Tuesday, May 6, 2025
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Dossier discloses drunken behaviour of Oxbridge students

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The behaviour of students at Oxford and Cambridge has once again come under media scrutiny following the release of information to The Daily Telegraph concerning college discipline over the past two years.

According to The Telegraph and the Daily Mail, documents released under the Freedom of Information Act by 15 different colleges chart the “appalling behaviour” of undergraduates and suggest that students at the institute constitute “some of the most depraved.”

Sidney Sussex College in Cambridge came under particular fire with 44 separate incidents of indiscipline since 2010. These included letting fireworks off at 4am, parading the boat club captain naked around Sainsbury’s and throwing food at each other at a local Indian restaurant.

Oxford’s Merton College also made headlines, after incidents of “alcohol-related bad behaviour” resulted in the Myrmidons, the college’s male-only dining society, being banned from holding their summer garden party.

The records stated that, “It apparently never occurred to students that there was something fundamentally wrong with their behaviour.”

The publication of the records has had mixed responses. Whilst The Daily Telegraph branded the reports evidence of widespread “student mayhem” amongst the academic elite, a spokesperson for Oxford commented, “Oxford and Cambridge between them account for tens of thousands of young people, so it’s not entirely surprising that incidents of stupid and inappropriate behaviour do come up. When they go too far, they face the consequences – which, because they are studying at world-famous universities, sometimes include getting in the paper.”

The universities have been quick to emphasise that the welfare of students is paramount, and that any incidents which could have an adverse effect on other students and on the wider community would be appropriately dealt with.

A spokesperson for Cambridge University commented, “All colleges have their students’ welfare and their safety as a key priority: any incidents of behaviour affecting others, whether in the college community or among the public, are taken very seriously. The colleges are pro-active in dealing with the problems of excessive drinking, working with health and public order professionals to make students drink- and safety-aware. Any incidents are dealt with and appropriate sanctions imposed.”

Students expressed the opinion that Oxbridge is often unfairly treated by the media, with second year English student Bethany Cox commenting, “If you work hard, you have to play hard, and in the majority of cases this is responsibly.” A Cambridge second year philosopher concurred, remarking, “the author of the Daily Mail article probably went to Durham.”

Colleges and their Movies

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Ever wondered what movie your college would be represented by if a poorly informed writer, armed only with Wikipedia and vague stereotyoes, took a swipe at it? Well, look no further! Current students and curious freshers can get to the heart of Oxford’s college system with this Guide to Oxford Colleges as Represented by Spurious Movie Associations!

Balliol The Birth of a Nation (1915)

Not a comment on its politics, they’re both just, let’s say, really influential.

Brasenose Dr Strangelove (1964)

 A farce about what happens when you give stupid people a lot of power.

Christchurch Cruel Intentions (1999)

It’s all a bit too upper class and incestuous but damn does it look good.

Corpus Christi Daddy Day Care (2003)

Corpus is really small and I figured this was a safer way of illustrating that than going with circus freaks.

Exeter Mamma Mia! (2008)

Better location than it is a film.

Harris Manchester Freddy Got Fingered (2001)

Let’s face it; they’re both awful names.

Hertford The Bridge on the River Kwai (1957)

They both involve bridges, to a greater or lesser extent.

Jesus Lawrence of Arabia (1962)

According to Wikipedia, he’s their most famous alumnus. That is now everything I know about the college.

Keble Sleepy Hollow (1999)

 That neo-Gothic façade is straight out of the mind of Tim Burton.

Lady Margaret Hall Cast Away (2000)

It’s really far away.

Lincoln The Pursuit of Happyness (2006)

Both involve a certain amount of ‘living rough’.

Magdalen Bambi (1942)

They both contain their fair share of deer and animal slaughter (disclaimer: the latter part is pure conjecture).

Mansfield Beneath the Darkness (2012)

It’s quite new but you still probably haven’t heard of it.

Merton Inception (2010)

It’s expensive and thinks it’s very clever. Also, they’re both big on zero gravity fights.

New The Squid and the Whale (2005)

The reason I hate misleading titles; you think you’re in for two hours of fish based fun and you get a sermonising treatise on divorce.

Oriel The Matrix (1999)

A while ago, it was considered really good. Now? Meh, not so much.

