighth track, when I started to warmly consider the US’s threat of nuclear war with North Korea.

It was at that point that, looking down the tracklist, I realised there were no fewer than twelve songs left to go. Perhaps it’s the party album—for a considerable spell in purgatory.

Unfortunately there’s not much to wax lyrical about on the latest LP from Damon Albarn’s ‘virtual band’. It’s worth mentioning that, unlike previous release The Fall, all the usual ingredients are here: hilariously overblown concept (this time involving Ben Mendelsohn of Rouge One fame playing the role of the narrator), gloriously glitchy beats, and, of course, a real menagerie of celebrity musician cameo appearances—from Danny Brown to Grace Jones and ever-stable staple-pieces Vince and Mavis Staples.

Despite having so much in common on paper with Gorillaz’s brilliant Demon Days and the heavily underrated Plastic Beach, Humanz just doesn’t manage to pull it off. Collaborators De La Soul, who are normally relied on to provide the ‘chart smash’ of the record, are put on the abysmal ‘Momentz’, which has a Damon Albarn breakdown that sounds—honestly—like the ‘Oh my gosh/Look at her butt’ part of Nicki Minaj’s ‘Ana-conda’, as well as a bass beat that sounds like a compressed polka band.

Poor De La Soul, meanwhile, pull off an excellent impression of Jermain Defoe in the now relegated Sunderland side—they don’t know what they did to deserve to be here, but they’ll give it a shot.

A party album for the end of the world?

Well, De La Soul sound like the quartet on the Titanic, desperately trying to keep it together as the boat splits in two and starts to sink into the cold, enveloping depths of the ocean.

Meanwhile, there’s ‘Busted and Blue’, the customary point in every Damon Albarn record where he shows us just how melancholy he can be. No, don’t worry, it’s not a tribute to everyone’s favourite two moderately successful Noughties pop bands.

What a pretty chorus—except, hang on, it sounds remarkably similar to ‘Thought I Was a Spaceman’ on Blur’s The Magic Whip. And in this song, every time Albarn sings the title refrain I’m reminded of Duncan James and Simon Webb gyrating on stage at Eurovison 2011.

It’s not all bad—‘Let Me Out’, featuring Pusha T and Mavis Staples, is one of those brilliant mish-mashes of artists that only Gorillaz can pull off, and it features a beautifully eerie refrain—not to mention its ending. And Benjamin Clementine’s turn on ‘Hallelujah Money’ was widely dismissed when released as a single, but has a staying power which many of the songs here lack.

But sadly, that seems to be more or less that. There’s an awful lot of filler on the album that melts into the background: ‘Strobelite’, ‘Submission’, ‘Andromeda’ and ‘Sex Murder Party’ all have the same anodyne beat and could well do with being cut by a few minutes, if not completely.

And as the album winds to a close over the disjointed ‘We Got the Power’, on which Britpop enemies Damon Albarn and Noel Gallagher sing in unison, “we got the power to be loving each other no matter what happens” it makes you wonder—maybe Humanz is just a test of our faith. We’re human, after all.

Blind Date: “It soon became apparent that we were quite different people”

George Dickinson, Second year, Classics, Worcester

After a quick relocation from one pub to another (accidentally giving the photographer the slip, whoops), we found a nice, if cold, table outside. We hurdled the cliché ritual of establishing Colleges, subjects, and years, before starting a decent conversation. And it was a decent conversation. Laura was good at being interesting, good at appearing interested, and just fun to talk to. She led the talk through politics, past-times and pets, and would swiftly side-step awkward silences with impressive effortlessness. I was quite nervous beforehand, as I’m not the sort of person who goes on blind dates, but Laura put me at ease. As the conversation went on, it soon became apparent that we were quite different people. She is artistic—I am not. I am musical—she is not. However, it turns out that we’re both quite into yoga and lefty politics. All in all, I will happily say that it was a success from my point of view, although I guess I should wait and see what she writes about me…

First impression? Pretty with an edge of edginess

Chat? Very good!

