Monday, May 5, 2025
Blog Page 1636

‘Life is short. Have an affair’

Tom Beardsworth
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‘Life is short. Have an affair’

I’d never heard of ‘Ashley Madison’ before, though apparently with 3.5 million members a lot of people have. The website, which in structure seems no different to Match.com or any other online dating service, hooks up men and women who would otherwise not meet. The difference? Ashley Madison is expressly targeted at those who are already married or in a relationship, its slogan – ‘Life is short. Have an Affair’.

I came across the site tangentially – via this hilarious billboard in California.   Indeed the firm markets itself in true American style. Far from abiding by the culture of discretion and grace that characterises, say, French infidelity, the CEO Noel Biderman has attempted to sell adultery like Ronald McDonald sells French fries (here for instance). American politics buffs will appreciate the company’s endorsement earlier this year of Newt Gingrich, Republican Presidential hopeful and serial philanderer, in the now-elapsed G.O.P. primary contest.

I’m not sure what I make of Ashley Madison. Adultery is a function of (a) personal greed and (b) unhappy relationships. Those familiar with the MTV hit Geordie Shore, whose orange inhabitants possess the looks and libidos of gorillas, will be familiar with (a). Though as the Madison Superbowl commercial indicates prisoners of (b) are the target market.

To be fair, whilst Madison might have an interest in the cultivation of personal vice and inter-personal misfortune, it is in no position to influence either. As Biderman is oft to point out, Madison doesn’t make people want to cheat, it merely increases choice and efficiency in the adultery market.

Fair, but he forgets that we aren’t wholly autonomous; the choices available to you and I condition our preferences.  The availability and social acceptability of another vice, cigarettes say, will encourage us to smoke them. Similarly a ready market for extra-marital sex will lead to more cheating.

I confess to possessing Alain de Botton’s How to Think More about Sex. Like all my Amazon purchases made after 2am the book belongs to that commendable class of drunken acquisitions known as ‘1-Click Buying’.

His chapter on adultery is worth quoting. His observation that, until the eighteenth century phenomenon of the bourgeois, ‘the three very distinct needs – for love, sex and family – were wisely differentiated and separated out from one another’ is insightful. The oddness, and perhaps futility, of modern marriage rests in the retrograde idea that all these desires should be satisfied by the ‘selfsame person’. This is what Biderman is getting at.

Still, de Botton’s reflections don’t answer the question at hand. We may sympathise with the adulterer entrapped in a loveless, sexless marriage, but we’re still offended by Ashley Madison’s involvement. We reason that if a person is driven to cheat, then the complex emotions involved shouldn’t be exploited by a commercial interests. If you were repulsed in the first paragraph, that’s probably why.  

Oxonian’s Olympic Ode a success

Lara Bryan
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Oxonian’s Olympic Ode a success

An Olympic ode in ancient Greek written by Jesus classics professor Dr Armand D’Angour was read out loud by London Mayor Boris Johnson at the Opening Gala for the International Olympic Committee last Monday.

Performed to the Olympic committee, which included royal members such as Prince Albert of Monaco and Princess Anne, Johnson’s reading recieved enthusiastic applause and cheering.

The ode, inspired by the Olympics, was commissioned by the London mayor and has been engraved in Greek and in English on a Bronze plaque placed within the Olympic Park.

Dr D’Angour explains that “Writing an Ode for the Games revives a musical and poetic tradition from ancient Greece, where Odes were commissioned to celebrate athletic winners at the Games.”

Written in the style of Pindar, a 5th Century BC poet from Ancient Greece, Dr D’Angour’s ode remains faithful to ancient style and form whilst reaching out to a modern audience.

The English version of the ode, written in six stanzas of rhyming couplets contains references to Usain Bolt (“the lightning bolt around the track”), the chairman of the London Organising Committee of the Olympic Games Lord Coe (‘Join London’s Mayor and co within’), as well as diver Tom Daley (‘as medallists are daily crowned’).

Dr D’Angour also makes a playful pun on Boris Johnson’s name in Greek “Barus,” which means ‘weighty’ both in the physical sense and in the sense of a man of authority.

“Of course the puns may make people groan, but Pindar’s audiences may have done so too,” commented the Dr D’Angour.

“Boris certainly did it justice [when reading it to Olympic dignitaries], he brought it off with typical brio and panache, and even a bit of dramatic action when the Greek says ‘(watch) the archer draw his bowstring tight’!” added the doctor.

About the writing process Dr D’Angour said “It was terrific fun writing the ode, getting the Greek and the metre right, and working out how to make it effective as a performance vehicle for the Mayor.”

Dr D’Angour was previously commissioned to write a Pindaric Ode to Athens which was recited at the Athens Olympic Games in 2004.

