‘Alright Hop Farm! Now I want y’all to sit back and relax with yo’ beer and yo’ spliff…’ And so the Rythmites’s Denis Wint sums up the One Love 2012 philosophy of laid-back, Rasta-style hedonism.

Not to be confused with the (larger and arguably more mainstream) Hop Farm festival, One Love is a haven of dub-step, reggae and all things Rastafarian. Wellies are a no-no: Jamaican flag-themed tracksuits and flip-flops form pretty much standard attire here. And with the blazing hot sunshine, the fleeting waft of jerk chicken and a preponderance of dreadlocks, this is probably the closest thing Kent has come to a Jamaican cross cultural exchange. Created in 2008 for the UK’s 30th anniversary of Bob Marley’s concert of the same name, musical nods to the legend himself come from artists across the weekend; on Sunday’s main stage, it’s Don Campbell who performs a crowd pleasing, if tad banal rendition of Marley’s ‘Redemption song’.

Meanwhile, a healthy dose of east London grit comes from The Skints whose disappointingly short set nevertheless showcases a punk-edged, Madness-reminiscent track ‘Rat-a-tat’, which amasses the largest crowd of the day. ‘Things are going to get sexy now. Fellas – grab your ladies’  growls vocalist Joshua Waters Rudge before launching into the slightly trippy ‘Rise Up’.

 Nevertheless it’s impossible to escape the perception that One Love 2012 is experiencing a decidedly poor turnout. On the main stage the Dualers, comprising Tyber Cranstoun and an eight-piece ska and reggae band, are in very near danger of outnumbering the only members of the crowd up and dancing. As the evening wore on the inexplicable emptying of the site only increased, not helped by the emergence of elderly DJ Radio Riddler, whose attempt at a West Indian patois failed to mask a broad Geordie accent and a bizarrely amateurish DJ set.

But even if numbers were a little thin on the ground, One Love 2012 provided an enjoyable and sunshine-filled foray into the reggae, dub-step scene. It might not be Glastonbury, but you’d be hard pressed to find a more chilled out festival.

I don’t really know very much about Edinburgh, except that it has a comedy festival in August, is currently (perpetually?) drizzling, and I’ll be there in about twenty-one hours, all of which will either be spent sitting in stations or on various different kinds of transport. (I tried to talk an ex-Etonian friend into having dinner with me en route, but apparently he’s off ‘shooting grouse in Yorkshire, sorry bbz x’.) So far as popular music goes, Glasgow’s heritage is more obviously rich, although Edinburgh’s spoils have a certain niche charm. Least representative of this charm – and our starting point – are the Bay City Rollers, Edinburgh’s most successful musical export, about whom the less is said the better.

Identikit twinset the Proclaimers hail from Leith and have somehow managed to provide the backing track to virtually every inspirational ‘journey’ scene in family friendly films of the last decade (see also: ‘Send Me On My Way’, by Rusted Root, and ‘Walk of Life’, by Dire Straits. There’s definitely a compilation album in here somewhere). They aren’t cutting-edge cool, and I wouldn’t recommend their more rockabilly harmonies to anyone with a hangover, but I’m embarrassingly fond of them – and ‘Throw the ‘R’ Away’ seems a fitting contribution to this Caledonian compilation.

From hereon in, it all gets a bit more murky. Sharing virtually nothing with the Proclaimers other than a decade and a couple of key letters (R, E, S, I), eighties’ Fire Engines respond to an arty post-punk scene that seems to make more sense in Glasgow, and here sounds triumphantly abrasive. Their immediate predecessor is the strikingly more listenable Josef K, who sound not unlike Maximo Park, if a bit more Scottish. Edinburgh has also served as the early stomping ground for a few memorable frontmen, including well-read Scot Mike Scott of the Waterboys, and Garage’s inimitable Shirley Manson, who may have since emigrated to the sunnier shores of Los Angeles, but is of solid Presbyterian stock. Perhaps the coolest thing to come out of Edinburgh since ever, really – although with competition such as Tony Blair and the Bay City Rollers, this isn’t totally surprising.

And what of the last ten years? Edinburgh musicians have actually made themselves known through their placement in soundtracks of such iconic television programmes as Top Gear, where electronic soundscape duo Boards of Canada provide soothing synthy backdrops to almost unspeakably thrilling car sequences. Meanwhile, in California (on The OC), midway through the first season, Ryan and Marissa have a very exciting New Year’s snog to Finley Quaye’s trip-hop ‘Dice’, written in Edinburgh, recorded in London, and enjoyed by millions virtually everywhere. Two established Edinburgh bands worth a listen to are Swimmer One and Broken Records, both of whom still regularly play in their hometown. As for the future of Edinburgh’s music – well, it’s hard to say for sure, but Nina Nesbitt might be a name worth remembering, for bubblegum folk of Regina Spektor ilk.

It’s hard to come up with an overarching theme here other than varying degree of Scottish lilt – but all of these songs have something to recommend them, and most warrant a third – or even a thirteenth – additional listen. Only fourteen hours to Dùn Èideann to go.