Personality? Pleasant

2nd date? Why not?

 

Laura Savage Second year, History, Balliol

George was incredibly accommodating and friendly, even when I accidentally ordered his pint for him, forcing him into drinking the same sickly ale as me. Having used this to establish my dominance, we moved on to the subject of what we actually did with our time. Him: parkour, choral singing, yoga, trumpeting. Me: fuck all. With him deep into his exam revision, I think he was more envious than impressed of my detailed description of how little work I have, whereas I was impressed with his commitment to day drinking under the circumstances. There were a few dicey moments when we disagreed over who was truly in charge of the Life section of Cherwell and the inclusivity of some of Oxford’s more wanky traditions, but ultimately we found common ground over the respective merits of London versus Gloucestershire. After two hours we parted ways, he returning to a problem sheet and I feeling emboldened by his enthusiasm for Oxford life and by a small pint of ale.

First impression? Polite, lost, wearing a jumper

Chat? Cheeky yet understated

Personality? Sweet, friendly, conscientious

Second date? If I can fit him into my busy schedule

 

Hughes wide of the Mark for Stoke City

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To an outsider looking in, all might seem well at Stoke City.

Comfortably in mid table, with high profile individuals such as Jack Butland, Xherdan Shaqiri, and Bojan on the books, they have a billionaire owner and a manager offering stability in his fourth season at the club.

But, beneath the surface, you will find a fan base becoming increasingly restless in the face of apparent stagnation both on and off the pitch.

It is important for a club such as Stoke to realise its limitations. The Leicester miracle aside, medium-sized clubs can hope to finish no higher than seventh, given the gulf between them and the likes of Chelsea, Spurs, Liverpool, Arsenal and the two Manchester teams. Everton too are looking resurgent under Ronald Koeman. Stoke have finished ninth in three consecutive seasons since Mark Hughes replaced Tony Pulis.

As such, you might ask yourself what more the Potters can hope or ask for. The Stoke fanbase is largely very grounded. There have been too many setbacks in recent history for any delusions of grandeur. They know their place: they are a small fish punching above their weight in a big pond. But Hughes has become a victim of his own success.

Having replaced Pulis in 2013, he transformed the fortunes of a side which had become bogged down playing turgid, defensive football. He brought in a more attractive style, more skilful players, more goals and, crucially, higher league finishes. Importantly, he had a clear plan—a vision of where he wanted to take the club. He put round pegs in round holes and signed players who fitted the system, all on a very modest net spend.

Arguably his biggest failing is that this plan seems to have been thrown out of the window. For 18 months, he has displayed cluttered thinking, making a catalogue of perplexing decisions. Whenever results have floundered, he has lost faith in the players who he himself signed, and reverted to the “old guard”—Tony Pulis’ committed but uninspiring journeyman, the likes of Peter Crouch, Jon Walters, and Charlie Adam.

On the field, performances have regressed. A poor start to the season left Stoke on two points after six games. Within that run, drubbings by Spurs and Crystal Palace exposed a brittle team low on confidence. Only the rather fortuitous loan signing of Derby County’s third choice goalkeeper Lee Grant and an inspired point away at Manchester United in early October stopped the rot.

Seven months on and things feel rather flat again. Stoke are safe, sitting in twelfth place at the time of writing. But that is to mask what has been a dour season.

Whatever happens, they will finish the season with their lowest points total since Mark Hughes joined the club. They have not beaten a side above eleventh in the league all season. They have not scored a goal in an away game for four months. Team selections and substitutions continue to infuriate. Performances in the cups were dire: beaten at home by second string Hull and Wolves sides in the early rounds of both domestic competitions. Stevenage are the only side disposed of by Stoke in knock-out football this season.

Off the field, the management have alienated large sections of the support thanks to bizarre transfer dealings. The club’s record signing, Gianelli Imbula, is rarely included in the matchday squad. Saido Berahino—the man brought in to end the club’s goalscoring woes—has failed to score since his arrival in January. The exciting £5m Egyptian Ramadan Sobhi is routinely overlooked. Talented players such as Bojan and Joselu have been sent out on loan. Xherdan Shaqiri has been a walking sick-note. At the same time, new contracts have been handed to Peter Crouch and Glen Johnson, who, whilst good players in their time, are now deadwood who epitomise Stoke’s slow, numbing football.

