Wednesday 22nd April 2026
Blog Page 1829

A week in the world

Adam Jordan
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A week in the world

We start the New Year bidding farewell to British shores and climbing to more sophisticated heights: the Iowa Republican caucus. Faced with stubborn unemployment figures and a spiralling national debt, botox clad Republican hopefuls looking more like spray-tanned Thunderbird puppets lined up to explain why they, as multi-millionaires, could solve the problems of ordinary Americans. Gone are the amphitheatres of Ancient Greece as a mouthpiece for democracy. America, as a true vision of the 21st Century, chose its very own amphitheatre as the meeting hall of the People. The Pizza parlour. Once there, Republican hopefuls, freshly rolled off the election bus, decided their Monterrey Jack munching minions had either had enough stodge for one day or were just plain bored of America’s proportional world decline and her stalling economic output, and instead talked about much lighter topics: the sins of gay marriage and America’s corrupted moral path.

Although Regan is long gone, Baroness Thatcher seems to have found an unlikely new friend in Syria’s Bashar Assad. Paying homage to the release of The Iron Lady on January 6th, Assad decided to commemorate Thatcher’s suppression of the 1980’s Miners’ Strikes by ignoring international condemnation of his regime’s bloody suppression of protests, and instead carried on regardless, deciding that mass slaughter was the best medicine for civil unrest. After all, the patient doesn’t always know what’s best for him.

Over in Middle England, perennial topic of dinner party conversation: “The Euro” appeared to be following in the footsteps of the Chicken Kiev and Chocolate Soufflé after financial group, AXA, warned of the imminent collapse of the European single currency. Other than the Slothful Spaniards and Idle Italians who, let’s face it, deserve a bit of Germanic frugality, let us first spare a thought for the thousands of housewives who will now have to find something else to talk about.

In a Guardian-esque tone, the benefits of socialised healthcare were extolled on January 7th when Health Secretary, Andrew Lansley, announced that all breast implants made by French éntérprise, PIP, would be replaced at the expense of the taxpayer. Whether Mr. Lansley has any qualms replacing the bulging bellies of unsuspecting victims of evil biscuit making corporations, strapped to chairs and forced to eat chocolate digestives, remains to be seen.

Review: The Cure- Bestival Live 2011

Jake Hills
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Review: The Cure- Bestival Live 2011

2 stars 

It all looks good on paper: revered, influential British band play rare headline mega-über-slot at major festival, and then release live album. When the band in question is The Cure, however, surely one of the most dynamic, scene-sweeping bands this country has ever produced, and said mega-über-slot takes place at Bestival, which, as its name would suggest, is arguably the best festival the UK currently has to offer, the bar is raised somewhat. Being a huge Cure fan and one of the unlucky few to have missed the show, I awaited Bestival Live 2011 with great anticipation.

What a shame, then, that the band’s seemingly lauded performance doesn’t manage to translate to record. Despite shrewd setlist choices and the palpable excitement of the crowd, the material comes across as more than a little flaccid when blind to the surrounding atmosphere. This isn’t down to frontman Robert Smith’s vocals – as the only real constant in the band’s 35-odd year history he strives, largely successfully, to perform with the same gusto and beauty of old, and his voice has aged excellently – but rather the band around him, and the music behind him, which sounds lumbering and tired.

As is perhaps to be expected from a live album, the nuances and accents of such classics as Lovesong and Boys Don’t Cry are lost or ignored, with moments here feel oddly and unfairly re-shaped, by dint of lacklustre mixing, a general musical slackening or an unsettling lack of chemistry between the band’s members. The result is at times disappointing – think Morrissey performing with a Smiths cover band –
however, if anything, Bestival Live 2011 does serve to remind us of the sheer weight of The Cure’s musical legacy.

“It’s a long day, but, we’re here, and it fits.” Thus spake Robert Smith, in his pre-amble to Friday I’m in Love, and I’m inclined to agree – it fits, but only in the way your Mum manages to fit into a
pair of her unearthed 80’s skinny jeans; there’s no denying that the button’s fastened, but you can’t help but notice the muffin-top.


