The Feast of Saint Valentine’s is quickly approaching, but in Frewin Court old lovers and friends seem immune to cupid’s charms. This should come as no surprise – power couples in the Union only last as long as there is electoral gain to be had. Indeed, although the Short Man and Circular Mertonian seem closer than ever, a couple from days gone by is gearing up for outright war.
Battle lines are being drawn for months to come – the Irish Priest will face his old flame in a race. The Priest and Justinian are no strangers to strife, nor are they strangers to pitting friend against friend. The Irish Priest, indulging perhaps too much on communion wine might see power shift from Rome to Constantinople (a much more attractive proposition for young pilgrims).
The French King is in demand – with both Rome and Constantinople begging for support in the ensuing conflict. Well aware that this Civil War has to be quashed – the King must lend their support to the side most likely to defeat the Short Man’s army: their survival is dependent on making the correct decision. Unlike the Short Man, hopefully this will be based on solid reasoning and logic. It seems that Hume was right all along. Reason is slave to the passions, or in this case, the phallus.
Opportunistic, untrustworthy, a terrible judge of character – all the attributes required for political comeback? Well, maybe. Imagine a world where the Short Man offers a past rival a Clean Slate. Choosing to keep their friends close and their ex-enemies closer, BNC’s latest Presidential loser has been made an offer they can’t (and won’t) refuse. An unwelcome return into the political fray will be sure to frustrate the smooth running of the Short Man’s slate. Challenging the younger generation is not advisable – maybe the BNC man should give it up for Lent!
For the most part, the gimpiest of gimps stay out of politics. The explanation is simple: they are too busy gimping. The election of Chief Gimp proves to be a notable exception. Just when all was done and dusted, there was a final twist in the tale. The Once Influential DRO thought they had one last bullet in their chamber. Taking aim at a former ally and counting on the support of old friends, it turned out that unlike in their “extracurricular” activities, they fired a blank. After a few successes, a series of serious misuses of the Society’s rules, and many, many failures, perhaps it is time for The Once Influential DRO to jump before they are pushed.
Planning a holiday soon? Why not visit the prosperous, democratic and perpetually joyful nation of Orgislavia? They’ve hosted the Olympics for hundreds of years and I would visit myself but journalists have a rather nasty habit of disappearing… Luckily, Ünkel (Tommy Hurst) and Gårf (Matt Kenyon) are currently in the BT Studio with ÜnkelGårf on a grand state-sanctioned international tour, ready to introduce the world to Orgislavian culture through the art of mime. The two may be (slightly) more familiar to you as the duo behind Beef Comedy, part of the Oxford Revue. Their chemistry is fantastic. They bounce off each other – sometimes literally – like rubber balls. Speaking of balls, ÜnkelGårf is full of innuendo which is about as subtle as a sledgehammer (but hilarious). There’s fetish gear and salacious physical comedy – what a combination. There’s also twists and turns aplenty in this dark character-based comedy which are darted over, immediately moving onto the next moment of shock.
World-building is pivotal here; Hurst and Kenyon immerse us in a feverishly chaotic yet believable universe. Somehow, the realities and lies of Orgislavian life seem realistic. Perhaps it’s a worrying reflection of political developments which plunge us further into uncertainty, making this world appear more and more possible. Perhaps it’s instead the minimal set which adds weight to this suspension of disbelief, although the sheets used as a make-shift projector screen occasionally contribute to distortion of the projected film. The films themselves, though, are artfully scattered throughout the narrative. With contributions from Frankie Taylor, Angus Moore and Ali Muminoglu, these are snappily witty and a much-needed break for Hurst and Kenyon, who are constantly in motion when the lights are on them. It exhausts me just to watch.
The two of them are electric, throwing themselves around in order to showcase their best mimes. They toy with the boundaries of physical comedy and then throw them out the window. Kavana Crossley’s sound design adds to the comic effect. The show begins with a musical sequence only made possible through a fantastic soundtrack and precise timing. Hurst is cynical and direct as Ünkel while also brotherly; Kenyon, as Gårf, is gullibly playful. Both Gårf and Ünkel develop throughout the show; they perform on a double-level as mimes and deeper performers. For a show that’s less than an hour, ÜnkelGårf takes the audience on a long journey.
Agnes Pethers previously directed Hamlet at the O’Reilly Theatre. Despite this shift in production scale, Pethers appears unfazed to direct in such an intimate space. It’s used skilfully – Hurst and Kenyon step out into the audience, pulling faces at certain members but also remain aware of the constrictions of the staging. It’s a delicate balancing act but one that pays off well.
Witty, dark and frantic, ÜnkelGårf is a delight and hilarity to behold. Freedom of the press be damned; if ÜnkelGårf reflects the fun of life in Orgislavia, then I’m on the next plane out.
Such was his modern and innovative
approach to the craft that it’s easy to forget that many of Irving Penn’s
world-famous Vogue cover photographs date back more than 50 years. Typified by
bold colours, sharp lines and minimalist backdrops, these images would not look
out of place had they been published in 2020. A behemoth of the 20th century
photography industry, this timelessness is testament to Penn’s rich cultural
legacy. Penn was perhaps the first photographer to truly unify art and
commercial photography by combining tried and tested compositional methods with
groundbreaking technical approaches, and his illustrious career saw him shape
the way future generations were to approach their work.
Equal measures modest, daring and
technically accomplished, he left an indelible mark on the industry in the same
way that Ansel Adams shaped the pursuit of landscape photography. Penn was
rarely influenced by commission, and famously declared at a talk at MoMA in
1950 that ‘Whatever the photograph – a description of the battlefield, a
portrait of a Hollywood celebrity, the turn of collar on the latest fashion,
images for a small edition book or images to sell soap – all of them are
equally important’.
Despite reworking the way fashion
photography was viewed, elevating it to the realm of a recognised art form
rather than a purely commercial endeavour, Penn surprisingly never intended to
enter the profession. Born in 1917 to a Russian Jewish family in New Jersey, his
father a watchmaker and his mother a nurse, he dreamed of becoming a painter.