First year classicist, Lydia Stephens enjoyed the puns, commetnting, “It’s very clever, Dr D’Angour did a great job.”

Ronan Magee a second year classicist added, “I think it’s brilliant, Dr D’Angour cooked up a fabulous Ode with lots of great jests. Let’s just hope that Adidas and LOCOG don’t object too much to the penultimate line’s reference to νίκη (Nike)!”

A lesson from Geordie Shore

Matt Jones
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A lesson from Geordie Shore

When I first watched Geordie Shore I decided it represented the worst of human culture, the last excesses of Rome before it was burned by the barbarians, and this (combined with the fact that I don’t have sky at home) meant that I swore off Geordie Shore and MTV for life. Having now become both more familiar with corners of the internet, of which MTV aren’t particularly big fans and living the intern dream, I’ve turned to Geordie Shore: Cancun Chaos as a source of escapism. And you know what? I may have been too quick to condemn. In fact, I think there’s a lot we could learn from them.

1. Drink Responsibly

If there’s one thing that LawSoc/balls/any open bar event has taught me, it’s that sometimes we need a lesson in restraint. Just because the alcohol is behind the bar doesn’t mean that it has to be drunk, although a feeling of wanting to ‘get your money’s worth’ (even if it was free) means that it normally is. In Geordie Shore, however, the drinks on the table don’t disappear as they’re put down. Gary, on the other hand, can happily dance next to a bottle of vodka for the entire night without feeling the need to down it. Admittedly it’s because he’s too busy shining his laser pen at girls in a manner that makes him look a little bit like a bouncer looking for drugs, but it’s obviously a tactic that’s working for him. In fact, maybe I’m not so much advocating reduced drinking but rather the use of laser pens to act as a, albeit slightly creepy, distraction.

2. There’s no substitute for good game.

If there’s one thing you can’t deny when watching the program, it’s that these Geordies have a lot of luck with the opposite sex. Whether you consider it luck when you see which particular specimens of the opposite sex they’ve gone for is another matter, but they seem to be enjoying it anyway. Not for them the forced intimacy of a crew date: eating curry with 15 others on a table that seats eight while subtly trying to encourage your friends to shout your most embarrassing/flattering/’laddish’ sconces. In the last episode Rebecca had been ditched by her girls, who’d all settled into relationships (or onto the toilet in Charlotte’s case), but there was no stopping her and she went off to meet a man at a foam party while ‘feeling like a soapy goddess’. Equally Gary, ever the charmer, goes for the line ‘three way kiss’, which I think is a technique that perhaps wouldn’t work as well in Camera, but then there’s only one way to find out.

3. Reject authority

One of the main sources of tension in Geordie Shore comes from Cancun Chris, a man who has no function in life other than to set arbitrary rules that will obviously be broken and tasks that involve random members of the group either doing nothing or travelling in order to do nothing. Nothing exemplifies this than his leaving of a special bottle of tequilia in the middle of the house he was letting them rent while telling them not to touch it, in a manner similar to the set up of the Garden of Eden and the Tree of Knowledge. When Gary, our band’s proverbial Eve, took the tequilia he was sent to get some more on a trip that seemed to rival the Fellowship of the Ring’s for length/discomfort. However the Geordies stand up to him, refusing to listen to his demands to ‘stay in the house’ and fleeing on the back of motorbikes when it all gets too much. Think of this example when next set a piece of work by a tutor who knows it’s completely irrelevant and you know will never mark it but just wants to make sure you’re productive during the vacation, or ‘extended study time’ as they seem to know it.

4. Never give up on love

Charlotte and Gary are rapidly becoming the “real life” Ross and Rachel, except without any semblance of adult responsibilities and with added threesomes and one night stands. Perhaps a more exciting Ross and Rachel when you put it like that. The little glances they give each other, the fact that Gary pies Charlotte and then Charlotte pies Gary and who can forget their trip to buy more Tequilia and the game of ‘gearstick’ that they played on the way home. It truly is the stuff of modern romance; you can really feel for Gary when he says how hard it’s going to be not to shag her and for Charlotte when she explains just how hard she’s tried to get over him and how much she still wants that cock. As Madeline Sava, a third year archaeology and anthropology student puts it, “It really does teach you that, while the path of true love may twist and turn, it is worth fighting for”. So what if he pies you and goes for the girl on the blues hockey team on a crew date, or she falls for that third year’s charms? Just pick yourself up and go for a grind on the RnB floor of Park End or a grope on the back of a punt, it’s always worth a go, this might just be the time they fall for it.