Put simply, the excitement has gone. Matchdays feel like a chore, exactly as they became in the dying embers of Tony Pulis’ reign. Any level-headed fan knows that trophies and European football are mere pipe dreams. But what is needed is some entertainment, some finesse. Hughes, to his credit, provided this in spades in his first two-and-a-half seasons at Stoke, but for 18 months now, the decline has been stark.

So what next for Stoke? They approach a crossroads this summer, with some key decisions to make. Peter Coates, the chairman, must decide whether to stick or twist with Mark Hughes. If he sticks, many fear that Stoke’s regression will worsen. That said, his staunchest supporters argue that he has earned more time at the helm. If he twists, a new manager could reinvigorate the club, but no managerial change comes without risk.

As far as this Stokie is concerned, Coates— who has made his fortune through Bet365— should gamble again and replace Hughes.

Not Wong: Beyond the social construct

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We’re told that our realities are constructed by, and constitutive in, our social interactions. Gender, sex, race, class, identities, the imaginations of ourselves in relation to the infinite others populating our existence. And through social rituals of performing our identities, we construct, imagine, and develop our attributes and characteristics within existing power frameworks.

A popular trend in the status quo seeks to posit that because some ‘x’ is a social construct, it does not matter—that the constructionist attribute of a concept renders it somehow less important, less potent, and less valuable. From the construction of the attribute comes the dismissal of its value—as if anything being constructed would diminish its authenticity, and hence the need to treat it as an important attribute and characteristic for individuals. Problematically, the logic does not follow.

The first observation is that everything is—to various extents—socially constructed. Some are more obvious than others: we construct gender through iterating and performing gendered norms that are inculcated in us from a young age by our parents, family, society, and education; we construct the value of money through repeated interactions with others in which money is employed as a storage of value and vehicle of financialised power. Some are less obvious, such as the fact that we view humans through ‘sexed lenses’ largely derives from our prior understanding of gender (Judith Butler), or that we understand the differences amongst races through a mixture of colonial frames installed initially to divide and conquer (Frantz Fanon), and historical tribalism that developed out of lineages. Some are yet even more implicit, such as the way in which our language games and interpretations of reality are shaped by the language in which we converse (cf. Sapir-Whorf hypothesis), or that we could never really be certain that an external reality exists beyond the reality established by intersubjective consensus.

But I have no interest in spending this piece examining the intricacies of constructionist philosophy. To posit that some attribute is socially constructed is trivial and uninteresting. As Lukes points out—when power is everywhere (as per Foucault), the term ‘power’ becomes trivial and vacuous. Exactly because everything we know is mediated by social construction, I find the claim that ‘x’ is socially constructed definitively represents some valuable information absurd, and bizarre. What we really ought to ask is—so what?

The second observation I’ll make is that the metric of authenticity should be detached from the metric of constructionism. As a non-binary queer, I am deeply aware that my gender identification is socially constructed through the dichotomous labels of gender binaries, and my violent definition of my gender identity in antithesis to the bifurcation provided with me by society. But this does not render my identification any less authentic—for the determinant of authenticity should be the strength of feeling and emotional reaction. Similarly, trans individuals should not have their experiences denigrated merely because “both gender and sex are socially constructed anyway”. For trans individuals, their gender identities (different from the ones assigned at their birth) are phenomenally real—and manifest in deeply powerful emotions that are authentic. Whether or not their identities are ‘constructed’ by society is irrelevant, because the object of social justice is not a futile one of ‘expelling social construction’ (in and of itself a construction process), but of helping people achieve what they subjectively conceptualise as the authentic ideal for themselves. How you choose to define yourself in relation to your parents, loved ones, children, and friends may be socially constructed in their genesis, but what should play a role in determining how you treated should be how you currently experience these generated attributes.