His early years saw him study design, painting and industrial arts at the
Philadelphia Museum School of Industrial Art under the guidance of famous
designer Alexey Brodovitch. A move to Mexico to focus on his ambitions resulted
in modest success at best. The seminal moment in his career was to come a
handful of years later when in 1940 he joined the Creative department at Vogue,
initially in an editorial capacity, but where he was soon tasked with
conducting his own shoots.
It was here that his talent
blossomed, so much so that Vogue’s Art Director Alexander Liberman coined the
term ‘stoppers’ in reference to his work, noting their universal tendency to
capture the attention of readers. With his newfound creative calling, Penn began
immediately to deviate from the established norms of fashion photography. While
contemporaries such as Horst P. Horst and Norman Parkinson would conduct shoots
in lavish settings, their subjects surrounded by ornate furniture, gaudy
colours and dense backgrounds, Penn opted to do away with such frills,
favouring minimalist, block-colour backdrops and clean lines. Posing models
against a plain white background may now be the norm for fashion editorials,
but such an approach was revolutionary at the time. His technique is
exemplified by the famous Vogue cover piece shot in 1950 featuring Jean
Patchett; the rich tonal range and high contrast black and white film pair to
create an arresting portrait of the model who gazes sideways from beneath her
veil, juxtaposed against a dazzling white studio wall. This highly stylised
image conveys a typical mixture of grandeur and emotion, but such masterpieces
were not achieved easily. Throughout his career, colleagues noted Penn’s
perfectionism: he bordered on obsessive, often taking hundreds of photographs
before being satisfied with the outcome.
Characterised by his meticulous
attention to detail, Penn perfected the technical side of his craft. He was
adept in his manipulation of light and shadow, thanks in part to the training
he received as a painter. Whereas his contemporaries would often employ high
intensity theatrical lights for their shoots, Penn tended to favour diffused
natural light in his editorial work – his 1961 capture of Leontyne Price
demonstrates the resulting interplay of light and shadow found in so much of
his work, exhibiting a certain softness and intimacy. Yet more impressive is
that this technical mastery extended beyond the studio and into the darkroom.
His interest in developing and printing peaked in the 70s when he perfected the
platinum printing process, allowing him to produce luminous images with
luxurious textures and which capitalise on the extreme latitude of 120 film.
Knowledge of the entire process finally afforded Penn full control over his
creative output, from the moment he loaded the film to the appearance of the
final print. The monochromatic simplicity shines through in particular when
capturing the abstract lines of Issey Miyake’s stunning garments in the 90s,
further blurring the previously well-established boundaries between commercial
and fine art photography.
Penn’s own New York studio saw him
expand his practice to include still lifes, which became his point of focus in
his twilight years and reflected a growing fascination with mortality. He
nevertheless continued to shoot features for Vogue and was credited with 165
cover images, more than any other photographer in history. Despite these
monumental achievements, Penn remained modest until his final days. Renowned
for his softly spoken and shy manner, he preferred to let his work speak for
itself.
With his discerning eye, technical
prowess and indiscriminate approach to his craft, Penn undoubtedly ranks among
the most important photographers of the last century. 103 years after he was
born, his pioneering approach to photography both in and out of the studio
continues to influence and inspire. Many of the most prominent fashion
photographers working at the moment have expressed their gratitude to Penn, and
the echoes of his creative process will continue to remain visible for years to
come.
There are any number of qualities people tend to associate
with high fashion. “Glamour” springs to mind. “Elegance”, perhaps.
“Innovation”? Sure. These are virtues on which the industry depends and which
it must continue to extol. But it is rare, and mournfully so, that “joy” or
“fun” are associated with or even applicable to designer collections. “Glee” might
be pretty far from your mind as another glaringly stony-faced model storms down
the runway, leather-bound, to the accompaniment of some crushing techno.
That the fashion world takes itself too seriously is a
commonly held stereotype, and there is undoubtedly truth to it: a glance along
the front row of the average catwalk will make you sure of that. Shows usually
try to inspire awe rather than to charm, perhaps understandably so. Even when
we’re not dealing with the apocalyptic visions of a Rick Owens or the unerring
monochromes of a Demeulemeester at one end of the spectrum, the desirability
most designers want to lend to their garments tends to manifest itself in more
restrained looks. Not that this is a problem, or, indeed, a surprise: most
people (myself included) buy clothes because they look good, not because they
betray any spirit of irreverence. And clothes certainly can have a great deal
of character without being fun. The fashion industry is by no means
unforgivingly austere, but it can sometimes feel like it lacks the ability to
laugh at itself. Those designers whose work relies on that ability, then, are
all the more refreshing.
“Fun” is a difficult quality to identify in clothing, more
of an attitude than an aesthetic or a colour scheme, but a “fun” collection
invariably conveys the personality of its creator with a rare candidness. It
can be unabashed and in-your-face, as the designs of Walter Van Beirendonck
have consistently been for the better part of four decades. Never one for the
reserve of his famous fellow graduates from Antwerp’s Royal Academy of Fine
Arts, Walter’s overblown madcap style is one of the most instantly recognisable
in fashion: garish colour clashes are a must; bizarre proportions are the norm;
untethered eccentricity is king. His description-defying Fall/Winter 2020
collection featured suits and shoes adorned with dinosaur spikes, sweatshirts
with enormous teddy bears protruding from them, shirt collars reaching halfway
up the models’ faces, and pattern clashes that would put any 90s Premier League
kit to shame. It’s never forced or gimmicky or trying to be anything other than
self-expression, and the rousing slogans bejewelled onto 15 cardboard cut-out
t-shirts which closed the show feel like impassionedly personal statements
rather than lame attempts at virtue signalling.
But perhaps Walter is a bit of an obvious pick for someone who “does” fun. He lies at the other extreme, one whose vernacular does not include subtlety and for which restraint never even enters the conversation. The most recent collection from Issey Miyake’s Homme Plissé line feels positively humdrum in comparison, with its interesting but not out-there cuts and simplistic colour-blocking, yet it was a consummate demonstration of how to make clothes that resonate a carefree spirit without attracting gawks. The colours were bright, the proportions relaxed, the patterns, when there were any, either pleasingly geometric or breezily abstract. The show itself was the most infectiously feel-good of this season’s menswear, more of the looks worn by the performing jazz band, who played something resembling a film noir soundtrack, and acrobatic dancers rolling around in Cyr wheels than by actual models, and even a good number of those models were grinning as they walked. It was a testament to how well a show can emblematize the mood captured by the clothes it exhibits, and in this case that mood was one of gaiety.