5. Make the most of what you’ve got/exercise

Regardless of what you think of the Geordie Shore gang, their morals and general outlook on life, you can’t say that they haven’t nailed it. They’re basically doing what they (and don’t lie, a lot of us as well) would do in an ideal world in a house paid for MTV and clubs that give them drinks (they don’t even have to sell tickets for them!). I’m not sure how it works but it doesn’t look like they cook or clean, just go clubbing, talk about going and try to navigate group politics. If that doesn’t sound like Oxford without the essays or bills I don’t know what does. Who’s having the last laugh now?

Internship Blog: Home Office

Nupur Takwale
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Internship Blog: Home Office

Being blessed with the incredible talent of not technically being from this country, I managed to get myself on the civil service diversity internship scheme this summer. I’ve been placed at the Home Office, which occupies really a rather snazzy building, complete with cylindrical glass portals at the entrance that one has to awkwardly pause in before you can pass into the enormous atrium within.

I assume they’re there either for security or emergency teleportation.

I live with a group of total strangers (three really-rather-attractive-looking young men of about my age, two of whom are on investment banking internships and so clearly are going to be filthy rich) in an awesome flat directly above a Tesco Express and a cash machine, and about half a minute from a direct tube journey to Westminster. So all in all, it might seem like I have it quite good. Not so.

Firstly, it turns out that living in London is really rather expensive. Obviously, I knew that. And obviously, I planned for it. Unfortunately, an inexplicable dresses craving that required urgent attention towards the end of term left me in a bit of a pickle this last month. But being on a one-woman quest to prove that despite dropping Economics, I can handle the concept of money without too much undue effort, I must say I developed some innovative solutions. For example, I insisted on meeting a friend the other week on the tube side of the Baker Street underground station. Thus, socialising could take place within the confines of a single use of my newly acquired oyster card. It was very cunning.

Oh well. At least I still graduate in PPE. No one in the real world seems to have worked out that the degree is a sham.

There is one key advantage to living in London, in that I’ve been able to quickly develop that innate sense of superiority that all Londoners (especially the ones in Oxford) seem to have. I regularly strut around Westminster looking disdainfully at tourists, and allow myself to feel incredibly important and definitely never at all confused. This is occasionally undermined by stressful London-related experiences, such as the incident the other morning, when I absent-mindedly sprinted, Olympic-style, into the wrong train and then had to awkwardly run right back out again, desperately avoiding eye contact and trying to pretend like I’d meant to do it all along.

That was the day I had accidentally left my phone in the offices overnight. My very lovely colleagues locked it in a drawer for safekeeping, which was kind of them. They definitely regretted it though, because the owner of the locked drawer arrived late that morning. Imagine the dawning embarrassment as I slowly headed towards my desk, fresh from tube-related travails, through the vast, open-plan offices and with each step heard the dulcet tones of my blackberry alarm growing ever louder. In shock I confirmed the news that they had been listening to it for the last 45 minutes. It was with a wicked smile one colleague pronounced that now, I could sit down and listen too. My humiliation knew no bounds.

And the tales of mortification don’t end there. My internship began marked by the ‘keys’ issue. The friend from whom I’m slightly illegally subletting a room lost her key to the downstairs entrance of the block of flats, which meant that I spent my first two weeks here unhappily buzzing random inhabitants to get in. My pleas that I wasn’t a burglar weren’t entirely successful, and I now live in constant fear of the very angry man in flat 7.

But you know, other than Mr Flat 7, my neighbours are absolutely fabulous. There’s this elderly Indian couple in flat 4 who I think have more or less adopted me as a daughter. Thankfully, they were on holiday when I invited a bunch of St John’s friends to celebrate my birthday last week. When one friend ends the evening throwing up in a stolen hat, you know it’s been a good night.

And you know, it actually really is exciting being in London for the Olympics. Boris’ voice serenades me at every other tube station, and I read media cuttings about immigration queue scares every Monday morning. Yet when I walk out of Westminster station, past Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament on my left, through throngs of excited sports-mad tourists, and head into the depths of government, I can’t help but forget my woes and fraudulent diversity background. I feel quite gloriously British.

Olympic Oxford

Eleanor Grieveson
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Olympic Oxford

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The changeover begins at Sir Roger Bannister Running Track at Iffley Road

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Sir Roger Bannister carries the torch over the same track where he set the record breaking time for the mile in 1954

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Lighting the torch for Nicola Byrom; Oxford DPhil student and founder of volunteer group Student Run Self Help

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Nicola Byrom runs the course

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Some of the Out of the Blue boys supporting London 2012

Review: Shades of Dark and Light

Thomas Catterall
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Review: Shades of Dark and Light

When trying to describe Shades of Dark and Light to those who asked, the best analogy I could conjure was that of the petits-fours you find in Starbucks: they look enticing, but the portions are far too small. Shades of Dark and Light, a production of the local group Almost Random Theatre, comprises ten short plays. Some, like Letter to an MP (no points for guessing the content) and Where Fairies Haunt were monologues, but most were small cast affairs, and the genres were pretty mixed – many, to the writers’ credit, deftly spinning comedy into thrillers.