For the Love of Film

Matt Isard
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For the Love of Film

Matt Isard reviews current releases Sherlock Holmes 2: A Game of Shadows, and silent movie The Artist.


Light

Angelika Benz
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Light

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Stephen Hawking celebrates 70th

Isabelle Gerretsen
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Stephen Hawking celebrates 70th

On the 8th January, scientists gathered at a symposium in Cambridge to celebrate Stephen Hawking’s 70th birthday, an occasion few had imagined they would ever see.

Hawking was given just a few years to live after being diagnosed with a rare form of motor neurone disease in 1964, at the age of 20. His condition has progressed over the years and has left him almost completely paralysed and unable to speak. Brian Dickie, research director at the Motor Neurone Disease Association, stated: “Only five percent live longer than 10 years and in those cases it’s 15 or maybe 20 years. Stephen Hawking is at one extreme end of that spectrum and the quality of his care cannot explain why the disease has progressed so slowly in him.”
Hawking was propelled to fame by his 1980 book A Brief History of Time, in which he outlined the concept of a universe with no boundaries in space or time. It has sold over 25 million copies worldwide. He held the position of Lucasian Professor of Mathematics for thirty years at Cambridge, although he completed his undergraduate degree (in Physics) at University College, Oxford.
In a recent interview Hawking admitted that he regularly completed only an hour of work a day in his early life as a student, commenting, “You were supposed to be brilliant without effort, or to accept your limitations and get a fourth class degree.”
The professor himself was unable to attend the birthday celebrations because he was too unwell. However, the guests enjoyed a pre-recorded version of the lecture in which Hawking spoke of the happiness he felt knowing that he had made a small contribution to our understanding of the universe. He concluded with the following message to his wellwishers, “Remember to look up at the stars and not down at your feet. Be curious. And however difficult life may seem, there is always something you can do and succeed at. It matters that you don’t just give up.”

Hawking was given just a few years to live after being diagnosed with a rare form of motor neurone disease in 1964, at the age of 20. His condition has progressed over the years and has left him almost completely paralysed and unable to speak.

Brian Dickie, research director at the Motor Neurone Disease Association, stated: “Only five percent live longer than 10 years and in those cases it’s 15 or maybe 20 years. Stephen Hawking is at one extreme end of that spectrum and the quality of his care cannot explain why the disease has progressed so slowly in him.”

Hawking was propelled to fame by his 1980 book A Brief History of Time, in which he outlined the concept of a universe with no boundaries in space or time. It has sold over 25 million copies worldwide. He held the position of Lucasian Professor of Mathematics for thirty years at Cambridge, although he completed his undergraduate degree (in Physics) at University College, Oxford.

In a recent interview Hawking admitted that he regularly completed only an hour of work a day in his early life as a student, commenting, “You were supposed to be brilliant without effort, or to accept your limitations and get a fourth class degree.”

The professor himself was unable to attend the birthday celebrations because he was too unwell. However, the guests enjoyed a pre-recorded version of the lecture in which Hawking spoke of the happiness he felt knowing that he had made a small contribution to our understanding of the universe. He concluded with the following message to his wellwishers, “Remember to look up at the stars and not down at your feet. Be curious. And however difficult life may seem, there is always something you can do and succeed at. It matters that you don’t just give up.”

Defence against the Darts Arts

Matt Nicol
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Defence against the Darts Arts

A week ago I had an epiphany.  As one would expect, this was accompanied by the shining of bright lights, unfamiliar sounds and the presence of a higher power.

The differences between my own epiphany and Paul’s on the road to Damascus were threefold. The bright lights illuminated an overweight man in a flamboyant short-sleeved shirt, the sound I heard was a roar of “ONE HUNDREEEEEEDDD AND EIGHTYYYYYYY”, and the higher power I witnessed was Martin “Wolfie” Adams on his way to a third BDO (British Darts Organisation) championship victory.

Previously my attitude to darts was one of cynicism. I smirked at the so called “sport” that consisted of throwing three bits of metal at a board of cork. I grimaced at the outrageously designed and terribly cut shirts (although a lot of that may have due to the shape of the wearers themselves). I looked down at the jewellery, the ponytails and the raucous atmosphere with disdain.