Some critics of identity politics like to imagine that they’ve found the ‘ultimate’ trump card against Queer rights, when they go: “Ha! You acknowledge that sex and gender are socially constructed, so why should you not also concede that you are merely living under a false consciousness that has misled you to stray from the (cis-heteronormative) norm?” But this objection makes no sense. Firstly, to the extent that the false consciousness claim holds, tu quoque—the norm is just as constructed and just as a part of any false consciousness as the alleged ‘false consciousness’ that Queer individuals live under. Secondly, given that a vast majority of social discourse perpetuates a privileging of the cis- and the het-, it is more plausible that the false consciousness effect extends in the opposite direction—i.e. that it is perpetuating a cis-heteronormative hegemony, as opposed to a Queer hegemony. Thirdly, it appears very demeaning to posit that all Queer individuals cannot genuinely desire or fundamentally prefer their identities (i.e. hold second-order preferences that match onto their revealed preferences). But fourthly—and most importantly—to the extent that false consciousness and social construction exist on both sides, surely the best solution should be the one which allows individuals to live most comfortably with their identities within a society that seeks to repress their rights to self-identify. The metric of social justice is about the feelings and experiences of individuals, not what we’d subjectively vet to be most ideal for these people.

The third observation is that the means through which we establish our identities is inherently social. Brian Wong means nothing if it is a solitary speck in an empty universe. There is no way for me to acquire an understanding of the ‘Self’, in a land where my subjective consciousness is the only consciousness floating in an abstract, empty space. We relate our identities in relation and relativity to others, and that is why the social construction that goes into our identities is so essential. Through constant comparisons, contrasts, adaptations and imitations with others, we find our place within a complex and multi-dimensional social reality. To posit that because something is socially constructed, that said something ought to be neglected or ignored, is not only unrigorous: it also ignores the most basic processes by which humans integrate themselves into mass society.

Yes, the labels and categories we employ to understand ourselves are tools given to us by society. But the choice for the individual is perpetually conditional—it is not the question, “What would you aspire to be in a vacuum?”, but rather the question “Given that you are Brian Wong, born in October 1997, what would you aspire to be?” And whilst your answer may indeed be written in the language of your society, this does not render it any less worthy of respect or dignity. We must look beyond the allure of dismissing socially constructed items in order to appreciate a very simple fact. Yes, reality is socially constructed. But so what?

Friends with Benefit

Friendships can take you in the strangest directions, even to eyeshadow palettes and lipgloss tubes. This week, Cherwell Life listens to two College friends who found inspiration and confidence in each other’s creative flair, and courage to be different.

Wearing makeup for the first time

Eimer: Makeup seemed like the answer to everything when I was twelve, the magic silver bullet that would take out both my social insecurities, and the body image issues of a prepubescent girl with acne, and a weird bob haircut. If only I was allowed to wear it. One day after school I took all my pocket money and splashed out on make-up. The next morning in the P.E bathrooms I transformed myself. My foundation was caked on, my blusher was neon, my eye-liner smudged and wobbly. But I felt empowered, and most importantly, pretty. Until I got to registration and my form teacher told me I had enough foundation on to build a house, and drew a circle around my face with a makeup wipe. I tearfully removed the rest in the bathrooms, but I wasn’t going to be swayed. That was the beginning of my makeup obsession.

Jonny: It was at Oxford that I first went out in drag, and I decided to enlist Eimer to do my makeup. Many brushstrokes and screams of “Sit still and let me do your waterline!” later, I looked at myself in the mirror. I’d gone into the experience thinking of it as just a fun, new thing to do when exploring queer culture in Oxford (which it certainly was). However, seeing how radically my face had been altered unleashed a fascination with makeup’s transformative power that has led me to experiment with drag more often. Stepping out in heels and a wig, I would be lost without a faceful of makeup to help me inhabit my new persona (I’m provisionally calling her ‘Jasmine T’).

