The Pembroke Bullfrog, Trinity 2011

The Pembroke Bullfrog

trinity term 2011

Editorial

CONTENTS

ife at Pembroke is replete with dilemmas, and never more so than

Alex Joynes

L

during Trinity term. Passing through the college in the summer

months, it is not difficult to find many a student pondering whether to play a game – or three – of croquet, or laze on Chapel Quad to soak up the sun, or even, Finals looming, whether to virtuously entomb themselves in the library. At this time of aestival quandaries, the front cover of this issue presents a conundrum of its own: Wittgenstein’s

Margot Arthur Caroline Daly, Tilly Smith, Abbie Williams

Dilemma.

Matthew Byrd

This piece was created in 1999 by artist and former Oxonian Tom

Ramya Arnold

Phillips, two of whose creations belong to our own Emery Gallery (to read more about Tom Phillips and Rima’s Song, newly acquired by the Gallery, go to pages 8-9.) Wittgenstein’s aphorism, ‘The Limits of My Language are the Limits of My World”, is spelled out twice on each side of an acrylic cube. The cube simultaneously confirms Wittgenstein’s suggestive assertion – the cube relies on the words for its structural integrity – and refutes it, for the cube’s transparency, which allows the viewer to see into, through and beyond the world of the cube, demonstrates the limitlessness and even the non-existence, the fallacy, of the cube and, indeed, the statement itself. Above all, it shows an awareness of how language and art can be success-

David Bowkett Aneira Roose-McClew, Alex Temple Rachel Wilson Paul Seddon Genny Edwards

fully fused: this magazine has always made efforts to achieve that union, just as it owes the very etymology of its name to a work in the college collection.

In a similar, although perhaps less high-falutin’, way, the Bullfrog attempts to draw attention to the importance of expression, whether the hand reaches for the pen or the paintbrush. This issue features writing on a wide array of topics by Pembrokians both at home and from all over

Lauren Clark-Hughes Ally Doyle Aneira Roose-McClew Anya Howe

the world; at this time of great change in college and around the globe, when events surrounding us seem to

Ziad Samaha

be altering at an increasingly relentless pace, the ability to describe, reflect upon and chronicle the world in which we live remains perhaps the greatest lesson we can learn from Wittgenstein’s contention.

We find another one of Wittgenstein’s pronouncements - “I don’t know why we are here, but I’m pretty sure that

Helen Pye Lucy Du Flo Walker

it is not in order to enjoy ourselves” - rather unpalatable, especially in the midst of Trinity’s many delights. We can only hope that, were Wittgenstein here now, leaning

Charlie McCann

4 the Animation Generation 6 18 Days Later 8 Portrait of the artist as a man 11 ‘on the irony of patriotism’ 12 the art of street living 14 fundamentally experimental 16 the gulu - kigali dash 19 ‘Sleep’ 20 partying beyond the fringe 22 in the wake of the great wave 24 class control 26 eating to live or living to eat?

28 ‘the pinnacle’ 29 ‘underwater’ 30 ‘a beautiful young girl going to bed’ 32 Lasting impressions 34 ‘untitled’ 35 ‘Window shopping’ 36 on track for success

back in a punt with a glass of Pimm’s in one hand and a copy of the Bullfrog in the other, he might have revised his point of view.

Enjoy the term ahead,

2 The Pembroke Bullfrog

Charlie McCann

Paul Seddon

Co-Editor

Co-Editor

Front cover: Wittgenstein’s Dilemma (© Tom Phillips, photo by Ben Drury)

3

the animation generation alex joynes shines a lamp on pixar’s cinematic achievements

O

critic, is transported to his youth with one taste of ratatouille, his

the seemingly banal aspects of life; as seen in Up, Carl and Ellie’s

review instantly transformed from damning to glowing. What follows

life together is seemingly punctuated by incidents of little cause for

is one of the most glorious testimonies to the power of the arts, and

excitement. Yet Pixar elevates these moments, glorifying them. Rus-

makers working today, across all genres.