What I have now realised is that this is exactly the point. The reason darts has such a cult following (now including myself) is that it is the Anti-Christ to the purist followers of sports like football. The pampered and preening athletes are replaced by real men with real characters.

Take the object of my conversion to darts; Martin Adams. He is more close in stature to a 1980s pornstar than an athlete. His BMI is certainly in the “overweight” category at best and he sports a throwback handlebar moustache matched with a rug of chest hair that I can only marvel at.

Darts players are real men. Their paunch is evident from beneath their personalised shirts and they shine a radiant light as the TV glare catches their sweat and golden jewellery. Drinking and smoking help rather than hinder their performances.

With names like “Wolfie”, “The Count” and “The Power” these men would appear to more at home in a ridiculously overblown spectacle like Wrestlemania than professional sporting leagues, yet this leads to an atmosphere at the Riverside unrivalled by some of the world’s most prestigious arenas.

Not only do these men entertain, they have ridiculous skills in their own right. They aim for the treble twenty (less than two inches wide) from up to to nine feet away, and they hit it, three times in a row. Add to this the mental arithmetic of a Primary School times-table prodigy as they calculate the best way to “check out” – get the total number of points to win the frame (for all you darts novices) – and you realise that darts is a demanding discipline.

If you go for an evening at Wimbledon you will experience Pimms, pleasantries and the perfumed smell of a well-groomed Roger Federer. If you go for a night at the darts you get pints and pandemonium, infused with the B.O of Wolfie and the ash of cigarettes. I know where I’d rather spend my time.

Oxford researchers discover Hasselhoff crab

John Warriner
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Oxford researchers discover Hasselhoff crab

A lost world of previously unknown creatures has been found flourishing next to boiling vents of water, miles under the surface of the Southern Ocean near Antarctica.

The discoveries, made by teams led by the University of Oxford and Southampton in collaboration with the British Antarctic Survey, include a new species of yeti crab, a forbidding pale octopus and a predatory seven-armed starfish.

The hydrothermal vents of the East Scotia Ridge are powered by underwater volcanoes, and produce springs of black, smoky water capable of reaching temperatures as high as 400C (752F). They are of interest to deep-sea biologists as they host animals found nowhere else that derive their energy not from sunlight but from the bacterial oxidation of chemicals in the vent fluids. These discoveries therefore help scientists to build a picture of what elements are actually required for life to exist.

The vents were discovered to be competing grounds for massive densities of crabs. Up to 600 of the crustaceans compete for each square metre of land, attempting to get as close as possible to the vents without accidentally cooking themselves in the scalding fissures.

The findings represent the latest in a string of discoveries of crab communities in the South Pacific since the first known yeti crab, the Kiwa hirsuta, was identified in 2005. However, the crabs were not only observed in much greater numbers in the East Scotia Ridge, but discovered to possess a unique physical trait. Whereas the hirsuta is characterised by the long, silky hairs that grow on its claws, thick clumps of hair cling to the undersides of the new species.

Nicolai Roterman, A DPhil student here at Oxford researching the genetic makeup of these creatures, was the mastermind behind a now infamous nickname for the new species. “I dubbed it the ‘Hoff Crab’ owing to its hairy chest”. He explains that the tufts “provide an ideal growing environment for bacteria which are then grazed upon by the crab – sort of using their own bodies as a farm”.

Roterman describes a gruelling work schedule on board the RSS James Cook, the team becoming accustomed to working 16-18 hour shifts over the course of the six weeks in order to make the most of an expensive opportunity. “Occasionally the volume of material found meant that some of us would be working for more than 30 hours straight before being relieved in order that everything was done correctly. This was imperative because you never know if the weather would suddenly deteriorate and potential science hours lost due to rough seas.” Resilience in testing conditions however proved worthwhile when breakthroughs were made – “I think all in all, we were delirious with excitement from the discoveries”.

During the expedition in January 2010, the team used a purpose-built, remotely operated vehicle called the Isis, boasting a HD video camera, a “slurp gun” for picking up delicate invertebrates and a sophisticated acoustic mapping system, to access the deep-sea vents. The ROV, about the size of a Land Rover, cost approximately £3 million to build and is capable of diving 6500m. Without the groundbreaking Isis, the team would not have been able to uncover and unearth some 12,000 samples of rocks, bacteria and other marine life.