The power of makeup

Eimer: At university, makeup came to mean a lot more to me than a suit of armour: it became a skill. When I started to do other people’s makeup for nights out, it even became a challenge. There’s a lot of pressure when someone trusts you with their appearance, but it’s so rewarding when they’re pleased with your efforts. The first time I did Jonny’s drag makeup was really special, I think, for both of us. Drag makeup is an entire skill in itself. Having tried to glue down brows before, I couldn’t have more respect for the artistry of drag. After a tense hour of poking and prodding (in which I was perfectly professional) I was holding my breath as he looked in the mirror. His reaction to seeing himself in makeup for the first time reminded me of my 12-year-old self in the P.E toilets. That makeup allowed me to be a part of such a transformative moment with a friend summed up for me what an empowering art form it is.

Jonny: I see makeup as a way of expressing aspects of myself that, in my everyday life, I don’t usually get to exhibit. Not only can makeup change your appearance almost beyond recognition, but in a society defined by gender norms, makeup allows you to explore modes of expression that lie beyond traditional expectations of your gender. For instance, there are certain things people do not associate with traditionally masculine gender expression. Men are rarely described as ‘beautiful’, ‘pretty’ or ‘glamorous’. But for some men, perhaps especially conventionally ‘feminine’ guys, whose interests and behaviour have been stigmatised by society, these feelings can be empowering. When I go out in makeup, I can unlock different ways of feeling confident in my skin. I feel bold, attractive and empowered, in an entirely different way to my ordinary appearance.

Changing societal expectations

Eimer: Firstly, I feel makeup shouldn’t be gendered as an art form. Men should feel free to wear makeup whenever and wherever they want without facing discrimination. I also feel students who wear makeup to school shouldn’t be publicly humiliated by teachers for doing so. Not only could this be potentially very damaging for young people with image issues, I believe it ties into the wider culture of slut shaming in schools, where recently girls have been criticised for wearing clothes deemed to be potentially ‘distracting’ to boys. Lastly, makeup doesn’t have to be pretty. We get caught up in the beauty trends on Instagram, but we shouldn’t constrain makeup’s capability as an art form. Jonny and I both love the band PWR BTTM—a band from New York who play loud, alternative punk music while daubed in stunning, messy makeup—and particularly love how they explore makeup. Band members Liv and Ben cover their faces in paint and glitter, with lip-stick ‘inspired by desperation’. It’s beautiful and messy and shows how versatile makeup can be as a means of expression.

Jonny: I’d like more people to realise that wearing makeup as a man, for whatever reason, is nothing to be ashamed of. Makeup can make you feel more confident and give you a sense of control over your appearance, helping you cover up blemishes and redness. Men in the show business have been doing this for years, but beyond this there is a stigma around men applying makeup to look the way they want to. However, discussion around this is opening up, which in my mind, can only be a positive thing. There are inspirational figures like PWR BTTM who, when performing, show that makeup can be fun and expressive, as well as functional.

Inspiring each other

Eimer: Jonny’s approach to makeup is pretty fearless. Nothing is ever too much, so that makes him the perfect muse. He inspires me to go outside of my comfort zone. He’s definitely the little voice in my head that says “more highlight, more glitter”. I’m really proud that he’s exploring drag more (shout-out to Jasmine T), but I will be sad when the day comes when I’m surplus to requirements. I’m also just eternally jealous of his cheek-bones.

Jonny: Eimer’s passion and skill for makeup artistry is strong. When she’s doing my makeup, I’m always excited to see which direction she’ll take it. From gorgeous smoky eyes and long lashes, to contoured cheeks and fabulous overdrawn lips, it’s incredible to see her skilled hands create the vision of her artistic eye. Colours, textures and shapes abound, her creative approach to makeup inspires me to approach my own style more inventively, and I will always seek to emulate her.