Unfortunately, this melange betrayed the lack of direction and focus the plays sorely needed. Take, for instance, Le Type DeBrouillard. This was drawn out, and it rested far too heavily on its ending. The best remedy for this would be to cut about five minutes from the middl -. I never expected to have to say that a character was overdeveloped, but that’s a symptom of the problem here. The ending, though, was clever. Like many of these plays the germ of inspiration was readily apparent, there was a cunning and wit evidently driving the creation of the art, but the execution was imperfect. Consider also Would That it Were – this was an entertaining satire of some upper-class nitwits at Oxford, in a fictional yet not unattractive future where Stephen Fry has served the office of Prime Minister with aplomb, and (to try not to ruin the ending) Oxford University isn’t quite what it is today. That central idea was fantastic and humorous, but getting there wasn’t easy. Not quite enough was made of it. The Intricate Workings of a Sherbet Lemon likewise suffers from an implementation failure, though as probably the best play of the compilation does not have the problem as acutely.

The common thread here is that Shades of Dark and Light felt like sifting through a literary agent’s submissions, or attending an early preview of plays in development. In each there was a kernel of genius, and I do not doubt that most of them (especially the ones I have mentioned above, precisely because they were so promising and therein lay the tragedy) could be expanded into excellent plays. But two hours of drafts? A better approach might be to make this a regular, shorter affair, inviting feedback from the audience and a pleasant drink afterwards with the cast. And speaking of which, here is where my hope lies – they were simply fabulous. This praise is not idle compensation. I would like to single out Lixi Chivas for leaving a lasting impression: every one of her performances was compelling and striking, even in Letter to an MP where the source material left me asking whether I had missed the point of the piece (maybe I don’t hate MPs very much). In sum, Shades of Dark and Light isn’t great. But it definitely could be.

TWO STARS

Olympic Opening Ceremony: Live Blog!

James Fennemore
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Olympic Opening Ceremony: Live Blog!

And with a final rendition of ‘Hey Jude’ that’s it. Except it’s not the end. It’s just the end of the beginning. Thanks to one and all for following; it’s been a blast. Let the games begin!

12.41pm: Well, one half of my wish came true. It’s Paul McCartney. Remember? From Wings. Amongst other things. 

12.37pm: If this doesn’t end with a Boris-McCartney duet, I’ll weep. Redgrave and other delegates pass the lighting of the flame to young representatives. The final torch is utterly gorgeous. It rather puts Rowling’s Goblet of Fire to shame.

12.31pm: And the final torchbearer is Steve Redgrave. Good, safe choice from the committee – our greatest Olympian ever. I can put the phone back now, then. I had my trainers ready and everything.

12.21pm: That’s a good one to have on the CV. UN Champion of the Earth. Good for dinner parties too, I’d imagine. Blows rocket-scientist and brain-surgeon out of the water.

12.14pm: How to get a job as President of the IOC? Dynamism, verve, and a zest for life, it seems.

12.12pm: We did it correctly, Seb. Now isn’t the time for colloquialisms.

12.11pm: It’s time for the speeches and official opening, and Lord Coe’s borrowed some goggles from the squash team. I imagine there will be a few ‘indelible marks’ on those pristine white uniforms at the sight of that big a crowd. 

12.07pm: It must have been a difficult decision late one night in the ceremonial consultative meetings. ‘Flying bicycles?’ ‘Yeah, why not?’

12.03pm: Innovative fireworks hark back to the opening of the ceremony, transforming the stadium into a thatched cottage. At least, that’s what I’ll claim.

11.58pm: And we’re out. I can hear Jermyn Street cringing from here. At least Bond was well dressed.

11.51pm: Elbow patches? Uruguay giving the Romanians a run for their money. Antique-chic.

11.49pm: America taking their costume-cue from the Wimbledon line judges, there.

11.48pm: They ought to put better use to this conveyer belt of nations. Perhaps next time the organisers could combine the event with Eurovision? It’s in your hands, Rio di Janeiro. 

11.43pm: Boyle’s ‘Glastonbury Tor’ looking more and more like a fortress with those flags surrounding it. All it needs are a few heads to go on its spikes. Nominations? Lay on, readers.

11.33pm: It’s becoming a bit of a cop-out just to keep on quoting Mr Nelson. But I can’t resist this one: ‘It’s like being in a lesson here. All these countries I’ve never heard of.’

11.30pm: Award nominations for best dressed? My vote goes to the Romanian delegation, for their mustard jackets and cravats. Beats our inevitable trackies.