Pembroke Heaven’s Gate (1980)

Extraordinarily expensive and, if current figures are to be believed, not very good at all. My college loyalty only stretches so far.

Queen’s Cold Mountain (2003)

It’s got a beautiful location but, all things considered, this film’s kind of boring.

Somerville Calendar Girls (2003)

Harmless and big on the X chromosome, the comparison stops when the clothes come off.

St Anne’s  Lost in Translation (2003)

It might seem slightly obscure, but the St Anne’s Porter’s Lodge reminds me of the hotel from Lost in Translation.

St Catherine’s Tron (1982)

A weird vision of the future in which everything looks terrible.

Teddy Hall The Horse in Motion (1878)

The first film ever made which, coincidentally, probably wouldn’t do very well in the Norrington Table.

St Hilda’s Mosquito on the 10th Floor (1983)

Nope, I hadn’t heard of it either.

St Hugh’s Swiss Family Robinson (1960)

Kind of recycling my LMH joke here but I’m sure you get the picture.

St John’s Avatar(2009)

The most expensive movie ever made. Some might call it crass but you can’t dispute its ambition.

St Peter’s Friends (1971)

I know, I didn’t realise it was also a movie.

Trinity Casablanca (1942)

The ultimate movie about temptation. Happy to let you look, so long as you don’t even think about touching.

University College The Movies (1925)

If only all names were this obvious and self-explanatory.

Wadham Brokeback Mountain (2005)

I have a quota of crude stereotypes that I have to fill.

Worcester My Week With Marilyn (2011)

Emma Watson was in it for about 5 minutes.

Football’s statistics revolution?

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If Manchester City’s Performance Analysis Department are right, then football’s big news in August had nothing to do with Robin Van Persie, will probably have no impact on the Premier League this season, and for once didn’t involve the exchange of millions of pounds.

Instead, it was the announcement on their own website of the launch of a new initiative, MCFC Analytics, and with it, the public release of all of last year’s Opta data for the entirety of the Premier League season. That means every touch of every player from every team in the course of the last season will be documented, categorised and put into one enormous spreadsheet that can be downloaded from the club’s website.

This wasn’t just a dream come true for the stats-minded football enthusiast: a rare chance to test that longstanding but somewhat controversial belief that Man United should have held on to Darron Gibson, or that Ramires is the best player in the league.

City are keen to instigate a lasting change in the way statistics are used in football, by making important data available to engage the ‘analytics community’ and emulate the success of amateur enthusiasts in the statistical revolution in American sports – in short to harness the ‘Moneyball’ effect.

Moneyball is the title of a book by Michael Lewis – turned into last year’s Brad-Pitt-starring film of the same name – documenting the success of the Oakland A’s statistically informed recruitment policy under general manager Billy Beane. This approach relied on the use of ‘sabermetrics’, a term coined by Bill James, the pioneer of statistical analysis in baseball, to designate ‘the search for objective knowledge about baseball’.

In James’ view, not only was such knowledge accessible, but it was also revolutionary, and would undermine traditional subjective measures of player and team value. And so it turned out. By making use of sabermetrics principles in his recruitment of players on a low budget, Beane (played by Brad Pitt in the film) oversaw a record-breaking run of 20 straight victories for the franchise.

By now the principles of ‘sabermetrics’ are well-established in the baseball world. As owner of the Boston Red Sox, current Liverpool owner John W. Henry was one of the first to embrace these principles at a big team, with remarkable success.

However, Henry’s attempts to apply Moneyball principles to football since FSG’s purchase of Liverpool have been almost entirely unsuccessful. Stewart Downing is the obvious example. When Liverpool signed him, Damien Comolli, then Liverpool’s Director of Football, a firm believer in statistical analysis, and, interestingly, an associate of Beane’s, said, ‘We look thoroughly into data before signing players, as well as statistics, and we really think we are getting a big, big asset throughout. Maybe his [Downing’s] talent has been undervalued in English football.’

Ironically his statistics in the Premier League last season are among the most commonly known (and gleefully recited) in the average football enthusiast’s armoury: 0 goals, 0 assists. No fan needs Opta’s full data set to tell them that.