In terms of poking fun rather than inspiring it, none can be
relied upon to step back and have a laugh at the industry as a whole like Demna
Gvasalia can. His work at Balenciaga has provoked more widespread internet outcry
that that of any other designer currently working, from F/W 2018’s infamous
“shirt shirt”, a button-up attached to the front of a t-shirt, to his Bernie
campaign rip-offs, to his £1,700 version of the 40p IKEA bag. This season, the
first Vetements collection produced without him at the helm carried on his
spirit, modelled by E-list knock-offs of the likes of Mike Tyson, Kate Moss,
and Snoop Dogg, and featuring grungy tutus, leather takes on crumpled brown
paper bags, and jeans with “CENSORED” plastered
over the crotch. Yet one often gets the impression that Vetements might be
trying to be a bit more serious than they let on, so earnest are their attempts
at subversion. Their ridicule is tongue-in-cheek but quite consciously tries to
find for itself a place in the pantheon of “cool” in a way in which a true
eccentric like Van Beirendonck does not. That even those who mock luxury
fashion struggle to do so without still conforming to many of its standards is
a clear marker of its inhibitive nature.
But fun can feature in a more nuanced and playful way, too, as is the hallmark of much of Jonathan Anderson’s work. His most recent menswear collection for J.W. Anderson was unquestionably a sophisticated affair, full of memorable overcoats and compelling silhouettes, but nonetheless one shot through with quirk. Enormously blown-up gold link chains of varying magnitudes adorned the loafers and fronted much of the outerwear in a strikingly artisanal take on bling, while puffy paisley coats and scarves resembled duvets snatched from a retirement home and balloon-animal constructions respectively. Ruffles and pearls made for natural feminine flourishes, and baseball-cap leather bags were all the more covetable for their charm. That the collection was largely inspired the AIDS crisis as depicted in 1970s New York by David Wojnarowicz reveals that its spirit is just as much an exploration of beautiful clothing’s ability to betray the fear and horror of real life as it is an exercise in playful design. As Walter Van Beirendonck’s planet-positive sloganeering has already shown, fun and solemnity are not incompatible as fashionable bed-mates.
Anderson’s work as creative director of Loewe has proved that charm can sell, too. In the seven years since his taking over, he has transformed what was once a stuffy, past-it luxury house still pandering to its former clientele of geriatric aristocracy into one of the more innovative and desirable labels in fashion today. And how, exactly, has he done it? With elephant, panda, and otter-shaped bags which are more cute than cool, with the fantastic pottery designs of William De Morgan, and with gloves knitted into the shape of claws, apparently. The crossover of irreverent personality with sound aesthetic is one which can yield serious commercial results. Rick Owens, take notes.
I didn’t want to
go on a year abroad at all. I remember telling my mum at the end of second year
that if I had the option I would much rather just do another year in Oxford. I
thought I thrived off the fast-paced Oxford lifestyle and I was terrified at
the prospect of having to spend so much time alone (because how on earth was I
going to make friends in a big city?!) At the end of September, I stepped on
the train to Berlin alone, all my belongings for the next six months packed
into two big suitcases.
The first hurdle
to overcome was finding somewhere to live. I should have realised there was
something not quite right about my flat in Berlin when I saw my landlord’s
Facebook name was Captain Jo. Handing him €1000 in cash when I first met him
also should have been a bit of a red flag. But everyone had told me how hard it
is to find somewhere to live in Berlin so I just went along with it. To work
and live legally in Berlin you need a proof of residency letter from your
landlord. Now, as you might have guessed, not everything in my flat is quite
legal, so all of my Whatsapps to my landlord asking him for this letter were
left on read for two weeks. Whilst my friends in Oxford were stressing about
the first deadlines of Michaelmas, I spent two weeks stressing about if I was
going to be living in Berlin illegally and unemployed for six months. Luckily,
after crying to my landlord, I managed to persuade him to let me legally
register. The experience was a bit of a reality check at the start of the year
abroad – I definitely wasn’t in the Oxford bubble anymore!
As you can
imagine, for those first two weeks I wasn’t all too happy about being forced to
adult in a European city all by myself. But then things gradually started to
shift – adulting, figuring out the slightly hectic and huge city of Berlin and
trying to find my way in a different language became fun and actually kind of
funny. I accidentally got stuck in a fire escape when meeting some new friends
on a bar that was hidden in a parking garage (it’s Berlin, of course the bar is
hidden in a parking garage), I told a shop keeper that I needed to “lift some
money” when I tried to tell her I needed to get some cash out and I’ve lived with
a slightly odd Australian guy who constantly walks around the flat stoned in
his boxers.
I’ve somehow
managed to make a home for myself in Berlin. Making friends was surprisingly
easy, the baristas in my favourite café know my name and bring me free drinks
and, thanks to my internship, texts that I helped translate and edit are now up
in art galleries and magazines around Berlin. Like a true Berliner, I know
exactly what you mean when you say the words Club Mate, Späti, Sisyphys and
Kotti. I actually even got invited to a techno party in the woods.
I’m writing this
article on the train from Berlin to Munich, on the way to visit another friend
on her year abroad. I can’t help but feel a little bit sorry for my friends
stuck in Oxford worrying about essay deadlines, whilst I spend my weekend
travelling around Europe. But not only that, I’m grateful that I’ve had the
chance to grow up a bit, away from Oxford, get some actual life experience, and
be able to call myself a (bit of a) Berliner.
YAROSLAVL – Ffion Kellegher
I was so
excited to go on my year abroad, it seemed almost too good to be true – an
entire year purely dedicated to travel and learning languages! Could there
possibly be anything better? Everybody kept telling me that it would be one of
the best times of my life, that I would have such a great experience and that
it would give me the chance to start feeling good again about my life, after
years of feeling down. Having now returned from both Russia and Spain, I can
certainly claim that my year abroad was the experience of a lifetime, but it
was far from what I expected it to be.