11.23pm: Sneak-preview of the US team wearing berets, no less. Bien sur. Do comment below, or @Cherwell_Online with your highlights and thoughts so far.

11.16pm: ‘The beat’s pretty rapid’. That’s exactly how I’d describe it, Huw. Encroaching on Trevor’s territory a little though?

11.13pm: Weary of the parading? Take a welcome gander at this entertaining video of athletic mishaps.

11.10pm: ‘Kyrgyzstan, one of the only countries whose name contains only a single vowel’. Glad to see the BBC commentary team is scraping the bottom of the same barrel as me.

11.06pm: Danny Boyle is apparently responsible for the first lesbian kiss broadcast on Saudi television. Good on him. Usain’s swaggering out.

11.04pm: I bet the Duke of Edinburgh’s having a field day. Maybe that’s why the Queen’s keeping terse-lipped. 

10.59pm: It’s a real triumph for the mum-viewers this evening. Thanks to Anna Broadley, whose message informs me that hers mistook Emeli Sande for Elaine Paige. Mine’s just compared watching this procession to ‘having a chronic disease’. Entering into the spirit, then.

10.55pm: Trevor Nelson (on Fiji’s topless flag bearer): ‘Oh Fiji’s my favourite. What a hero.’ Thanks, Trev. Making my job easier.

10.51pm: You don’t have to be really, really tall to carry your country’s flag, but it certainly helps. Adele blares in the background. Presumably Boyle was taking her literally when she asked him to ‘set fire to the rain.’

10.45pm: So… We’re still only on ‘C’. To cheer us all up, the Cubans have come in dressed up as bananas.

10.38pm: Twitter’s lit up, as expected. Nick Robinson, BBC political correspondent, is being his usual adventurous self: ‘Stirring, moving, patriotic but can’t help analysing the politics of the ceremony…’ Oh, Nick. You’re a one.

10.32pm: HOORAY, Trevor’s back. He likes ‘the snazzy outfitzz’.

10.31pm: The Bangladeshi delegate’s taking quite a liberal approach to his flag waving technique. Much to the irritation of the poor girl standing next to him.

10.26pm: An important message to the world’s leaders: choose your national colours wisely. Else you’ll end up looking like flight attendants on all sorts of important occassions.

10.24pm: I must admit, I’ve been dreading this bit. There’s going to be quite a long section now, mainly involving participants from different nations walking in. Which is quite hard to keep up an entertaining commentary upon. I’m going to be navigating a veritable minefield of race-based humour.

10.22pm: And, an hour and twenty minutes in, we get our first sight of some athletes. Mummy Fennemore’s brought in some late-evening scotch eggs. Bet you wish you were here.

10.18pm: Those dramatic dancers I raised an eyebrow to earlier are in fact commemorating those who died in the 7/7 attacks. They’re excused. At least Trevor’s keeping his mouth shut.

10.12pm: They’re running another montage over what I’m told is an emergency. Richard Burton’s desperately trying to get hold of Danny Boyle. With ‘only’ Clint Eastwood to protect him.

10.10pm: Well, that’s Trevor Nelson’s specialist area over. Wasn’t he worth it? Tim Berners Lee appears to have a blank white screen on his computer. Must be running Microsoft.

10.03pm: I imagine the Queen’s loving this. I also imagine that the Archbishop’s providing some top quality banter sitting behind her.

10pm: It’s the music medley section. They’re making a bit of a song and dance about it. Tee Hee.

9.55pm: A sequence about ‘the digital age’ now. They didn’t invite me. Dancers keep the crowd amused whilst we watch some ‘classic’ British clips by twirling some giant glowsticks. Daddy Fennemore turns the volume down.

9.50pm: I’ll shut up for a bit and let you bask in the glory of Rowan Atkinson’s visual humour.

9.44pm: Somebody shut Trevor Nelson up. ‘I really like the use of children in this so far’. Let’s have one of those Mary Poppinses smack him round the face with her umbrella.

9:39pm: All the children are hiding under their beds from JK Rowling. Cheer up, kids, at least it’s not Carol Ann Duffy.

9:38pm: A rather sinister section to Mark Oldfield’s Exorcist theme tune of Tubular bells is replaced by something altogether more upbeat and swingy in celebration of the NHS and Great Ormond Street. ‘They’re actually trampolines look, not beds’ says Daddy Fennemore. Ever the insightful.

9.34pm: James Bond AND the Queen AND Dambusters. That was utterly superb. Boyle firmly raises two fingers to any republicans. The French commentary employs a nice mix of English verbiage, just to show them who’re still the kings of language. Up goes the flag to the anthem, in front of a rather grouchy looking queen. At least we got the right flag.

9.25pm: Burning Olympic Rings. It’s Raining Fire. Photo creds to Austin Tiffany.