the bravery of those who create, only to be rubbished or dismissed

sell, the hopelessly naive adventure scout who accompanies Carl

for their efforts. Here, Pixar was not only producing a stunning film

on his journey, says it best when he says of time spent with his father, ‘I think the boring stuff is the stuff I remember the most.’ The

of art for art’s sake.

late Ellie’s last message to her husband is the line, ‘Thanks for the

none of the triumphant trilogies had been made after such a long

“WhatsetsPixarapartisthatthey unflinchinglyshowtheseemingly banal aspects of life... Pixar elevates these moments, glorifying them.”

about a rat with a dream, but also crafting their very own argument

stretch of time has passed. All fans of the previous two instalments,

My first Pixar moment was in 1996 with the UK release of Toy Story. I

ne of Walt Disney’s abiding rules that constituted his philoso-

artistry, their seemingly endless imagination and the great sweep of

phy of filmmaking was his belief that ‘[i]t’s kind of fun to do the

emotions that their films explore, Pixar once again affirmed them-

impossible.’ In the many decades that have followed, the films that

selves as peerless masters of their craft and, indeed, the best film-

most embody this, and Disney’s ethos as a whole, are those that have emerged from Pixar Animation Studios, with their revolutionary new approach to animation and the breathtaking visuals that this helped to create. Yet in the summer of last year, the challenge that Pixar faced was of a rather different kind - some would say an impossible one. For Pixar were ready to release Toy Story 3, 11 years after the previous instalment and a full 15 from the watershed moment in entertainment when Toy Story was first broadcast to the world. The stakes and expectations were both equally high. For it is a fundamental rule of cinema that sequels, and especially ‘threequels’, are dangerous territory: only a handful have succeeded, and

and especially those whose own age mirrored that of Andy, the owner of Woody, Buzz and company, were naturally curious to witness the event, and so initial box office success was at least guaranteed.

But Toy Story 3 meant much more than this. Toy Story was undoubtedly the movie event of our generation, rivalled only in the literary world by Harry Potter for the place it holds in the collective memory.

And so, Toy Story 3 arrived and so, in turn, did the reviews. It was described in equal parts as ‘hilarious’, ‘touching, ‘exhilarating’ and proclaimed to be a ‘masterpiece’, even a ‘modern myth.’ Gary Wolcott perhaps summed up the general feeling regarding the film best when he wrote, ‘Pixar produces the best movies on the planet. Period. Want proof? After Toy Story 3 the audience cried then cheered.

And critics cried. Critics don’t cry. Ever.’ Once again, the movie-going public was reminded as to why we had any doubts surrounding Pixar in the first place. With a dazzling combination of visuals, voice 4 The Pembroke Bullfrog

remember being instantly attracted by the trailer, but found it difficult to comprehend or compare it to any other film, due to it being quite unlike anything I had ever seen. It lived up to my every expectation and exceeded many. The characters were instantly appealing, aside from Sid of course, and the colours so vivid and bright, a feast for the eyes. As the credits rolled, I immediately yearned for a collection of these toys for myself. And so began a new tradition of me visiting the cinema to be excited, thrilled and amused by Pixar: A Bug’s Life, Monsters, Inc., Finding Nemo, all enchanting and enjoyable with their individual merits. The constant throughout these visits to the cinema was accompaniment by my parents, and my ever-growing confusion as to what it was that made them so enjoy these films, films which to my eyes were for children alone. Yet slowly the truth began to dawn on me, and it was confirmed with Ratatouille and the mesmerising scene in which Anton Ego, a crusty and cold food

The profundity and depth of this scene is not a rarity for Pixar, it is a hallmark. Every parent must identify with Marlin the clownfish of Finding Nemo, whose own tragedies means he stifles and shields

adventure. Now go have one of your own.’ Pixar show that all life is to be celebrated and enjoyed, and is consecrated and defined by those who we share it with.