According to the team behind MCFC Analytics, at least a part of the reason for the past failure of performance analysis in football has been the cost of procuring the necessary data: whereas baseball’s statistics revolution was based on the work of amateur hobbyists such as Bill James, and is still fuelled by a thriving community of bloggers and researchers making use of freely-available data; football statistics enthusiasts have had to make do with the paltry post-game statistics made publicly available. Thus it is with the hope of empowering a community of scientifically minded football fans that Manchester City have collaborated with Opta to reverse this situation.

Whether or not the launch of this initiative truly heralds a new era for the use of statistics remains to be seen, and no doubt those who will hasten to suggest that football’s relatively fluid nature makes it far less amenable to analysis than an inherently structured game like baseball have a point.

But that is not to say that numbers have no place at all in the beautiful game: perhaps Comolli and Liverpool were simply looking at the wrong stats, or the right stats in the wrong way; perhaps their analysis was just too unsophisticated. But the fact that such a high-profile misjudgement was possible suggests that there is in fact plenty more to come from the field of performance analysis. Indeed, in baseball, the greatest success of the ‘sabermetricians’ was to identify the ‘right’ stats, and it is something along these lines that the MCFC Analytics team hopes it may be able to achieve.

Fanatic for fantasy football

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It’s inevitable. The Olympics are long over, you’re starting to run out of money and, with all the excitement of becoming a (college) parent, you’re becoming a bit college-sick and already kind of looking forward to the start of Michaelmas.

What better way to solve your end of summer blues though, a friend posts on your wall, than to join the fantasy football league he’s starting up. Why not, you think to yourself, after all, it is free and, secretly, you’ve always thought of yourself as a future ‘special one’ and dreamt of one day being successful enough to own a coat as long as Arsene Wenger’s.

You spend the first few minutes reminding yourself which teams are actually still in the Premier League, and desperately trying to remember who that great young talent you heard people rave about during Euro 2012 was.

All this whilst admitting to your friends that you don’t really know much about football, so this should be a bit of fun, and secretly poring over summer transfer news in search of someone to give you the edge. This is Oxford, there’s no such thing as non-competitive.

You fill in the registration form, honestly believing that you’ve got a decent chance of (a) winning this thing, (b) being able to maintain such a thorough review of player profiles and possession charts once term starts. Don’t be fooled. Yes, your team looks excellent on paper, despite the fact it comprises mainly of players who either top the value list or have recently appeared on a tabloid front page. However, not even the wittiest team name (stop chuckling, it’s not that funny) can save you from the football hipster who will invariably come to top your league.

As the first few rounds of games progress, you sit back and wait for your team to work their magic, before spending the final hours of each weekend sobbing into the sheepskin coat you’d bought in an attempt to add credibility to your managerial career. While you bemoan the low-points-scoring performances of Vidic, Kompany, Silva, Aguero et al., get ready to put up with the aforementioned hipster who is eager to remind you that he has watched Carl Jenkinson since he was captain of the Finnish U-19s, and has known of Michu’s goal-scoring prowess ever since his 14 second wonder goal against Madrid last September.

Having rarely suffered the ignominy of losing, you drastically turn to Guardian Football Weekly in the hope of learning whether Swansea and Everton will continue their good start, if Southampton’s Emmanuel Mayuka could be this season’s Papiss Cisse, and whether Cisse will be last season’s Fernando Torres. In all the excitement though, you forget that Rooney will be out for another few weeks and isn’t playing, so end up losing again.

By this point, you’ve forgotten mealtimes and have turned to your 10 year old cousin, who has twice taken Accrington Stanley to the Champions League Final on Football Manager, for advice on whether to stick with Patrice Evra and Gareth Bale or transfer them for Ryan Bertrand and Damien Duff. Throughout all of this, you keep telling yourself that “it’s all just a bit of fun” and “I’m better than them at real football anyway”. Then you realise it’s either this or your vacation reading list, and get ready for a fresh title assault in September.

Victoria’s Secret…..and mine

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Ok – I confess it. I’m an underwear fanatic. I recently realised the extent of my problem when I estimated my total lingerie expenditure over the course of my undergraduate degree. I won’t repeat the figure here in case anyone official concludes that the Oxford Opportunity Bursary is too generous. My sister’s horrified expression said it all. Determined to change then, it was only in the name of good journalism that I headed off to Bond Street, slightly bedraggled after a day of interning, on opening day at Victoria’s Secret flagship London store.