9.22pm: Take that, Romantic England. THIS…. IS…SMELTING!

9.17pm: And up rise those dark satanic mills like, well, I won’t say what. Branagh takes a puff from his cigar. And we’re already at WW1. At this rate, we’ll be done in ten minutes or so.

9.11pm: Kenneth Branagh presents a stunning rendition of Caliban’s speech. Dressed as Isambard Kingdom Brunel. And now Evelyn Glennie leads a depiction of the Industrial Revolution. Move your crops, lads, the men in the top hats have arrived.

9.07pm: Next, a charming medley from assorted schoolgirls throughout the constituent nations and principalities of GB. Including any chunk to ‘Danny Boyle’, was that? I must have misheard. And back to Jerusalem again. I’ve always thought that burning gold was a funny thing to make a bow out of. Each to their own, Mr Blake.

9.00pm: And we’re off! To a staggeringly good visual. I’ve got disappointingly few critical things to say about that. That was pretty damn cool. 

8.57pm: Maypole dancing, cricket, and ferris wheels, to the tune of Nimrod. This is what Britain is like. All of the time.

8.45pm: Fifteen minutes to go and a shouty chap wearing a short sleeved checked shirt has forgotten he’s got the modern blessing of a microphone in front of him. BBC warm-up coverage has included the usual welcome blend of Lineker and Barker, plenty of montage footage giving us an early Einuadi overdose, and some gentle ribbing of Amir Khan’s choice of wristwatch. And now for some Andrew Marr. In rather tight jeans.

Preamble: Gone are the days when an Olympic Opening Ceremony consisted of teams simply marching around the stadium wearing Sports Blazers and sensible pairs of slacks, to the tune of a brass band. This evening’s ceremony, directed by Slumdog superstar Danny Boyle, has been one of the most anticipated features of the London Games. Taking its inspiration from a speech by Caliban, a gnarly old chap from Shakespeare’s The Tempest, Boyle has promised to transform the stadium with a luscious set depicting our ‘Isles of Wonder’. Don’t mention Hull.

Judging by sneak preview footage of the event, this incarnation involves a lot of bad behaviour (not that kind) on giant beds, dancers being all dramatic amidst gusts of haze, and cyclists. With luminous wings.

I’ll be accompanying you through this extravaganza with a regularly-updating commentary on the events as they unfold. This will be supplemented by exclusive photographs from Jonathan Goddard and Austin Tiffany, taken at one of the dress-rehearsals for tonight’s event. 

I’m not reassuring myself with any it’s-a-marathon-not-a-sprint nonsense. Because it is a sprint. And a marathon. A sprinted marathon. At Usain Bolt speeds, that’s 26 miles in 1 hour and 5 minutes, breaking the world record by about an hour. Take that, Patrick Makau.

But all this strenuous activity isn’t just my responsibility. Get your fingers warmed up and prepared to be constantly tapping that F5 button to refresh the page, and follow the progression of the ceremony. Else you’ll be sitting here staring at the first entry for three hours. I’d hate for you to miss out. Do post your own comments in the box below, or message us on Twitter at @Cherwell_Online, and I’ll include your thoughts in the liveblog.

So join me at 9pm after an unfeasibly long BBC countdown to watch Danny Boyle piss away our cash unleash a worthwhile and cost-effective addition to a sports competition – and to see whether Boris can upstage £27 million worth of pyrotechnics. I can’t wait.

Interview: James Delingpole

Tom Beardsworth
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Interview: James Delingpole

James Delingpole would make a poor politician. Nor would he mind me saying so. His colourful social commentary reminds me of George Galloway (he might mind me saying that). How about this on New Labour: ‘they raped our country…and we just had to spread our buttocks and take it’. Needless to say, Delingpole’s politics bear no resemblance to the Respect Party MP – in fact they are light years away from any mainstream figure. In our hour-long interview the right-wing journalist and author was characteristically impassioned, though I discovered a reflectiveness to Delingpole that did not leave me short-changed.   

When discussing politics Delingpole is belligerent, ‘detest[ing] nuance’. For the author of How to be Right, subtlety and understatement – whilst noble Conservative virtues – are in fact rather ignoble in the face of the Bolshevistic threat the country faces. To avoid total capitulation to the ‘lefty, socialist consensus’, which the Cameron Coalition represents, James demands fellow conservatives employ ‘the tactics of the Left’, though beyond a shouty obstinacy it’s not clear what this entails.