After barely
surviving my first year at Oxford, I looked to my year abroad as a sort of
saving grace, a chance to recover from the year that had passed and the
isolation to which I had subjected myself. Let us establish one thing: the ab
initio Russian course is certainly not for the faint-hearted. But that’s
another story. For now, let’s talk about Yaroslavl.
Naturally,
the preconceptions of Russia consist of lethal spies, hilariously direct
people, vodka-drinking until dawn and brutal winter temperatures. I was
disappointed to discover that only the latter revealed itself to be objectively
true in the city of Yaroslavl, where I walked to school every day in
temperatures reaching -25 degrees Celsius.
Travelling
across Russia was an incredible experience. Our first trip was a an 8-day train
journey, starting in Yaroslavl and heading on to Nizhny Novgorod, Kazan,
Yekaterinburg and Perm. We also visited the ‘ice’ caves of Kungur which sadly
had no ice, since winter had not yet fully begun. This holiday was honestly
unforgettable. In Nizhny Novgorod, we witnessed the scintillating beauty of the
city at night, from the heights of the Kremlin on a hill, gazing upon the dark,
dead Volga river which cut through the city like a black knife. In Kazan, we
wandered through the breath-taking blue and white Mosque, browsing the market
of handmade goods and once again looking down on the glorious city from a
height. We then visited the museum of Soviet lifestyle; this was equipped with
old military outfits and many funky trinkets which caught our eager travellers’
eyes. After dressing up as Russian soldiers and having a wacky photoshoot, we
headed for a delicious dinner of cheap but mouth-watering Uzbekistani cuisine.
As we entered Yekaterinburg, snow began to fall. We were delighted with this
wintery aesthetic, looking truly magical as blankets of white clung to the fir
tree forests. Visiting the death-place of Tsar Nikolay was both wonderful and
terrifying. We were the only visitors. The only other people in the place were
solemn monks, who silently ghosted the monasteries and buildings. On top of
this, the ringing of bells throughout our visit was almost constant, and in the
otherwise dead silence, it sounded haunting and eerie. This trip was one that I
will never forget, and at this point I hadn’t regretted a single moment of
coming to Russia and continuing the Russian course.
Then, winter
hit. Real Russian winter. At first the snow was just pretty to look at from
inside, when you felt all warm and cosy. It was like the Christmas that
everyone dreams about in songs and stories. But when I had to walk to
university for 40 minutes every day, I began to hate life in Yaroslavl. I was
too afraid to take the bus due to bad past experiences with Russian public
transport (I had gotten the wrong bus and become completely lost 3 times!). I
began to really feel like a character from one of Dostoevsky’s novels,
wandering around in a cold, dark, harsh city. Life became gloomy as I sat at
home all day, wondering whether I could face walking to university tomorrow. We
began to drink frequently, buying up the local supermarket’s alcohol supplies
and becoming expert cocktail-makers. At this point, I knew I was getting the
full Russian immersion experience.
Fortunately,
I had rented an apartment with some other students and this gave us a space to
host events and thus to continue having a social life. That said, under Russian
law, if too much noise is made after 11pm the neighbours have the right to call
the police. Let’s just say, we met many policemen in Yaroslavl. But this didn’t
worry us, the police turned out to be friendly and easy-going. I remember one
time when they came due to a noise complaint, they asked me where I was from, I
replied that I was from Ireland. ‘Ah! Connor Macgregor!’ was the reply. Of
course, I was used to this – it was the only reply that I ever got when I mentioned
Ireland.
The Russian
‘friends’ that I had made never texted me, and I started to feel like all of my
interactions with them had just been fake. The harsh, rude disposition of
Russian shopkeepers started to deeply get to me, as I so badly longed for a smile
or a joke or dare I say it, a laugh. I needed light and something happy in my
life at that time but every visit to the supermarket or any other store greeted
me with a rough voice and a glare. Travelling no longer appealed to me as I was
now on a tight budget, while I also deeply hated Russian trains. Let me
elaborate on this. Russian trains do not have proper air conditioning. Despite
the fact that it was winter, the trains were submerged in the suffocating heat
and stench of human bodies. The toilets…. I won’t go there. The second-class
carriages consist of about 30 beds all packed tightly into a small space.
Walking through this carriage to reach the dining car (which rarely actually
served food) or the toilet, one would have to dodge the bare feet, hanging off
the edge of the short, compact beds.
Overall, in
spite of my initial excitement to live in Russia, I began to feel
claustrophobic and frustrated during the last few months of my time there.
Living with my friends alleviated this difficulty tremendously. Despite the
situation, we would cheer each other up, drinking cocktails, telling random
stories and dancing around the kitchen table like crazed lunatics from a
musical theatre show. I think it is safe to say that we all lost a bit of our
sanity in Russia.
BARCELONA
I left
Yaroslavl and headed straight to Barcelona, where I had secured an internship
in an estate agency, working as a Junior Office Manager and having a hand in
accounting as well. I arrived in Barcelona filled with joy. Needless to say,
after bleak Soviet buildings and short cold winter days, the Gaudi architecture
and stunning fiery sunsets of Barcelona were more than welcome to me. My
flatmates were kind and funny, while the atmosphere of the city in general was
just uplifting.
As soon as I
started my internship, however, I knew that something was not right. I noticed
the age of all of the people in the office, which was around 18-23, and hastily
asked how many interns were working there. I was greeted with the answer that
there were about 20 interns and 2 employees, alongside the growing sensation
that everybody hated it there. I met the boss, a racist and eccentric Danish
woman, and soon came to agree with my fellow interns on their feelings about
the company. I was not given any office manager tasks, nor any accounting
duties. This carried on for over a month and then I decided to quit, completing
only two of the five months that I had planned to stay. Yet, being in
Barcelona, going to Salsa bars, jazz clubs and drinking cool beer in rooftop
bars certainly made my time in Spain very enjoyable.