Disappointingly there was no sight of Victoria’s Secret ‘angels’ in the flesh – though Miranda et al. were omnipresent, strutting their stuff on catwalk shows displayed on monitors in the windows or covering the walls, legs literally two storeys high in the central atrium. Instead the shop was filled with beefy security guards, rushed sales assistants and flocks of excited teenage girls. Spread over four storeys arranged around a spiral staircase (black marble, mirrored banisters) the building resembles a nightclub, though display areas are well lit compared to Abercrombie or Hollister stores. The merchandise is bright, glitzy and christened with names such as ‘Gorgeous’, ‘Incredible’ or ‘Truly Perfect’. It was a lot to live up to, but I knew the proof of good underwear was in the fit so grabbed a style, assumed an air of general ignorance regarding bra sizing (annoyingly VS’s labels are all in American sizes) and placed myself entirely at the mercy of the staff.

It was soon clear that this was not to be a premium shopping experience. If you ask for a fitting an assistant pulls out a tape measure right there in the shop and measures up gingerly over layers of clothing without asking about the type of bra you’re already wearing. Used to the more hands on (and private) approach at Bravissimo I was slightly bemused, but still more so when the employee estimated my size not only three cup sizes different from the changing room assistant I dealt with later, but four cup sizes from the well-fitting bra I had on. Things only got worse. In the fitting rooms, I was told it wasn’t that the bra’s cups were too small, but that I had ‘too much tissue’. The cubicle doors declared ‘Very sexy!’ and ‘Stunning!’ with imperative force but I was starting to feel the opposite.

To be fair to the staff, however, after trying on an incredible range of sizes, it seems that Victoria’s Secret bras aren’t really designed to fit. The idea seems to be that the bra itself is filled mainly with gel and padding, so your breasts get squeezed together, vamping up the cleavage, and spill over the top of the £50 piece of polyester. This may work well on smaller sizes but seems a sure route to bouncing, back pain and the occasional ‘nip-slip’ on C cups and above (the store stocks up to DDD in some styles).

 I could have excused all this though had the designs been beautiful enough to merit being bought as occasion pieces – the sort of thing you wear on Valentine’s Day, not when picking up the groceries. But the whole thing just didn’t do it for me. Half the joy of underwear is in its structural qualities – feeling cinched, clamped and buckled up. Not only did the underwear fail to do this but it was all more 500 shades of pink, than 50 Shades of Grey. The combination of the cutesy with the claims to overt sexuality scrawled over the walls made me question the customer demographic. It sits more easily with the cast of TOWIE and Juicy Couture, than amongst the high end stores on Bond Street.  The bottom floor is designed for tweenage girls with too much pocket money, snapping up dance and lounge wear, along with ‘mesh back panties’ and neon bras (the ‘age-appropriate’ PINK range).

Victoria’s Secret isn’t about good clothes – it’s about good marketing. Calling a bra sexy doesn’t make it so, and the essence of feminine sensuality is not diamantes. The shop’s worth a visit to admire the catwalk pieces in display cases, but I think I’ll keep saving for Agent Provocateur.

 

Review: The Bourne Legacy

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If you haven’t seen the previous entries in the Bourne film series, don’t see The Bourne Legacy. If you have….

Well, don’t see The Bourne Legacy.

If you’re new to the franchise, well, suffice to say the film is pretty incomprehensible. Without a working knowledge of Treadstone et al, or at least an awareness of their existence, this film is a confusing mush of exposition and jargon. Even as a fan of the original series, I found it extremely hard to keep up, and newbies would find it hard to tell what was intended to be explained later in Legacy, and what we were assumed to know from previous films.

If you have seen the previous films, well, let’s just say that will negatively influence your opinion of Legacy .Unlike the frenetic earlier entries, this film takes a good half hour before a single frame of action occurs (save some mountain climbing), and seems full of missed opportunities. Once it does get underway, it’s a reasonably enjoyable romp, but nothing special; Taylor Lautner’s Abduction is more innovative. In particular, it’s depressing how these sort of films now seem obliged to include some kind of ‘par kour on corrugated rooftops’ sequence, even after it was so superbly parodied in Johnny English: Reborn.