On the one-hand I understand Delingpole as ‘terribly English’. Our tea is made splendidly (I wonder whether he has gleaned the insights of another, albeit more famous, novelist-cum-polemicist on this) and as we bask in the evening sunlight of his south-London semi, it is evident that the garden is immaculately well-tended to. He was famously portrayed in the Channel 4 docu-drama When Boris met Dave as a wet, naive schoolboy with aristocratic pretensions. The comparison with Charles Ryder of Brideshead Revisited is inescapable. We can only suppose therefore that the producers were confused when they modelled Delingpole on Evelyn Waugh’s other creation, Sebastian Flyte (on-screen James is shown – wholly inaccurately – to gander merrily about Christ Church with his teddy-bear). Alternatively, his frankness – what Delingpole would coyly describe as ‘fucking off lefties’ – is attributed to his West Midlands roots, the culture whereof is very ‘call a spade a spade’.

On the other-hand he is not at all self-conscious, being entirely immune to embarrassment. At times this has translated into an admirable audaciousness, such as when he broke what he later popularised the ‘Climategate’ story in 2009. A number of prominent climate scientists from the University of East Anglia’s Climate Research Unit were exposed conspiring in data fraud, employing ‘Mike’s nature trick’ to hide an ‘inconvenient’ set of results. Irrespective of your conclusions about the veracity of anthropogenic global warming, Delingpole undoubtedly performed a great service to the public in exposing the fraud. Most journalists, including global-warming sceptics, would not have touched the story but in his insolence, Delingpole did – it propelled him from blogospheric obscurity to become the media’s most infamous climate-sceptic and right-wing bogeyman. ‘Most people in the media I despise’ notes Delingpole; indeed the feeling, especially since ‘Climategate, is mutual.

Matt Ridley of the Spectator probably pinned it down most accurately when he characterised Delingpole as a ‘radical 18th-century pamphleteer lambasting the Whig establishment’. At least Delingpole thinks so. He has ‘always detested arbitrary authority’ though in his view, the last decade has seen the Conservative party he instinctively belonged to become the embodiment of that philosophy, rendering him a ‘Radical’. Funny, because Delingpole is a staunch conservative in almost every sense, save for a distinctly liberal use of expletives. Nor, it quickly emerges, is he fired up by the sort of social issues that many of his right-wing contemporaries proselytise about mercilessly. His defining life experience? ‘Taking my first E’ – imagine a Mail commentator confessing to that.

And what of the evidence that Delingpole’s brand of ‘libertarian conservatism’ is catching on? He certainly doesn’t do himself any favours. When Rowan Williams recently waded into a Westminster catfight about the Welfare Bill, James wondered aloud on his Telegraph blog whether the outgoing Archbishop was in fact the Antichrist. Understatement of the century? ‘I’ve never been known for my diplomacy’. Quite. 

That aside, I put it to him that – all too often – he preaches to the converted; the only people likely to be persuaded are those who already subscribe to his rather niche brand. Is he the Polly Toynbee of the Right? ‘I totally accept that criticism…I’m not a politician; I’m not there to bring people over’. In fact he’s quite firm on that point, that ‘I’m best at being James Delingpole, so why should I try to be someone else?’ which bemuses me. Surely if you ardently believe in a cause, you want it actualised, and in a democracy that means bringing people over. Delingpole has no time for that, slamming the Cameroons for adhering to the cosy centre ground rather than ‘actually doing what is necessary’ to save the country.

I wasn’t convinced by this apparently disdainful attitude to public opinion, so I challenge him. In Delingpole’s bastardised Platonic ideal, I counter, only conservative solutions can rescue the nation, and if the public doesn’t want them, stuff ‘em! Unsurprisingly he’s not persuaded, referencing Thatcher as a politician who moved the centre ground rather than chasing it. His theory is that the next Labour government, led by a ‘monkey in a red rosette’ will test the consensus to destruction by ‘borrowing even more money and spunking it against the wall’ – leading to a seismic public mood shift. Interesting theory, perhaps Cherwell could get back to Delingpole about that one in a decade’s time.

From the transcript of our interview, Delingpole does not come across well. In-between insurrectionist ramblings are narcissistic ones – ‘it’s boring being right’ is a common afterthought – and the claim that the ‘Climategate’ revelations have ‘saved Western civilisation’ is, to put it kindly, dubious; less kindly, it was ‘weapons-grade bollocks’, to coin one of James’ phrases.

He does not share the avuncular manner of my other interviewees, quite the contrary. Yet I’m glad for it. Delingpole’s talent – and a rare one at that – lies in telling you how utterly wrong you are without being patronising. It’s hard to tell whether Delingpole’s style or substance will infect a broader demographic. Having recently escaped to the countryside, will James’ inner street-fighter mellow with age? The answer is that, by cultivating the habits of an English gentleman in his private life, he doesn’t have to. ‘Lefties’ should anticipate irritation for some time yet.

James’ ‘latest masterpiece’ on the environmental movement – Watermelons – can be found here. 