C+: Four in five disabled students struggle with academic work

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A poll by Cherwell’s Investigations team can reveal that 82 per cent of students that identify as having a disability find it harder to complete their academic work each week. Many students cited social stigma and a lack of understanding among tutors and staff as contributing to their work’s extra difficulty.
Some students—especially without formal diagnoses of disability—were worried that they would not be taken seriously by their tutors when asking for extensions or flexibility. Other students reported feeling explicitly discriminated against, both by their tutors and fellow students.
Tutors’ attitudes apparently vary considerably between colleges, suggesting a lack of consistent support throughout the collegiate system. In general, the survey found that students wished their tutors were more aware of how specific disabilities affect students, and that some work deadlines could be adapted to fit specific needs.
Many students felt as though ‘invisible’ disabilities, including mental health problems, learning disabilities and other mental disabilities, needed more awareness from the University. Students felt as though the stress of high workloads on these conditions was less well-known by their tutors.
In a statement to C+, Gillian Hamnet, head of Student Welfare and Support Services said: “We are keen to provide support, where needed, to help disabled students succeed in their studies. The central Disability Advisory Service works with disability contacts in colleges and departments to ensure that appropriate support is in place.
“We consider each student’s individual circumstances to provide the resources they need to study, and currently support around 3,000 students at Oxford who have declared a disability. We also help students to apply for the Disabled Student’s Allowance (DSA) or other relevant funding, and can recommend support such as adjustments to accommodation or alternative arrangements for examinations.”
88 per cent of students said that the Disabled Students Allowance paid for all or part of the resources needed to help study.
Lectures were frequently described as inaccessible locations for disabled students. Despite some lectures being recorded, the opt-in process for lecture capture has resulted in variations between different courses, Cherwell learned.
Dr Peggy McCready, Director of Academic IT, said: “More and more lectures are being recorded for all students to use. Lecture capture is freely available at the point of use and is an opt-in service where departments are encouraged to capture their lectures in the interest of supporting student learning.”

Why are we against fun in fashion?

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There are few things more irritating than smug, feigned confusion, and yet everyone, from the Metro to female-focussed news websites, is exclaiming their bewilderment. The centre of all this fuss: a top. I’m not going to claim that the top is a firm wardrobe favourite of mine, and at £25 it is, perhaps, a little overpriced, but I can’t deny I’m tempted to take the plunge, if only to buy it a drink and congratulate it on all the ridiculous drama it’s caused.

What exactly is the item’s crime? A derogatory slogan? Hand-appliquéd sachets of pig’s blood? No. The top has—strap yourselves in—a big purple ruffle. This ‘scandal’, if we can call it that, is similar to outcries that have spread across the internet in response to other  vaguely weird new items of clothing from high-street stores like the clear plastic-insert mom jeans from Topshop, which spurred the Tab headline: “Look at these ‘clear knee mom jeans’ from Topshop and tell me that God isn’t dead.”

My first reaction to seeing these articles was the same as my first reaction to any source of minor stress in my life: I thought about Meryl Streep’s monologue from The Devil Wears Prada where she chastises her wardrobe-incompetent new assistant for pretending to be entirely above fashion when, in reality, it’s an industry in which everyone plays a part. If journalists think the top is ugly then that’s fair, but certainly not worth the writing of an entire article.

What they are claiming is that it makes no sense, which is flat-out wrong. That top existing at this moment in time makes all the sense in the world. It’s no secret that ruffles are ‘in’—they’ve been trickling down the fashion food chain since approximately SS16—and, despite being wrongly pronounced dead more times than the perpetually sleepy goldfish you had as a child, band and skater tees are managing to cling to some form of ironic-grunge relevance. What’s apparently really bothering and confusing people is that anyone could possibly like the top—after all, it isn’t nude, doesn’t involve tastefully ripped denim, and doesn’t have city names printed on the front in a font that scream “wanderlust”, “go see the world”, and “I’m a trust fund baby”. Of course, shops are still stocking these things, and they’re still selling—nobody would try and deny that—but there’s something about the ruffled monstrosity that represents an attitude to fashion that’s coming up faster than some can handle.