As the film reaches its conclusion, the plot fizzles out; the super-bad amoral agent sent to attack our heroes is kicked off his bike by Rachel Weisz, denying the audience the super-assassin fistfight that would have been a great setpiece. So much is unresolved; Jeremy Renner never confronts (or even meets) Edward Norton’s antagonist, and the implied past between them is not expanded upon. Just as things seem to be approaching an exciting climax, the film ends without any cathartic release. Weisz and Renner have just outrun their CIA overlords for the time being, but seem to be treating it as a fun holiday. No doubt this is to leave plans open for a sequel, but it felt more like someone just got bored writing the script and went home. Can’t blame them, really.

So, to sum up; if you like the Bourne films, this is disappointing. If you don’t know them, it’s unforgiving. But that’s not to say that this film’s for nobody; I’m not that harsh. If you actively dislike the Bourne franchise, and wish to masochistically attack your own memories of it, then, well this is the film for you. Five stars.

For everybody else, though…

1 AND A HALF STARS

Review: Asylum of the Daleks

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I was pretty excited for this run of Doctor Who, I have to admit. I’ve been a big fan since it was rebooted in 2005, and though I’m not crazy about how the last couple of seasons have been spread out over the year, the promise of ‘blockbuster-style’ episodes promised an interesting and fresh new take on the Who format. My appetite whetted with the mini-episode preview that showed companions Amy and Rory in dire relationship straits, I tuned in with great anticipation.

And I was disappointed.

I should have seen some of this coming; I had been vaguely conscious of the fact that, despite the ‘blockbuster’ style of these episodes, they would still only be 45 minutes. Something would have to be lost in the crush of content, and unfortunately it was any semblance of buildup or development. The characters were shunted off onto their adventure without so much as a by-your-leave, and before you know it they were struggling to survive on a planet filled with insane Daleks. Amy and Rory’s estrangement was also dealt with in an unsatisfying, brusque fashion which undermined any emotional impact their separation might otherwise have had, ignoring the issues behind it. After such a long absence from our screens, the rushed exposition and plot leaps felt a little jarring, and once on the planet the admittedly cool premise wasn’t played around with too much. Promo images promised multiple generations of Daleks, but really there were just one or two of the recent copper-style with the same old schtick.

The inclusion of these ‘copper’ Daleks is itself a point of contention,; a couple of years ago, the series made a big deal, and a whole episode around remodelling the Daleks into larger, more colourful interpretations, to some derision from the viewers. This reaction seems to have had an effect, as for the most part the new design has been shelved, with no explanation. This may just be nerd rage, but it really bothers me; even outside of the Daleks, this episode was full of continuity problems, to the point where it detracted from the enjoyment of watching the show.

And then there was Oswyn.

It had been widely reported for the last few months that Karen Gillan and Arthur Darvill were on their way out, with a new companion for Matt Smith’s Doctor arriving at Christmas in the form of Jenna-Louise Colman. Well, in an unexpected curveball from showrunner Steven Moffat, she’s here early; and is a Dalek. Cool, if not entirely unexpected twist; but my god if she wasn’t annoying, full of mind- gratingly ‘zingy’ back-and-forth with the Doctor. It’s a style that Alex Kingston’s River Song makes seem mysterious and sexy, but from Coleman just felt like a 15-year old flirting on Bebo. Here’s hoping she tones it down when her somehow un-dalekked self returns.

Maybe my expectations were a little too high, but this was, in my opinion, a rare miss-step from Steven Moffat on writing duties. There was still a lot to love- zombie Daleks, some fun playing around with catchphrases and game-changing events that will presumably have a big impact on the future – but really, I hope the rest of this series can deliver where this episode failed.

(Though the child in me finds it impossible to be cynical or unexcited about an episode called Dinosaurs on a Spaceship.)

2 STARS

Britain, Great?

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This summer has been characterised by big ceremony, applause and cheers in the name of team GB. Many go further to say it is a moment they are proud to be British. Of course, it doesn’t take too much stretching of the imagination to think of something positive about the UK, and frankly, to feel a sense of relief that we’re lucky to be living here. If we are to dwell on the problems and turmoil that faces other parts of the world we always have the option of diverting our attention to the Jeremy Kyle show and considering more domestic issues. Enjoying the Olympics and Paralympics being in London, with the historic ties the nation has to sport, is inspiring. We are happy to live in and to be part of a tolerant, comfortable society.