his son to such an extent that he is unable to grow up like a nor-

Leaving the cinema after Toy Story 3 was much more than the feel-

mal child (or, indeed, a fish). Similarly, Monsters, Inc. has a scene

ings one experiences after having seen a particularly special film: it

in which Sulley realises the effect that his ability to scare has on

was the sense that I had somehow just witnessed my own transition

young children when confronted with an image of Boo, the hero of

from childhood, an experience which no doubt countless felt when

the film, quaking with fear at the sight of his aggression. It is a blis-

the credits rolled. Toy Story 3 continues in the great tradition that

teringly honest depiction of self-realization and the ugly depths we

is at the heart of all the arts yet which only the greatest works can

sometimes plumb for reward. One of the key Pixar moments that

achieve, namely to hold ‘the mirror up to nature.’ Pixar, to me, helps

defines this ability to engage with its audience is Jessie’s Song, of

to bridge the gulf between childhood and adulthood; it conveys the

Toy Story 2, which charts the relationship of Jessie and her owner:

themes which underpin life to children without patronising or trivial-

from the days when they were inseparable in the child’s youth, to

izing, and allows adults to rediscover their youth without ever sen-

Jessie’s eventual abandonment and the loneliness which came with

timentalising.

it as her owner grows up. The means through which Pixar communicate these themes has, over time, become yet more daring and bold. The opening montage of Up, depicting the everyday lives of an everyday couple, is accompanied by music alone. Their salad days, their hopes and ambitions, their tragedies and losses are communicated in what is perhaps the most affecting and startlingly realistic three minutes of film I have witnessed. This, to me, is one of Pixar’s greatest feats: their ability to explore complex issues is something to be celebrated, but it also follows in the great tradition of many children’s films. What sets Pixar apart is that they unflinchingly show Graphics: Ant Lewis

There is a magical moment in Monsters, Inc., the final sequence, in which Sulley is allowed to visit Boo once more, the joyful toddler who taught him the truth of what life is for. A year has passed, and Sulley naturally fears that she may have forgotten him. She hasn’t, much to his delight, and reacts with glee. This is how I feel about Pixar: they allow us all brief but beautiful glimpses into what we have left behind but not forgotten. And I for one await the next peek into the wardrobe, where I am once again granted the privilege of basking in the splendour of Pixar and be a child once again.

5

18 days later

At the same time however Egyptians have hardly rested on their

For now, on the surface at least, everyday life carries on as normal.

laurels. Hard-core protesters in Tahrir did not completely leave until

The only thing missing is all the tourists. The military curfew from

there and back again: arabist margot arthur shares her perspective on the revolution of 25 january

some more specific demands had been met, demands like the res-

12pm to 6am is either just another obstacle you have to work around

W

ignation of Prime Minister Ahmad Shafiq and the arrests of corrupt

or is the only form of state security you still have any faith in.

businessmen and former ministers. Even then they concentrated

hen I arrived in Cairo last October I had a feeling that the com-

of 28th January were realised without neither mobiles nor Internet.

ing year would be a crucial one in Egyptian politics. I knew

Never mind about the way, all it needed was the will.

that the Western media were getting excited about someone called Muhammad El Baradei and with the December Parliamentary Elections on the horizon, which in 2005 had witnessed a Muslim Brotherhood gain one fifth of the seats, I eagerly awaited the build-up. Alas, whilst Oxford raged back home over University fees, Cairo cowered as the Parliamentary Elections approached. Egyptians were either too scared to venture out or had become so disillusioned with their country’s politics that they just couldn’t see the point in turning up.

A rigged result in the first round was plain to see with the main opposition parties winning the odd token seat. I even thought Mubarak might die when I was in Egypt after having had a gallbladder operation at the age of 81 the previous March. It seemed that only his death would release Egypt from his terrifying regime. I was beginning to understand why Egyptians hated the word stability so much.

And that’s when the revolution happened...

The rest, as they say, is history. Well, actually that’s just what David Cameron said when he suggested that the Egyptian Revolution be taught in British schools in the future. In the end it was Facebook of all things that finally gave the people a voice. Although this Revolution is now heralded as the 25th January Revolution, the day that really caught everyone’s attention was Friday 28th January, otherwise known as Yom al-Ghadab: The Day of Rage.