In 2016, we were warned by one fashion columnist to “beware the frill” and to “be restrained” lest we look like an overenthusiastic toddler, or even a Gone with the Wind character. Instead, the key advice was to keep our fashion neutral—simple bags and cream clothes were in. Only a few sources dared to recommend a bare shoulder, or a bit of clashing print. The change since then hasn’t just been the typical shift from one season to another, but rather a meaningful shift in attitude—we’re being recommended bright and bold colours, frills, and even gingham! The idea of being afraid of coming across “too much” of something, and of practicing mannequin-like restraint in fashion, is being put aside by brands and publications with major voices.

It’s easy to attribute this to runoff from the recent work of Gucci, Prada, and the like,
and it’s undeniable that they’ve played a key role. Alessandro Michele is, without a doubt, uniquely visionary and has injected some serious fun and excitement into recent fashion weeks. However, this change has come from the ground up, as well as from the top down. Polyster Zine, a publication I’ve loved for years and, which seems to gain traction by the day, comes with the tagline: “Have faith in your own bad taste”. Makeup artists who made their name on Instagram such as Bea Sweet and Juliana Horner are changing what’s considered normal when it comes to painting your face, and the two way street of influence between us ‘millenials’ and the runway can be seen in the success of Desigual’s snapchat filter makeup, and the screeching, crash-and-burning failure of Dolce and Gabbana’s ‘influencer’ show.

It’s reasonable to ask what the importance of this all is, as it might seem like the current ‘thing’ is just to dress colourful and wacky, wearing giant purple frills across your body, and, in a year or so, it will be over. However this attitude crucially overlooks the culture surrounding the shift—it isn’t just clothes that are getting more fun, more experimental, and more risky. Unicorn-themed drinks, competitions between eateries to see who can produce the most convoluted crossover food item, and even the holy territory of enchantingly surreal memes all signify a visible cultural movement towards the absurd and the bold in a way that’s broad and far-reaching enough to stick around for a while. In terms of clothes, it’s very possible that the buzz around bright colours will fade and ruffles will fall out of favour. What we’ll be left with, however, is the idea that your bralet-legging-leopard-veil combo might be as unpleasant as a ramen burrito, but that it’s winning in its own way, just by turning heads.

This change also has major implications concerning the prevalent classism and snobbery within fashion. When the ‘big thing’ is minimalist, beige shapes, which are just meant to make your body look as ‘instaworthy’ as possible, all you want is the best possible version of these simple pieces. In the case of clothes like these, high-end names (which come with high-end prices) really do hold weight, otherwise you’re just wearing ‘normal’ and, let’s face it, boring clothes.

This means that wearing something from Primark (or the like) is often looked down upon. As the unusual becomes usual, however, wearing something from Primark can be a badge of honour—you managed to find something that cool and weird that cheaply? Because, while Primark probably can’t do a better version of a plain Cos shift dress, if it takes an unusual top from any of the big players in high street fashion and adds its own take, with an extra ruffle or a few rainbow tassles, it immediately becomes a completely worthwhile contender.

Anyone looking to channel these ‘go bigger and brighter’ looks won’t feel it necessary to look down at cheaper more attainable alternatives, which not only makes fashion phenomenally more accessible for people from poorer backgrounds, but equally helps to break down this classist snobbery within the fashion world. So, with the attitude of Miranda Priestly, let us shoo the bitter columnists who can’t handle ASOS’s ruff, or the seismic shift of which it’s only playing a microscopic part.

It doesn’t matter if the top’s ugly, and it doesn’t even matter that the band named on it doesn’t exist. Someone out there—one happy person —will be wearing it this week with a pair of bright red latex culottes, or a matchy-matchy lilac skirt, or maybe just a pair of jeans that onto which they’re building up the courage to sew a patch. And they won’t care what the Metro says. And they’ll look fantastic.

‘The Parisian’ is a barrier to progressive fashion

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I was walking up Oxford High Street on a Sunday afternoon when I spotted a girl wearing skinny black jeans, Velcro Stan Smiths, a white crew neck jumper, a long black coat, and a black hat. Monochromatic girl, as I have called her ever since, looked particularly chic next to the indie-grunge humanities students just emerging from their beds at 3pm, still hungover and heading to McDonald’s.