The South Pacific is attractive to deep-sea biologists at the cutting-edge of research as it has been considered as an important gateway for the dispersal of vent animals between the other major oceans of the world over geological timescales. “We expected to find a mixture of animals probably reflecting such dispersal, certainly shrimp and possibly mussels and other animals”, says expedition leader and Professor of Conservation Biology Alex Rogers.However, the nature of the sea-life confronting the team surprised as much as it delighted. “We were fairly certain that the Southern Ocean was a major missing piece in our understanding of the distribution of vent species but we never expected something so new.” The Somerville Fellow adds, “what we didn’t find is almost as surprising as what we did. Many animals such as tubeworms, vent mussels, vent crabs, and vent shrimps, which are found in hydrothermal vents in the Pacific, Atlantic, and Indian Oceans, simply weren’t there.”

Prof. Rogers explains that the discoveries have significant implications in terms of an understanding of the marine life of the Indian Ocean, rewriting the story of vent biogeography. Just last month, more yeti crabs have been spotted by a research team following the lead of Rogers’ team, based at Southampton.

He hopes that the findings will encourage a new generation of marine biologists to involve themselves in deep-sea research. “With modern research vehicles the images we have are fantastic and really help to engender enthusiasm for the subject. For me, teaching students about the deep ocean is a pleasure. To reveal to anyone for the first time the wonders of the deep ocean and seeing their reactions is always great.”

A report detailing the research has been published in the open-access journal PLoS Biology.

Denílson: Portrait Of A Fallen Star

Aleks Klosok
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Denílson: Portrait Of A Fallen Star

In his address to the US Congress in 1942 Winston Churchill proclaimed, “We are the masters of our fate”. For Denílson, his fate was to be unforeseen and equally unrivalled to that of his predecessors. Whilst initially his rags to riches story captured the imagination of Brazilian football purists, his career was to be far from a fairy-tale – one defined by sporadic success, a series of spurned opportunities and selfishness.

The left winger’s meteoric rise to stardom was far beyond what the man heralding from Diadema, a sprawling industrial city in the state of São Paulo, could have ever imagined. He first caught the eye during his supremely successful 4-year spell at São Paulo, for whom he made his debut at the age of 17 and who would go on to score 58 goals in 110 appearances. His stock rose dramatically during the 1997 Copa América and Le Tournoi tournaments in Bolivia and France respectively, where he produced a number of eye-catching performances for A Seleção. In the space of 18 months, the 20-year-old would go from being one of world football’s most talked-about sensations to being its most expensive star. Denílson’s future appeared to be a very bright one.

So what was it that made the 1997 FIFA Confederations Cup Golden Ball winner such an attractive proposition? Blessed with the innocence of youth, Denílson showed no fear. He loved to dribble with the ball, constantly terrorising defenders with his blistering turn of pace, directness and unpredictability, leading him to be compared with past greats such as São Paulo’s historic footballing icon Canhoteiro, Brazil’s 1970s star Jairzinho and the masterful Garrincha. Far from being a slight winger, he was powerfully built with supreme balance, who used his upper-body strength to his advantage to shrug off incoming challenges. Furthermore, despite his relatively young age, those around him quickly came to admire his supreme self-confidence, which verged on the side of arrogance.

His stellar performances and potential drew a number of suitors, but it was the La Liga outfit, Real Betis, who eventually beat their rivals to the wonderkid’s signature – albeit breaking the world transfer record in the process by spending an estimated £21,500,000. And whilst this ‘marquee signing’ was intended by the then president, Manuel Ruiz de Lopera, as a signal of the club’s intent on breaking into the highest echelon of Spanish football, Denílson’s inflated price tag was to haunt him for the rest of his career. The winger’s return to France for the 1998 FIFA World Cup was less dramatic, mainly appearing as an impact substitute under former Head Coach Mário Zagallo. It was to set the tone for his 7-year spell at Estadio Benito Villamarín.