I am so grateful to have had this year abroad. The experiences
that I have had are almost unimaginable and certainly unforgettable. This year
taught me to be more independent, outgoing and determined in what I want to
achieve, who I want to connect with and where I want to go. However, it was not
all fun and games, the loneliness of a year abroad affected many of my
companions, especially those who felt particularly tied to home. It is not at
all easy to organise oneself in a foreign country, make new friends and get
involved in the community. There were certainly moments when my motivation to
do these things faltered, and I started to doubt myself. However, I’m so proud
of myself for what I have done on my year abroad, and despite the many
difficulties I encountered, I feel like I have grown and matured throughout
this year, I have met some incredible people and seen amazing things. Even
though the year abroad was not at all what I was expecting it to be, it all
turned out well in the end and I now take great pride in saying, from the
comfort of my Oxford home, that I survived a Russian winter.
TW: contains discussion of hate crimes, especially anti-trans violence
Navigating the world as a queer person is exhausting. In every new situation, when meeting any new person, just walking down the street, you have to evaluate your environment and decide how you’re going to present yourself. Who are you going to be at this moment? Coming out is a constant process. It encompasses split-second decisions about which pronouns to use when referring to your partner, as well as the tear-jerking moments that make straight allies cry in movies – cue Mary Lambert’s “Same Love” playing in the background. There is a baseline level of anxiety that accompanies being publicly queer because we are reminded constantly that our safety could be threatened at any moment, even in a famously liberal city like Oxford. This anxiety is heightened even more for the transgender and gender non-conforming members of our community, especially queer and trans people of colour. Stonewall UK’s 2017 Trans Report found that two in five trans people (41 percent) and three in ten non-binary people (31 percent) had experienced a hate crime or incident because of their gender identity in the 12 months leading up to the study. Here in Oxford, 63% of trans students claim to have experienced transphobia or discrimination since coming to Oxford, with 83% having faced discrimination from their fellow students, 29% from academic staff, according to the SU’s 2018 Trans report. For many cisgender and heterosexual people, these statistics will – and should – be shocking, but these are facts that the LGBTQ+ community is painfully aware of.
This is why safe spaces for LGBTQ+ people are so important. Fear of homophobic or transphobic abuse and violence are heightened when alcohol and drugs are involved, and much of the community simply don’t feel safe in mainstream clubs. Beyond outside threats, mental health issues among the LGBTQ+ community are widespread. We need safe havens where we can dance, drink, try to pull, without feeling like every move we make is a political act. This need is compounded by being in a university setting, where it seems like opportunities for social activism are everywhere and there is a constant pressure to be active in the fight to advance our rights. And yet places of respite simply are not being provided to us.
Spend any time around groups of LGBTQ+ folk in Oxford, and it won’t take long to hear complaints about the state of Plush, the venue which claims to be ‘Oxford’s Premiere LGBTQ+ Bar & Club’. Technically, this is true: Plush is Oxford’s only LGBTQ+ Bar & Club. Providing a welcoming space for an entire community is a great deal of responsibility for one venue to take on, unfortunately, it is a responsibility that Plush is not equipped to take on. It is important to note here that for many queer people in Oxford, Plush is the closest thing to a safe space that we have ever experienced. There is no doubt that a less than adequate bar which is at least trying to cater to us is better than having absolutely no spaces provided at all. However, having had nothing before doesn’t mean we deserve less now, and we owe it to each other and to future members of this community to work for things to be better.
What exactly is Plush doing wrong? The accusation thrown most often at the club is that its patrons tend to include a large number of cisgender and heterosexual (cishet) people. This in itself isn’t the problem; there arguably isn’t a gay bar in the country which isn’t frequented by some cishet people, and due to the relatively small size of the LGBTQ+ community it’s unlikely that the queer scene would survive without custom from some people from outside of it. The issue arises when the presence of cishet people begins to outweigh that of LGBTQ+ folk and the club begins catering to this demographic rather than the one it claims to be for. Feminine presenting queer women begin to be regularly hit on and harassed by men, LGBTQ+ couples begin to feel uncomfortable displaying affection towards each other for fear of backlash, and gender non-conforming people often begin to become uncomfortable in the space altogether. Cishet people who frequent Plush, as well as similar establishments, might argue that no-one who is actively homophobic would plan a night out to a gay bar. In a large part, this is true. But the issue is not individual straight people, rather the culture created by their overwhelming presence in queer spaces. As queer people, we have been conditioned our entire lives to be wary around those outside of the community – and for good reason – so in venues crowded by cisgender and heterosexual people, our automatic response is to alter our behaviour and to be on the alert.
Plush can’t ban cishet people from entering. That would be exclusionary, extreme and unnecessary. It is also important to make clear that there are people within the LGBTQ+ community who identify as straight, and Plush is just as much for these people as it is for cisgender gay people. However, Plush needs to put in the work to ensure that people entering the venue recognise that they are guests in a queer space and should be considerate of this the entire time they are there. It should be the responsibility of the club itself, and the cishet people who have been invited to join, to be aware of how they can make the venue as comfortable as possible for the people who need it most. In Plush’s current iteration, it is members of the LGBTQ+ community who are being forced to watch our backs and alter our behaviour in a space that is meant to be for us.
I reached out to Plush for their response to these criticisms, and they made a point of specifying that “Since its inception, Plush has been solely owned and directed by members of the LGBTQ+ community. The venue was founded to provide a safe atmosphere predominantly for the LGBTQ+ community, whilst welcoming all patrons who share our values and respect our culture”. This statement, interestingly enough, is made verbatim in the postscript of all emails from the nightclub, as well as in the description on their website. It’s disheartening to seek out confirmation that a venue has your community’s best interests at heart, only to be confronted by what feels like a – admittedly very well crafted – corporate cop-out.
However, Plush did explain that when training its staff “the venue has found especially helpful the materials provided by the Good Night Out campaign, materials provided and used by the OU LGBTQ+ Society, the LGBTQ+ Campaign, and the Oxford University Student Union, and–very importantly–the longstanding experience of both the venue and its management.” Not all employees are likely to be well versed in the language and culture of the LGBTQ+ community and that’s okay. However, when the purpose of your job is to ensure the safety of a group for whom terminology is often so important, proper training is invaluable. This is a good start. It is especially important that the community is being listened to and that resources that have been specifically recommended by LGBTQ+ campaigners are being used.