I bet you she’s French, I said to myself, and sure enough, as we crossed paths, I overheard her phone conversation: “Non mais j’en peux plus de ce mec. Il s’est fait de la School la dernière fois qu’on est sorti tous ensemble.” Those two sentences told me everything I needed to know, or rather confirmed everything I already knew (and despised) about ‘the Parisian’.

I spent my secondary school years at London’s French Lycée, where the absence of a school uniform meant succumbing to popular trends (such as being dressed top to toe in Abercrombie from 2010 – 2012). The school’s cultural and stylistic demographics changed drastically in 2012 with the sudden influx of rich Parisians fleeing Hollande’s 45% tax rate. No more did Uggs and velvet sportswear plague the courtyard and classroom. Converse were quickly replaced by sturdy (and expensive) sport shoes, and black vests took over Hollister t-shirts, and Gap puffer jackets were discarded in favour of Canada Goose versions.

The Parisian stronghold altered the vibes and set new standards for us Franco-English plebs to imitate. The British section of our school that year laughed at our monotonous, conservative style, whilst they enjoyed mixing stripes with dots and vintage denim jackets as well as wavy orange trousers courtesy of the History department’s trip to India. Their idea of standards was not to have any, and they emulated the look of English school kids on weekends.

The French students wanted to show that they too could be artsy and hipster. But they did it in a more codified and chic way. Wavy garms weren’t acceptable, but alternative brand names were encouraged. Three boys in my year set up their own brand called ‘Nola Grant’. No one ever really understood where the ‘Grant’ came from, but Nola was short for ‘No One Likes Average.’ Their creations were a disappointment to say the least.

The clothes were designed to be street chic, styles which could have been copied direct from Kendall Jenner’s Instagram page. This was drawn from what is known as ‘Parisian Style’: to blend in yet stand out, to wear the same clothes as everyone else, but wear them better, thus upholding one of fashion’s main success staples—it’s not about what clothes you wear, but about how you wear them.

To a certain extent, these ideals do t with those true to ‘the Parisian’. Monochromatic skin-tight clothes go hand in hand with a stylish walk and a straight, composed posture (combined, of course, with a snobby air of utter disdain). Parisian style is part of a cultural attitude, the costume of a social type that smokes Camel cigarettes whilst gently sipping a Perrier on one of the outdoor tables at La Muette.

But most Parisians are aware of the deprecating implications of their city’s label. My Parisian mother is the first to mock the bourgeois 16th arrondissement lifestyle and aesthetic. Monochromatic, monotonous and monocultural, Parisian style is similar to the Parisian mindset: conservative, bleak and narrow-minded.

I always chuckle when my English friends talk about Paris as the city of love, or when French history textbooks proclaim that it’s the city of lights, progress and tolerance. The harsh truth is that 21st century Parisians are quite regressive. Just look at Marine Le Pen’s position in the polls. Republican propaganda (I’m looking at you too, Fillon) is merely a mask for xenophobia, homophobia and conservatism. Non-conformity and radicalism are deplored in Fillon’s official campaign video. His desire to preserve French integrity involves the rejection of cultural exchange: he preaches national unity, yet targets minority groups as the sources of economic meltdown and terrorist proliferation in France.

The Parisian fashion scene is the same. Where were the hijabs at fashion week? Where are the famous French black models? Are there any French models above a size 3? Casting out differences for the sake of homogenity means reinforcing the white Catholic middle-class norm that is ‘the Parisian’. French designers seriously need to rethink the way they see their city, and their city within a larger, diverse country.

‘The Parisian’ is not all Parisians and the term’s totalising nature unwittingly highlights the social and cultural segregation in a city dominated by middle-class Fillon voters, where council ats are restricted to the outskirts so as not to ‘stain’ the beauty of the sandstone Haussmann cityscape. Entrenched and marginalised, the ‘other Parisians’ who cannot fit the ‘true Parisian’ mould show us that fashion, politics and social demographics remain intrinsically linked.