Unprepared for the transition from Brazilian to Spanish football along with the level of expectation that had been ratcheted up since his move, Denílson was never able to hold down a regular place in the starting line-up. Just as he struggled for consistency, so did the club. Real Betis’s relegation to the Segunda División in his second season led to a brief return to Brazil on loan with Flamengo CF. Despite leading the club back into La Liga in 2001, over the coming years the he increasingly became little more than a cameo player as his potency in front of goal rapidly diminished. 2005 was to bring his frustrating time in Spain to a close.

The following five years would see the 2002 FIFA World Cup winning player ply his trade in five different countries. Despite enjoying his most productive season in Europe during his single season in Ligue 1 with Bordeaux in 2005, reports of excessive wage demands saw the Brazilian embark upon the first of his big obscure paydays. Beginning in Saudi Arabia with Al-Nassr, Denílson’s travels took him to Major League Soccer with FC Dallas, back to Brazil with a successful spell at Palmeiras and unexpectedly to the Vietnamese Super League with Xi Măng Hải Phòng, where he became the highest paid player in Vietnamese history, before confirming his retirement – a dramatic fall from grace for the man who once had the footballing world at his feet. 

Whilst physically there was no doubting his talent and technique, which ranked alongside some of the greats of Brazilian football, psychologically Denílson was unable to resist his own hype, principally fuelled by his record breaking move to Europe, which came to undermine him. Amidst the hyperbole, it soon became apparent that the winger was all but one-dimensional. In Europe he simply didn’t have the same space and time to think on the ball as he did in his homeland. And whilst he undeniably possessed a gifted left-foot, his complete reliance on it was quickly exposed by opposition managers and players alike, leading to his virtual isolation from many games and thus consigning him to the substitutes bench for the majority of his career.

Despite absorbing all of the riches that the game had afforded him, the winger was always fighting a losing battle in an attempt to convince the world that, far from being it’s most expensive player, he was it’s best player. Such is the unpredictable nature of football, that for every success story, be it a Ronaldo or Romário, somewhere out there in the world there will always be a Denílson.

Twitter: @aleksklosok

Puerto Morelos

Lauri Saksa
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Puerto Morelos

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New Years Eve – a night to remember?

Viccy Ibbett
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New Years Eve – a night to remember?

‘For this one magical night it’s about getting another chance, to do more, to give more, to love more: that is what new years is all about- that, and a good party’.

That’s the sound-bite for the latest Hollywood blockbuster, ‘New Years Eve’ which looks set to ruin our New Year’s Eve experience for years to come with visions of what could have been, if only we were beautiful, wealthy and lived in New York. (Much like Valentine’s Day was a cruel treat for potential couples everywhere last year: come on, what date did you have that would have been better than Bradley Cooper or Jessica Alba?)

But despite this prevision of comparative doom… what are we getting up to on New Years Eve? The night when clubs charge astronomical fees for awesome nights; when fireworks paint the sky over London Southbank; and when champagne is definitely the new tequila. To that end I have sought out the stories of our most beloved fellow students whose exploits or lack of are the real story of New Years Eve, midnight kisses and all..

The One Who Didn’t Make it to Midnight

I was the one who didn’t manage to see in the new year. It began civilized; I had mulled wine and nibbles with a friend from school whilst we waited for my other friend to turn up. We’d decided on a nice quiet new years eve at our local seeing as everyone was either away or with family. However, when said friend arrived, with them came vodka and a lot of whiskey. From that point, my night went downhill. I made it to the pub but after shots, throwing up in the beer garden and breaking a shelf in the toilet, (I am told at this point I whispered ‘oh no!’ and tried to hide in a cubicle), I got taken home. At half ten. To my Christian parents, who have never seen me drunk before. I woke up at 5am cuddling the toilet.