Plush claims to “pride itself on its reputation for a safe and aggression-free environment where incidents of any nature are extremely rare”, but just a cursory glance at the reviews on the club’s Facebook page suggest this might not actually be the case. Even so, the most we as queer people are entitled to expect from a night out shouldn’t be respect for our physical safety.
All the more, an environment in which protections are put in place to ensure incidents of harassment don’t happen is not the same as one which is safe or aggression free. Microaggressions, like being stared at for showing affection as a queer couple or for dancing as a gender non-conforming person, can be just as damaging as verbalised abuse.
Plush considers the fact that it “always dramatically exceeds the number of door staff required and has a far greater number of staff-per-head than most late-night venues” to be a selling point. Oftentimes though, it can be the bouncers themselves who make patrons feel unsafe. There is a bouncer stationed in the toilets at all times. There are bouncers roaming the dancefloor at all times. These bouncers are almost exclusively male, and as a femme woman whose life experience has taught me to feel wary of men, it’s difficult to allow myself the freedom to have fun in a space like that. To add to this, The Oxford Student recently reported that Plush’s bouncers had been accused of violence against two female customers and of failing to remove sex attackers from the venue. According to the club’s management “anyone who feels uncomfortable with a situation … is encouraged to report the matter immediately to a member of our staff or door team, both of which are trained to ensure the matter is dealt with in the most appropriate way.” This is all well and good, but when so many patrons of Plush have encountered overzealous or aggressive door staff, it is difficult to feel like you can rely on them in vulnerable moments.
I love being queer. I love feeling like a part of this community. I believe that we owe it to ourselves and to each other to build the safest of safe spaces for all LGBTQ+ people. So what needs to change?
Firstly: Cishet people, please don’t come to Plush unless explicitly invited by a member of the community. When in the venue, remember that you are being welcomed into a space that we desperately need, and make an active effort to be thoughtful and respectful.
Secondly: Managers of Plush, please stop stationing a bouncer in the toilets. It’s a wonderful thing that the facilities in Plush are gender-neutral, but a lot of the good that this does is suddenly undone when a member of staff is present in what is already an extremely small room. The photographers in the club need to stop taking pictures of people making out. Not only is this invasive, but there are patrons of Plush for whom it would be extremely damaging to have pictures of them with someone of the same gender floating around on Facebook. It could run the risk of them being outed or facing harassment online or at home. We need more specific events for groups under the LGBTQ+ umbrella. Nights specifically catered to queer women and non-binary people like the yearly Cake Collective, for example, demonstrate to the queer people of Oxford that this space does, in fact, prioritise our needs.
Plush is listening. A form has been circulating allowing the club’s customers to provide feedback about what’s working and what isn’t a year after Plush’s move to its new location. This is a sincerely encouraging step in the right direction. It shows that despite the complaints leveled at the venue, ultimately its management is committed to the task of providing a comfortable space for the queer community. I am and will continue to be, a pretty regular visitor to Plush. This article isn’t a takedown or a call to arms for all LGBTQ+ folk and allies to take their pitchforks to Plush. It’s just a very long-form way of saying that I’m tired, just like so many members of the queer community. I am tired of feeling like I have to look over my shoulder before holding a girl’s hand in public, of thinking about the way I sit and the way I phrase things in case they ‘give me away’ in new situations, of my existence being a political statement. LGBTQ+ people in Oxford deserve to be able to feel free somewhere. If Plush is claiming to be that space, then we need to step up and ask them to mean it.
Looking back through old photos a few weeks ago, I found a screenshot of a message dated 16th September 2017 – a Saturday afternoon two and a half years ago. It read: ‘I’m being cooked dinner (!!!) by Al so I’ll be back by 10:30 if that’s ok (three red heart emojis)’. It ended more than a year ago, but I still remember that day in our relationship, like I remember so many others, for the food we shared – the croissant brought to me in bed on my 18th birthday, the nachos which we made with scientific precision on a summer night, the last bowl of chicken curry. Food, eaten and enjoyed together, kept us going through petty arguments and bone-crushing school days, and across the seasons. It was like a reassurance that everything was really ok, and that we had a closeness and an ability to make things up as we went along which would keep us ticking over together.
In my first foray into the world of relationships, there was something wrong – and the food was telling me to watch out. I felt slightly uncomfortable eating in front of him, or, more to the point, showing an appetite. We sat on the mezzanine of a South Kensington café, and while he dived into a bowl of pasta, I picked at a Caprese salad. The first meal I cooked for him (and indeed for anyone romantically) was a claggy mushroom risotto, trying to get him involved by grating cheese (not even Parmesan; I think it was a soapy-tasting hard goat’s cheese). The start of a relationship can certainly be awkward and anxiety-inducing, but there should be a chemistry which makes the promise of the next day in their company feel right. I felt that rightness when I sat, on a cold spring day five months later, in a Pizza Express in Richmond, opposite the boy who would cook for me on that Saturday in September.
We both came from cooking families, but I was the one who had cooked every day after school since I was fourteen – I took charge in the kitchen, as I probably sought to do in all aspects of our relationship. Yet the real magic came from the rhythm, the routine, the unspoken arrangement to meet under the stone arch of at the school boundary to buy sandwiches for lunch, frothy cappuccinos at break-time. Often, after Saturday school had ended at one, there was macaroni cheese from Tesco – heat for four minutes, let sit for one, heat again for three. I bought him ‘The Silver Spoon’ for his eighteenth birthday, lugging it in a tote bag with a bottle of Prosecco in a black chiller sleeve, a bunch of white roses from the garden, and a plastic box with two red velvet cupcakes, melting gently in the heat of the Jubilee line train.