You can check out the City Collection: Edinburgh playlist on Spotify.  [mm-hide-text]%%IMG3968%%[/mm-hide-text]

In 1598, Merton College fellow, Thomas Bodley, wrote to Oxford’s vice-chancellor expressing his intention to support the development of the University library. That autumn, William Shakespeare’s Much Ado about Nothing was (according to my Wordsworth Classics Edition)  first performed. As work began on the Old Schools Quadrangle in 1613, the earliest documented performances of the play took place as part of the festivities preceding the marriage of Princess Elizabeth Stuart.

So far, so Wikipedia, but the point I think I’m making is this: if ever there were appropriate surroundings for (to quote Blackadder) ‘wearing stupid tights and saying things like “What ho, my lord!” and “Oh look, here comes Othello, talking total crap as usual,’ then seventeenth-century quadrangles in the shade of ancient libraries were surely them. But this is only part of the reason that director Max Gill’s decision to bring Shakespeare’s Messina into the Mafioso surroundings of 1950s Sicily, replacing starched ruffs and doublets with tailored suits and fedoras, is puzzling.

Yes, these old plays are given new life by continual re-imagination and reinterpretation. And granted, this is not just the Oxford University Dramatic Society end-of-term play – a quaint spectacle for the summer tourist crowd – but the first leg in an international tour that will take in London and Tokyo before returning for a four-night run in Guildford in September. But it is not just the location with which the mafia aesthetic clashes. While the costumes, stage and performers are delightfully set to evoke familiarly thrilling tropes of fifties glamour and the dark romance of Europe’s most beloved organised crime syndicate (and it really does look beautiful), the effect is somewhat offset by a house style of delivery more RADA than Cosa Nostra. While in general not detracting from the play itself, the occasional shaddapayaface hand gestures and self-conscious gun-toting do distract from an otherwise accomplished production, while a choreographed masked-ball routine dances dangerously close to West Side Story territory, so that what ostentatiously announces itself as an ‘interpretation,’ ends up looking more like a fancy-dress theme.

Yet, superficial as such a reading might be, these are essentially superficial concerns. As one might expect from a cast formed of the cream of Oxford’s drama circuit, individual performances are superb. There are no disappointments among the fourteen-strong ensemble, with only occasional veering towards the kind of look-how-acting-I-am one-upmanship you might expect in such a constellation of elite thesps. Jordan Waller does a wonderfully assured job of putting the dick in Shakespeare’s self-satisfied Benedick, admirably matched by Ruby Thomas’s haughty Beatrice. In similar form, Barnaby White suitably lives up to his character’s byname as Don John (‘the bastard’), with a detached but powerful stage presence, nicely balanced by the excitable frolicking of Matt Gavan as his half-brother Don Pedro. The neat double act of Rhys Bevan and Andrew McCormack as the inept night-watchmen, Dogberry and Verges, succeeds in competing with the indefatigable fucking of the Bodleian’s pigeons for laugh-out-loud comedy.

In the Old Schools Quadrangle, we are presented with a play that in many ways rejects the Old School, but which at the same time retains a rather traditional – even quintessential – feel, and what might have been an unadulterated triumph is inhibited by the uneasy marriage of old and not-so-old. In the most Oxford of locations, an atmospheric setting, elegant design, and an excellent cast, showing both maturity and abundant promise (which you feel sure in many cases will be professionally fulfilled), combine to produce a show that is well worth seeing, yet one that fails to be anything more than the sum of its parts. Good parts, nonetheless. 

FOUR STARS

Hattie Morahan’s bewitching Nora – a woman finally finding her sense of self after nine years of marriage – is the standout performance in Carrie Cracknell’s masterful production of Ibsen’s A Doll’s House at the Young Vic. Morahan is captivating to watch and her influence over the men who love her (Dominic Rowan’s Torvald and Steve Toussaint’s Dr Rank) palpable , even as the audience become increasingly aware of the controlled and claustrophobic nature of her existence.

This tension between Nora’s childlike intellectual seclusion and powerful sexual attractiveness comes to a head in her performance of the tarantella in front of the two men just before the interval. Her costume and movement give a sense of puppetry, even as her eyes communicate to the audience that she is indeed ‘dancing as if her life depended on it.’ In the second half of the play, the power balance swings very much to her favour – so much that, in their final confrontation, Rowan’s Torvald is entirely overwhelmed both as character and actor, his shouted protestations having little impact against Nora’s new-found strength and determination.

What is clever about the production is the way in which designer Ian MacNeil’s innovative staging implicates us all in Torvald’s doll-like treatment of his wife. The revolving stage allows us to view the couple’s domestic set-up from every angle and ‘follow’ the characters from scene to scene, while the effects created by lighting, reflection and sightlines through the apartment adds to the sense of conspiracy and entrapment. Importantly, this is not a play about the attribution of blame – Torvald is clearly no monster. Casting the audience in the role of observer and manipulator helps problematise such a reaction, as does Morahan’s horror when Nora realises that she too has contributed to the ill-treatment of others: ‘I’ve been your doll. Just as I was my father’s doll when I was a little girl. And the children have become my dolls’.