Anonymous

The Londoner

As many a Londoner will tell you, the fireworks that light up the Southbank are incredible and a worthy way to see in the New Years; but what they won’t mention is the six hour wait in the freezing cold as you jostle for a place on a nearby bridge, warding off the killer winds which sweep down the Thames and the droves of snap-happy tourists keen to nick your spot. So, this New Years I decided to do it the civilized way: dinner with friends at a house in Westminster tall enough to afford us a perfect view of the fireworks from the roof once the clock struck midnight. And until midnight? A pool table and a plentiful supply of wine kept us thoroughly entertained. New Years didn’t get messy; but it was a great evening and I was happy to be seeing in 2012 with old friends, catching up a term’s worth of conversation and having my butt kicked at pool. It was certainly a night to remember and I hope that it is a sign of things to come: if 2012 is anything like as chilled out as new years eve, then I’ll be one happy student.

Viccy Ibbett

The Country Boy

We country-folk find it difficult to get out to all of your fancy London night clubs and thus an alternative method of getting truly mapped at New Years is to perform a house invasion. This year we arrived at the designated person’s house with enough alcohol each to leave us in hospital with a reasonably serious coma but nonetheless still had the intention of drinking every drop. The main activity of the night was drinking games which included the regular card games and culminated in a game entitled ‘Doggy Do’ of which the aim was to force a plastic dog to defecate by squeezing its lead. 

After these various activities for forcing alcohol into our respective systems mania ensued and ultimately, the next thing I personally remember is waking up in a shredded paper table cloth on a stone kitchen floor wearing a shirt that I hadn’t yet realised wasn’t mine after being repeatedly shot in the face by a Nerf gun. The rest of New Years Day was spent with my head in my hands as I was dragged out to a family meal in a country pub where I watched as a roast dinner was placed in front of me and then taken away, completely uneaten, half an hour later. Overall, the moments of this New Years Eve that I remember will certainly be difficult to forget.

Anonymous

The Girly Night In

What better way to pay tribute to the end of 2011 than a night gossiping with the girlies over glasses of champagne, reminiscing about good times spent together during our last year at school and sharing equally embarrassing stories from our time at university. It was the first New Year’s I’ve spent away from home and the traditional family celebrations of much singing, eating and Wii-playing but watching Big Ben strike midnight in glorious HD surrounded by some of my closest friends was an equally special and enjoyable start to the new year. Our goal was not to get smashed or wasted, we wanted to remember the start of 2012 and make this year a year to remember rather than a night to forget! We watched the fireworks and sang Auld Lang’s Syne under guidance from Jake Humphrey with stomachs full of hand-made sushi, a wonderful home-made gingerbread house and several glasses of champagne. In comparison to other nights it was a quiet one, but I wouldn’t have changed it for the world. Bring on 2012!

Cara Battle

The House Party

I’ve had a romantic view of the New Year ever since I was fifteen, when I was finally released from the clutches of my parents into a booze-ridden teenage party. Idealising New Years is not healthy; it has raised my expectations to such a height that I’m almost always disappointed when the real deal comes around. I’m not being picky. I only ask that by midnight I share a kiss with a devilishly handsome man with a nice personality to match, to get tipsy without those alarming memory losses, and to party. Hard. The reality of my New Years for 2012 was somewhat different.

Traditionally (well, ever since two years ago,) I have visited my brother in Newport, Wales to ring in the New Year. My final day of 2011 commenced with driving the two or so hours in dark, wet conditions whilst listening to Beyonce on repeat, and to my brother steadily downing cup after cup of cider. Having somehow arrived in Wales and following the lengthy affair of applying red lipstick without looking like The Joker, we started the process conventionally known as the ‘Pre lash.’ That’s probably where I went wrong in all fairness. I know I’m an embarrassing drunk; it’s an accepted fact for all who know me, and so arriving at the house party full of people I didn’t really know couldn’t have led to a good first impression. It didn’t. By 11pm people were handing me cups of ‘Vimto’ to drink, and slices of bread to ‘soak up the rum,’ (of which I found slices discarded in unlikely places around the house the day after, the bath for example.) However by midnight I was okay. And yes, I did get my kiss. The catch? Unfortunately he was gay. Bummer.

The next few hours were taken up with clubbing, dancing, and trying and failing to send New Years texts to my friends. I got home in the early hours of 2012, exhausted, hungry, and feeling rougher than sandpaper. Still, despite my embarrassing antics, the lipstick which was inevitably all over my face come morning, and my avoidance of the midnight kisser; 2012 started bloody brilliant.

Vickie Morrish

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