Tom is now on twitter…

Review: As You Like It

Finola Austin
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Review: As You Like It

St Paul’s churchyard in Covent Garden is the setting for Iris Theatre’s production of As You Like It and the joy of the play is the way in which the location resembles an inner-London Arden. The promenade-style performance leads the audience away from the bustle of the world beyond the gates and finally, for the wedding scene denouement, into the church itself.

Particularly effective is the backdrop to the first scenes in the forest. The audience cluster round a tree strung with paper lanterns as the light fades, the cast sing, and Orlando (Joe Forte) hangs love poetry on the branches. Tessa Battisti’s design works with the gardens entirely unobtrusively – each new setting a surprising discovery and those scenes that suit performance in the round (such as the wrestling ring at court) added greatly to this organic feel. Benjamin Polya’s lighting was introduced subtly as the natural light faded, leading up to the eerie atmosphere of the indoor Hymen scene, the church door transformed into the entrance of a cave, with the audience being led to the heart of a mystical landscape.

The success of the acting was more variable. In a company which trades on its youth and vitality, something Emily Tucker’s Rosalind embodied perfectly, the stand out performance was actually that of theatre veteran John Harwood, as Adam and Corin. His slower pace was not only in keeping with characterisation but seemed to give the language greater impact. Diana Kashlan’s Touchstone, however, while giving the piece a lot of comic energy, often did so at the expense of her lines, which lost meaning; she seemed more at home while responding to the speech of other characters, or adding in non-Shakespearean asides. On the other end of the spectrum there was a tendency to over-emphasise famous passages, a fault of which Tom Deplae as Jacques was particularly (if understandably) guilty. Fiona Geddes’ Celia was also a little over-expressive, in contrast with the more naturalistic Tucker, although her interpretation of Celia as more assertive than is often the case was refreshing.

This reflected a decision of director Daniel Winder’s to pay a lot of attention to the play’s apparent subversion of gender norms. Sometimes this worked well – Matthew Mellalieu’s cross-dressing Audrey was a favourite with the audience – but other quirks, such as Amiens’ (Christopher Rowland) suggested gender confusion, were more difficult to rationalise. The programme refers to the character of Orlando as ‘submissive, nurturing, emotional and easily manipulated’ – an apparent confutation of our gender expectations. But onstage Forte was not so much metrosexual as bland, an unconvincing match for Tucker, reduced to the role of a pretty face (or at least a pretty topless wrestler).

Overall the production was funny, charming and well-conceived. Design, music and direction all made the play consistently engaging and any quibbles with the acting were more than compensated for by the energy of the ensemble. The play seemed not so much a performance as a shared experience and it was one I would not hesitate in recommending to students who find themselves with a free (mild!) night in the capital.

THREE AND A HALF STARS 

Iris Theatre’s production of As You Like It will be performed until 4th August at St Paul’s Church, Covent Garden, £14/10

Review: The Gaslight Anthem – Handwritten

Marc Pacitti
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Review: The Gaslight Anthem – Handwritten

If The Gaslight Anthem sound like Bruce Springsteen, there’s probably a good reason for that. They are a blue-collar band hailing from New Jersey, playing muscular rock and roll songs about how good things were in some more innocent time, and the need to break free. It’s practically genetic.

However, whenever comparisons are drawn between a young act and an established master (or ‘Boss’) of the genre, expectations are automatically raised, meaning that whatever the newcomer pulls out of the bag has to be something particularly special. The Gaslight Anthem have managed this in the past. Their second album, The ‘59 Sound, was on hard rotation on my hifi for a good few months. Their particular skill lies in taking a kind of music that you’ve definitely heard before and making it seem vital and relevant in a way that many Springsteen-aping bands fail to do.

It’s a shame, then, that their newest album, Handwritten, fails to live up to this promise.

It’s not a bad album, not by any measure. The same factors that made The ’59 Sound such a joy are still present. The band have lost none of their energy, none of their verve and wit, and none of their usual lyrical themes. The music still sounds like it used to. But, in some ways, that’s part of the problem with the new album.

There’s a sense that we’ve heard these songs before, on The ’59 Sound. The style has barely changed at all, which leaves the listener in something of a quandary. It’s by no means definite that new is always better, that trying out new styles and elements in music is the way for a band to go. In some cases, it’s nice to know what you’re getting. But it’d be a real shame to see The Gaslight Anthem become another band that releases the same album ten times in a row, especially after their third album, American Slang.

American Slang showcased a different side to the band, a side that was appealing, more melodic, more polished and professional than that which came through on their first two albums. If The Gaslight Anthem had carried on in that vein, there is a chance that they could have been a truly big name, a world-conquering rock band. Unfortunately, for all its charm, Handwritten is nowhere near the record it would need to be for that ambition to be realised.

 

THREE STARS

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