How about a sense of pride? The adjective ‘great’ has become a tagline, branding our nation’s latest poster campaign. This has struck me as a slightly different sentiment to other national tourist campaigns I have seen. It seems to be implying ours is an exceptional nation, a cut above the others. A Great Britain, as opposed to a humble, plain old Britain. When we think about it, how many nations have that kind of adjective included in their name? The United Kingdom of Great Britain and (plain) Northern Ireland. Is what is implied true? And, if so, where do we see this greatness as originating from?

For some, British pride is narrowly distinguished from a smugness embedded in our culture that neglects shame that ought to be expressed over colonialism. Last week a highly cogent point was raised by Independent Columnist Owen Jones, in response to Foreign Secretary Iain Duncan Smith’s claim that it is time to move on from feeling guilty over Britain’s colonial past. With dark cynicism, Owen Jones writes, ‘Remember all that national soul-searching and self-flagellation over Empire and all the horrors committed in its name? No, me neither.’ The bizarre and chilling fact is that in wider popular culture, and in my time studying history throughout school, the impact of Empire on the British colonies has rarely been a point of discussion, bar one mentioning of Indian contingents who fought and died as part of the Empire during World War One. It was my own background as a British Asian, and my interest in history more broadly, that lead me to look beyond the my teaching at school. The syllabus was composed of the following: the Tudor dynasty, the campaign for female suffrage, World War 1 and World War 2. Of other countries I learned about the powerful ones: America in the Cold War, Nazi Germany, the Russian Revolution and the Civil Rights Movement. I really got a sense of the might of Western powers and their complex relations and was inspired by stories of the courage and determination of ordinary British women and black Americans fighting for rights. Like a well-written story, whatever the strife, order was eventually restored to a reasonably happy ending. Other than the Holocaust, I cannot recall anything establishing a sense of guilt: only victory was the focus.

At university level, if you chose to, you could look into the massacre, famine, disease and cultural suppression that scarred so many native peoples as a result of British colonial activity. Take America, whose story did not begin in 1492 with Columbus, but far earlier than that, perhaps 12000 BC. Sixteenth century Europeans seeking to claim the West coast was not a mere conquest of uninhabited lands, ripe for the taking. Native tribes inhabited them, with their own customs and ways of living. The British, and of course the Dutch, Spanish, French and other European powers would permanently make their mark on Native American peoples through conflict and spreading disease (sometimes with deliberate intent) that would eradicate thousands. And India provided another source of plenty. Slave labour and the transatlantic slave trade, whether or not we can deem these British inventions, played a major role in propelling Britain to its great heights and making our nation very rich. And the fact that Britain abolished slavery first, an argument sometimes used to make our involvement more palatable, cannot be said to undo history.

To start again or say we’ve moved on would only be possible in a world where all peoples have a fair and equal platform upon which to be judged, something Utopian that is not even achieved in the Olympics, owing to the various circumstances of nations and their funding of sport. Britain was innovative yes, but its success had much to do with its possession of an Empire. We are products of the Empire’s political and economic activity, which also had a tremendous cultural legacy: world business is conducted in the English language, not because it was agreed to be easy or better to do so for everyone, but because of cultural imperialism. The balance of power and the relative distribution of wealth in the world owe a lot to the age of Empire. And the dislocation of so many peoples, and their sense of loss at the hands of British rule cannot be denied. 

The world has new standards agreed upon now, and growing up after decolonisation it is hard to imagine the brutality of the recent past, nor the scale of the British Empire as the largest in history. This should not prevent us from thinking about its impact as the less we do, the more we may hide under a veil of greatness, a highly unthinking, undemocratic stance that does not bode well for future progress. Britain created some horrible history, but if we are as progressive and great as we’d like to think, ought we as a nation to acknowledge the very nature of the past upon which the present is built, warts and all?  