Our culinary adventures together were not always perfect – I distinctly recall a December afternoon when I ended up alone, making mousse for his parents’ 25th wedding anniversary in the kitchen of their flat, whisking egg whites and melting chocolate, while he had a nap. Admittedly, he made the roast potatoes (the best in the world, he’d say, and they were good), but when dealing with the possibility of a scrambled dessert, you need moral support. But then there were embarrassingly picture-perfect evenings – there was Chinese food eaten in a Dorset town after a seven-hour walk through wheat fields and, at one point, grouse farms. We sat by the bend of a river in the August evening sunshine, our muddy trainers forgotten, gorging ourselves on prawn crackers – the first food we’d had to eat since cider and cereal bars at ten o’clock that morning. There was steak and M&S bearnaise sauce, chips and mayonnaise, and too much red wine on Valentine’s Day. There was ravioli (only Tesco’s will do), with rocket, Parma ham, balsamic vinegar and plenty of parmesan – we made it twice, once while house-sitting in Bath, and again after a long walk through Hyde Park.
The night before he left for France – for three months which stretched out like a waste land – and two weeks before the relationship ended, I woke up early and went to the shops. That afternoon I chopped onions, made stock and poured cream into a Le Creuset casserole dish. We had chicken and ginger curry, and more chocolate mousse, in little Japanese bowls. I’m so glad we didn’t go out to eat. I think I had about £2.50 in all the world, but even if I’d been rich as Croesus, there was something in my steamed-up blue kitchen on that January evening which seemed to say ‘we exist, we are happy, here in this moment, perhaps not for long, but that is immaterial’.
One night this term, when I felt very tired and all I had left to eat was instant coffee and Marmite, a friend made me fusilli, with tomato sauce, anchovy, olives and chilli flakes. Though my legs were uncomfortably concertina-ed beneath me, and the belt of my jeans felt like it was slicing my small intestine in two, I was sitting on that grubby beige carpet with friends. In that top-floor corridor the romantic meals I’d shared with that sloping, unkempt-haired, confusing boy came into an almost musical perspective. Here was the unifying, transformative power of shared food, shared affection. I hope everyone can have such an evening.
Due to harsh weather conditions, Oxford City Council is tonight (Tuesday 11 February) opening emergency beds for people experiencing rough sleeping.
The Council has a SWEP (Severe Weather Emergency Protocol) for such conditions, activated when the Met Office predicts sub-zero temperatures and/or possible snowfall.
Councillor Linda Smith commented: “We’re using our discretion to activate SWEP and open emergency beds because the Met Office is forecasting a sub-zero ‘feels like’ temperature and the potential for snow tonight. We will review the situation tomorrow but do not currently expect emergency beds to stay open tomorrow night.”
The Council’s policy means that emergency beds are available anytime sub-zero temperatures are forecasted by the Met Office. The accommodation is available to anybody rough sleeping, including: “people who have no local connection to Oxford, no right to claim benefits or housing in the UK or who have refused offers of accommodation and support.”
The Council works in conjunction with OxSPOT (Oxford Street Population Outreach Team), a ST. Mungo’s outreach service for rough sleepers in Oxford. They provide accomodation at O’Hanlon House, run by Homelessness Oxfordshire, Floyds Row, run by OxSPOT, and in East Oxford, run by Aspire.
The council has recently opened new services for those who may be sleeping rough. The Somewhere Safe to Stay services offers beds for seven nights and a “right first time assessment” to try and find housing and support for those at risk of sleeping rough. They have also opened a shelter at Floyds Row running through the winter for verified rough sleepers.
Oxford has one of the highest population of rough sleepers per capita, higher only in Brighton, Bedford, Luton, Westminster and Camden.
Shadows of Troy is a bold new adaptation of two giants of ancient theatre – Sophocles’ Ajax, and Euripides’ Iphigenia at Aulis. It presents the two plays in tandem, creating a truly epic narrative of the most famous war in Western history. Writer and director Jamie Murphy previews some of his new script for Cherwell.
The following text is the first Choral Ode of Shadows of Troy:
The tents, the rope and the cloth of each man’s dress, spear tips pointed in the air. But none of it whistling or bristling in the wind. All silence. The air heavy and dead and the sails of each ship limp. Waiting for wind, for war. Sharpening swords, polishing shields and picking at scabs; throwing stones and playing dice. Waiting. And the hum and the thrum of the blood in your head pounding and pounding in the silent air, finding a rhythm with the tide of the sea. It rained the other day, but still no wind. The beach isn’t far off, where the ships are moored, The cliff our camp sits on hangs over the shore, which is golden and shining like the armour of generals, the water leaving behind shells and jellyfish, while the sandals of messengers press footprints into the sand. And the blood in your head’s like the rhythm of swords, spears, hammers and shields. But not quite. Not yet. It’s lower, slower, more dull. Like metal gone bad. Like your bread going stale, going mottled and green. A portion slightly smaller each day. And the gnawing of your gut sings along with the blood pounding in your head and the sad little tide of the sea, but still no wind.
One of the men broke the neck of a swan two nights ago. Sick of its whooping call, it’s cry like metal scraping. We all knew though, that it was nothing to do with the swan; it was because of Helen, because of her father’s form when he conceived her. Zeus put on the feathers of a swan to violate her mother, Leda. If only she’d broken its neck too. Plucked out every feather. Then Helen of Sparta might never have been. And we might never have come to Aulis, to this shore here. But Leda did not do so, and not a feather was disturbed from Zeus’s wing.
And so the girl was born, and became a woman. And every nobleman in Greece scuttled to Sparta to ask her hand. All were there, Diomedes, Philoctetes, Menelaus, Odysseus and Patroclus, all there. Those five only a few of the crowd that gathered at her feet. Each man swore that if he were not the one to win the girl, There would be abhorrent slaughter. And so her father Tyndareus made them swear an oath. A promise that they thought they’d never have to keep, To protect Helen’s union, whoever it was with, And to take up arms if ever it was threatened. Transfixed by this girl that was born from an egg, they all swore to do so, come what may.