The play does not feel tied to its nineteenth century context (especially given the modern pertinence of the juxtaposition of financial and domestic ruin) because of the subtlety of the characterisations. This is psychological drama at its best and the production’s central subject is beautifully realised.

5 STARS

So, farewell then, London 2012. And what a fortnight of television it’s been. One of the best things is undoubtedly the chance to watch things one would never normally be able to see: thanks to the Olympics I’ve discovered a love of horses dancing to Disney music, men falling with style from great heights in tiny pants, and ping pong balls travelling so fast my eyes would struggle to keep up — let alone my hands. But of all these rare and strange pleasures, my favourite part has undoubtedly been the chance to see women’s sport being treated with the same respect and interest as men’s. The fact that this seemingly simple state of affairs is as rare as a British medal in the 100m, however, is rather a depressing thought.

Having earned Team GB their first medal at London 2012, cyclist Lizzie Armistead bravely took the opportunity to speak about the sexism women face in her sport, describing it as ‘quite overwhelming and very frustrating.’ When you take a look at the situation, it’s not hard to understand these sentiments.   

Although our male and female cyclists at the Olympics have been equally celebrated for their achievements, the women have arguably had a harder struggle to get there. Fellow Team GB cyclist Emma Pooley shared Armistead’s feelings, telling the Guardian earlier this year: ‘Women’s cycling really does have a problem. It’s not a lack of enthusiasm or willingness, it’s just the races aren’t televised for the most part so for sponsors it’s like night and day compared with men’s cycling. There is a lot of uncertainty every year over teams. You think you’ve got a contract then the team decide women’s racing is not of interest to main sponsors because it’s not visible.” There is no women’s equivalent to the Tour de France, for example, and Armistead and Pooley cannot benefit from the lucrative Sky sponsorship enjoyed by many of their GB teammates. Without TV there are no sponsors and without sponsors there is very little money.

It’s a familiar picture: this inequality between men’s and women’s sport is reflected across the board. A study by the Commission for the Future of Women’s Sports shows the extent of the broadcasters and sponsors failure to invest in women’s sport, claiming that, despite public interest being on the rise, sponsorship of women’s sport in the UK amounted to a miniscule 0.5% of the total market over the past 18 months, compared with the 61.1% that went men’s sport. 

Of course there’s the familiar argument that it’s a simple case of supply and demand: if the punters don’t want it, the broadcasters won’t show it. Well, for one thing, where was this argument when some bright spark decided the world hadn’t seen quite enough of Big Brother? And for another, when did the viewing public make this announcement? I certainly wasn’t consulted in the survey. Here, the Olympics is the fantastic exception that proves the rule: we love a medal winner regardless of gender and don’t value a gold medal any less because it’s hung over the top of a sports bra. If only the same could be said for the recognition of female athletes’ achievements during the other three years and 50 weeks of the cycle. Mens’ sports teams hugely dominate sports coverage during the rest of the calendar and their female equivalents barely get a look-in.

Perhaps it is simply the case that sports fans want to watch men play. Admittedly this does seem to be true of the sports nuts that I know (not that they have a lot of choice in the matter), but the huge amount of interest in female athletes over the past two weeks suggests that they are not exclusively interested in the exploits of players with penises. What’s more: the one thing that all the sports fans I know enjoy watching is winning. And guess what? The women win. A lot. It’s just that nobody seems to notice.  

The England women’s rugby team are reigning champions in the world cup, the RBS 6 Nations and the Nations Cup. They’ll soon be out to defend their Six Nations crown, attempting to retain it for a record-breaking seventh consecutive year. Meanwhile, the football team reached the quarter finals of the World Cup last year and the cricket team are reigning world champions, winning the latest world cup in Australia. All of which indicates that our sports media are cheating us out of many an excuse for drunken celebration, which is always a travesty in my opinion. But it also means we’re failing to celebrate the commitment and passion of some fantastic athletes. 

That passion is pretty well summed up for me in the example of England goalkeeper Rachel Brown. Brown has played for the England squad since 1997, but until last month she was also working full time as a teacher: going from work to the gym to training, then home in the early hours to finish her lesson plans. The choice to give up her job in order to focus on football full-time wasn’t an easy one, as she explained: ‘It was a tough decision because I’m getting married in a few months and we’ve obviously still got bills to pay, but I’m lucky I’ve got a supportive fiancé.’ 

The idea of a male international footballer agonising over whether to give up his day job is patently laughable — unless of course John Terry finds that £130,000 a week doesn’t quite cover his costs. The point is these women really compete for the love of it, and if we’re going to insist on sportspeople being ‘role models’ then they’d do a hell of a better job than most EPL players. None of them have slept with each other’s husbands or with prostitutes, there have been no incidences of racist abuse and they seem to be far more successful at keeping their feet — both literally and metaphorically — on the ground.

So why not more for women’s sport? It’d be a win for equality, for broadcasters missing out on a potentially lucrative market, for athletes who’d get the financial security they need to focus on their sport, and for viewers who might get to see a victory once in a while. 

And if Sky won’t have it, so much the better. Let’s get some sport back on the beeb where there’s a chance of some decent commentary into the bargain. Women’s MOTD fronted by Clare Balding? I’d watch that. And I don’t even like football.