Land of the Rising Sun

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For more tales from the Land of the Rising Sun, read the travel blog here
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Brits abroad in Marseille

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It was Friday evening and we were jumping in the air for joy at the prospect of a mini-break to Marseille. Though not originally on the agenda, the subsequent heart-wrenching sprint across Paris to catch our train, motivated by the potential loss of hundreds of euros, was an inevitability considering I’d been the one to organise the trip.

Apparently checking out old Myspace profiles isn’t entirely worth a near-on heart attack and the mowing down of old women in metro stations (the inevitable result of being late, and therefore of my life). And the sight of three youths darting in and out of poor passers-by simply minding their own business, in zig-zag shapes that would confuse even the wisest of bears, is likely to cause more than a few judgmental stares – ones that I could only describe as quintessentially French.

Finally on the train with an impressive ten minutes to spare, we braced ourselves for a whirlwind weekend away. A thirty minute delay seemed like a blessing when we discovered the train before ours took a total of nine hours to reach the city (somehow we managed to overtake it and arrive five hours before – disinclined to attempt to understand how that occurred, I merely accepted it with a pinch of slightly malicious joy).

One jolly taxi driver later and we arrived at our hotel, head full of dreams and premature remarks on the friendliness of the Marseille people. Our arrival was surprisingly smooth and, other than a minor revelation that our two days were to be filled with gale-force winds and a fair amount of lightning, all was good in the Marseille hood.

Bright and early the next morning, we went gallivanting around the city coined ‘ville poubelle’ (‘rubbish town’). No poubelle in sight, however. And guess what? No lightning either. Maybe it was going to be the weekend we’d been dreaming of.

We hit the beach and took a dip in the water, whose splendorous colour concealed, I was aware, sub-zero temperatures that were more than likely to cause a severe case of hypothermia. Nevertheless, anyone worth their (sea-)salt was going to give it a go. Brits abroad strike 1. Roll on six hours alternating between relaxation and exhilaration at near-death-due-to-drowning/freezing experiences, and we finally took a fateful glance at our ordinarily pasty British skin. A lobster transformation had occurred. Brits abroad strike 2.

But our traffic-light redness didn’t get our spirits down, and we returned to our pad to prepare for what we were sure was to be a wild night out in ‘rubbish town’. I’m aware of the paradox, but we took mindless faith in this belief regardless.

A bottle of vodka later and we decided it was time to hit the town. But trouble hit us as equally hard as we were prepared to hit that town when our ever-so-slightly inebriated friend, suddenly fluent in Spanish, began rambling on for around 30 minutes about shoes. To my deaf-to-Spanish ears I gathered none of this and assumed she was talking about something far more a) relevant and b) exciting, but an enquiry the next day revealed the shocking truth.

An hour later and we were out of the metro and into the open air of the south and of safety, or so we believed. We were, in fact, accosted on three occasions by scary-looking passers-by on the prowl for ‘un roulé’, the essence of which was only established after we innocently asked for a synonym. They were looking for weed, and we were asking for an alternative term to express their desires. I think they gathered we didn’t have any.

Roll on half an hour and I found myself locked in a very small toilet cubicle, closing my eyes to replace the sight of my friend being sick by the highly appealing sounds accompanying it. Brits abroad strike 3. After thirty minutes in my equivalent to Orwell’s room 101, a burly French bloke began thudding on the door, and I started to have a sickening fear he was going to punch a hole through the door, through my head and into the unfortunate friend, still retching over the toilet. So I opened it. Speaking to me as if I were a naughty school-child who’d forgotten to tie my laces, he firmly told me and my friend to vacate the room. Unfortunately his choice of wording was not quite so polite. So, spouting out insults more times than my friend had spouted out the contents of her stomach, I succeeded in (justifiably) disciplining a (very rude) forty-year old man, all in French, more successfully than I’d ever disciplined my fourteen year-old students during my stint as a language assistant. Now there’s a sign of language improvement, and I’m sure my tutors will be more than proud.

All in all, ‘rubbish town’ was a lot less rubbish than it’s reputed to be, and, despite the blips, I had a great weekend away. Several near-death experiences taught me to value my life. But has the near-on heart attack encouraged me to stop being late? Well, since it’s proved excellent training for the obviously inevitable moment when I’ll have to run away from a bear (and that will involve speed, stress and a whole lot of zig-zagging.), I’m inclined to say no.