As the day approached I and many others were still doubtful it would come to anything. As my guitar teacher had said to me earlier in the week, “We Egyptians can’t organise anything, let alone a revolution.” And yet between Friday noon prayers and 6 o’clock that evening the protesters had seized the bridges and Tahrir Square despite the water cannons, rubber bullets and tear gas. The police had vanished into thin air and a military curfew was already in place.

This Revolution didn’t need extensive organising. The achievements

6 The Pembroke Bullfrog

For the next few days Tahrir had the feeling of a summer music festival, just with a serious political twist. After being searched and ID’d on entering I wandered from one group of about a dozen humming softly to an ‘Oud through a sea of flags and amusing placards to the main stage where thousands were joining in with the latest chant.

The only difference of course was that the only substance people were under the influence of was freedom.

Outside Tahrir was a different story. Thugs and criminals who had either been released or had escaped from prisons during the chaos had started looting which prompted neighbourhood watches to form checkpoints at the end of each block. Inevitably this violence entered Tahrir on 2nd January, otherwise known as Bloody Wednesday. An ugly chaos reigned in Tahrir as pro- and anti-Mubarak protestors fiercely fought amid burning buildings. The Armed Forces are yet to explain why and how these thugs on their camels were allowed in.

their efforts on exposing the dreaded Intelligence Service which has since been disbanded. Across the country their headquarters have been besieged revealing labyrinths of underground torture chambers, mounds of shredded documents and detailed records of Internet activity.

“The Revolution has shown the great potential Egypt has to be a democratic, prosperous country.”

More recently 18.5 million proud Egyptians (the vast majority for the first time) voted in a referendum over some key constitutional amendments. These include the restriction of presidential office to two terms of four years and the call for a new constitution to be written by the next government. However it is in the interests only of the Muslim Brotherhood and Mubarak’s National Democratic Party that

Peace shortly resumed in Tahrir but tranquility did not. Over the

these amendments are passed as quickly as possible, for then the

next week the pressure on Mubarak intensified. On 11th February

country can swiftly move to elections which newly founded parties

Mubarak finally threw in the towel but passed the duty of saying

will have little or no chance of winning.

goodbye to his first ever and newly appointed vice-president Omar Suleiman. The people waved them off with the soles of their shoes and the festivities began.

The result has shown that there is still much work to be done to build a long-term democracy. The 77% that voted in favour of the amendments are either supporters of the MB and NDP or those who are

Egyptians celebrated throughout the night and the whole of the fol-

willing to accept a swift transition of power for a return to stability. If

lowing day. In fact they were still going when I got back two weeks

the talented and educated youth that brought about this Revolution

later. There is not a street in Cairo whose pavements or walls or tree

in the first place want to have any impact on the political future of

trunks don’t bear some resemblance to Egypt’s flag or a ‘Mubarak’

their country they need to reach out to people beyond their followers

metro sign that hasn’t been renamed ‘Martyrs’. There are also local

on Facebook. There is legitimate concern that the inhabitants of cit-

entrepreneurs selling all sorts of revolution memorabilia: wristbands,

ies like Cairo and Alexandria are overlooking the importance of the

badges, wigs, flags, picture cards of martyrs, car stickers, day-by-

votes of the 40% of the population that live under the poverty line.

day guides to the Revolution, etc.

Let this referendum be a warning to them.

However, there is mounting evidence that certain sections of the army have no interest in protecting civilians. Protests in Tahrir on International Women’s’ Day (8th March) ended in attacks and assaults on females in broad daylight. Amnesty International has claimed that up to 18 women were arrested in Tahrir the following day and, after being beaten in the Egyptian Museum complex, were detained in a military camp and subjected to forced virginity tests. The same day witnessed the deaths of 13 Christians in clashes with Muslims in Downtown where there is a heavy military presence.

There are still huge hurdles for Egyptian society to overcome and they are not just old and engrained problems like corruption, misogyny and persecution of religious minorities but ones caused by the Revolution. Egypt’s economy is in a dire state after its stock exchange dropped by 10% within a few minutes of its reopening on 23rd March.