Menelaus was the choice. He and Helen had grown up together, And so she chose to tie herself to him, for life. And tied the fate of Greece to the fortune of their marriage. For years Menelaus then ruled Sparta with Helen happy by his side. But then creeping came a cowherd, Paris. A cowherd, that underneath the sweet smell of soured milk was a prince of Troy. He had been raised in the fields before it was discovered that his blood was of a higher stock And so he was raised up to sit upon a throne alongside King Priam, King of Troy, his father. He came as a guest into Menelaus’ house. And then, he saw Helen. And he declared that all is dross that is not Helen. Whispered that she was fairer than the evening air, clad in the beauty of a thousand stars. And so he took her. Kidnapped the Queen of Sparta. And now she lies across the sea, with him. Bound round by golden city walls and men. Stolen like cattle from the bed of a king.
There was nothing to be said to Menelaus, stung with madness. Not a shard of comfort to be offered. Like a vulture that’s lost its mate, Circling high above its nest and round and round rowing its wings. Its call like howls and screams of pain. But all its labour is for naught, Its bed of pain will not be filled and its companion will be gone forever. And so he called each suitor then to Aulis, to sail for Troy, And all those noblemen were forced to carry out an oath they thought they’d never have to keep.
And they selected Agamemnon, Menelaus’ elder brother, King of Argos, as our leader. Those men that act as kings at home chose him as king of all. King of kings. He was trusted by his kin to carry out whatever must be done to take back Helen from across the sea. To bring her home. And an opportunity has reared its head. Helen lies in the richest city ever seen. And we won’t carry only her back home to Greece. We’ll take everything that we can carry, And burn the rest. Honour, glory, gold and new lands lie on the other side of that sea. But the water stands in our way. And still no breeze, no wind, no breath of air.
Down by the shore the sea’s silver, and clammy. And the smell of the salt reaches the camp many metres away. Past the camp, where the cliff slopes down to the beach, lies the grove of Artemis, where the trees are laden with sacrifices. The moon catches the leaves quite differently there. They flutter and whisper in the evening air like something possessed. Entrancing. Terrifying. Just leaves. But lit by Artemis.
We killed her sacred deer in the woods not long ago. And since the wind has failed to blow, And all the world seems out of breath. And she demands a sacrifice in turn, A girl for a beast, to make the breeze come back again. This God, this huntress. The supposed patron and protector of young women now commands us cut in shreds the gullet of this girl. Iphigenia. Demands her blood be splattered on the earth and spilled across her altar. The blood of our general’s daughter. Agamemnon’s eldest child. And so it must be.
Taylor Swift’s last album, Reputation, was an unapologetically aggressive response to the ‘drama’ that she had endured during nearly a decade in the public eye. Miss Americana offers another piece in the puzzle of Swift’s identity: this portrait delves beneath the polished technical prowess to depict the individual behind the music. The documentary provides a glimpse not of one of the many stage personas Swift has crafted for albums and tours, but of a young woman who has been struggling for agency for her entire adult life.
Miss Americana is fairly linear in format, recounting Swift’s life from her career beginnings right up to her recent VMA win, interspersed with clips of the recording process of her new album. Whilst not exactly groundbreaking, the structure provides ample time to understand the extent of her artistic journey, from teenage country singer to international pop superstar.
The documentary acknowledges media criticism of Swift as overly ‘perfect’ and manufactured, and attempts to counter it through the use of home videos. These intimate moments prove an effective way of humanising an icon: a clip in which she celebrates reaching number 60 on the Billboard charts with her first single is particularly touching. Such footage helps to hammer home the narrative of Swift as a relatable, homegrown success story: worthy of respect rather than criticism.
Although the documentary occasionally slips into a preachy tone, Swift avoids any self-pity about the drawbacks of celebrity life. Discussions of issues faced earlier in her career are treated with maturity and consideration; Kanye’s infamous interruption at the VMA awards, over a decade ago, explores the impact of an older and more established male industry figure on the start of a young woman’s career. A broader theme of men’s mistreatment of Swift runs throughout the documentary, from male executives controlling her media image to her sexual assault by a radio host at a photo op. The documentary also suggests that much of criticism which Swift has faced in her career has stemmed from the decisions which men have made for her; her recent decision to defy their commands and talk about “controversial issues” has been beneficial for her own mental health. Swift’s struggle to balance her conscience with commercial pressures adds to her relatability and her humanity.
The documentary also offers an insight into the loneliness of her position as one of the most successful female musicians of all time. The film emphasises the fragile nature of Swift’s fame and the constant attacks she faces, not only from men but from fellow women eager to ‘tear her down’. The drama which shaped Reputation– a spat between Swift and Kim Kardashian over Kanye West’s reference to Swift as a “bitch”- is presented as part of this narrative. The cruelty of the American media is also emphasised, justifying Swift’s efforts to keep her personal life away from the public eye up to this point.
A key moment comes during the 2017 midterm elections, when Swift decides she can no longer keep quiet about politics when a candidate who she describes as “Donald Trump in a wig” runs senator of her home state. The incident captures both Swift’s emotional vulnerability and her growth as a person, having found the strength to stand up to her handlers and do her own beliefs justice.
Personally one of the biggest things I feel Miss Americana shows is just how normal its star is. Swift doesn’t hold delusions of grandeur and comes across as a genuinely nice girl. This really is to her credit and it will hopefully make people stop and think about just why she provokes such a strong reaction when mentioned.
The final stop of the documentary is the making of her ‘You Need to Calm Down’ video. As a gay man I am always naturally suspicious when artists go from silence to attempting to frame themselves as long-time allies of the community. This is the one time in the documentary that Swift comes off as insincere, after telling us just how lonely fame is, it is difficult to tell if she really cares about LGBTQ+ rights or is simply looking for new friends. It is also a shame that only the Queer Eye presenter and Todrick Hall feature in the documentary – one can’t wonder if this is because it’s in vogue to have famous gay friends right now.
Miss Americana does more than enough, despite its small flaws, to paint a humanised picture of a girl, now woman, who seems to have struggled with fame ever since finding it. It should also help influence public perception of Swift and cement her status as an artist with a new voice and something to say with it. It is likely Fox News will still come after her anytime she so much as side-eyes men like Trump but at least it will now be for something she has said instead of something she hasn’t done. To Swift’s publicist: well done – you really hit a home run with this one.