Nevertheless, despite all these problems, the Revolution has shown the great potential Egypt has to be a democratic, prosperous country with a highly educated and cultured population. I have nothing but the greatest admiration for its people and the millions of other inhabitants of the Middle East who are risking the little rights they have left for the chance of a better future. It was with deep regret that back in early February I heard about a Pembroke fresher who had asked some friends, “What’s all this about a forest fire in Cairo?” As the whole region undergoes momentous social and political change the West needs to sit up and pay attention. It can no longer try and mould the Middle East to suit its own interests but instead needs to start listening so it can adapt with it. Let it never be claimed again that the Middle East is not ready for democracy. 41.2% of Egypt’s eligible voters show that that is simply not the case.

Photos: Margot Arthur, Isobel Platts-Dunn, Livia Bergmeijer; Graphics: Charlie McCann

7

8

The Pembroke Bullfrog

portraitoftheartistasaman abbie williams, tilly smith, and caroline daly talk to artist tom phillips

Academician, writer and composer (to

name but a few of his accolades), it is fair to say we were perhaps the slightest bit star-struck, with no idea what to expect. Yet he immediately put us at ease, individually greeting and airkissing us, charismatic from the outset. Having read English at St. Catherine’s College, Oxford in 1957 (where he is today an Honorary Fellow), it’s clear that Tom (born 1937) feels a certain afTilly Smith, Tom Phillips, Abbie Williams and Caroline Daly

one being the JCR-owned The City, his first-ever commercially sold piece, painted whilst Tom was at St. Catherine’s. We visited him in January with the

Visiting Tom at his studio in Peckham, London we real-

purpose of purchasing another for the JCR collection.

ised that this area has been an influential force through-

Tom, born Trevor Thomas Phillips yet always called

larged local map on which he has charted his different

Tom by his family, was noted for his creativity and individuality even in primary school, taking long railway journeys from Clapham in search of inspiration each Sunday at the mere age of 11. Tom decided at this time to become an artist, after learning that the word meant ‘someone who does not have to put his paints away’.

Whilst at Oxford Tom pursued classes in life-drawing at the Ruskin, going on to study at Camberwell School of Art, but his English degree remained a prevalent influence in his life, language being one of the primary preoccupations of his body of work. He has won and participated in various art competitions, including, as he recounted to us, one held in Iraq and judged by, amongst others, Saddam Hussein (Tom adds that it was unsurprising the judges gave first prize to an Iraqi).

Tom has starred in many solo exhibitions, from his first at the Artists’ International Association Gallery in London in 1965 to a showing of the complete A Humument, his most famous work, in 1973 at the Institute of Contemporary Arts, with further exhibitions at the National Portrait Gallery and Birmingham’s Ikon gallery to name but a few. Decades later, Phillips has become one of the foremost figures of our time in the British art world, having been elected as the Royal Academy’s Chairman of Exhibitions from 1995-2007, in addition to other earlier posts as a Trustee to both the National Portrait Gallery and the British Museum.

per pots and stencils. Even his bedroom forms an enor-

tion to the role of language even in a civic context. As

mous workspace with the only domestic feature being

well as the visual arts, Tom is a passionate supporter of

a bed in the corner. Tom showed us how he religiously

music, bridging the gap between artistic forms. He has

uses up all the excess materials from his work to create

composed an opera, Irma, was a founding member of

impromptu pieces, and is even happy to scribble all over

the Philharmonic Orchestra and is currently working on

his bedroom walls whenever inspiration strikes.

a chamber opera of Joseph Conrad’s novella Heart of

Rima’s Song, the collage which now belongs to the JCR

U

Pembroke already owns two paintings by Tom,

9

Darkness.

pon meeting Tom Phillips, CBE, Royal

finity with us and sees us as a ‘friendly college’.

The Pembroke Bullfrog

out his artistic career. He was keen to show us an enresidences and routes, reflecting his nostalgic attachment to the neighbourhood. However, it would be true to say that he has had as much impact on the area as it has influenced him. One cannot walk more than a few paces in this community without recognizing a mosaic wall, lamppost, archway or gate designed by the artist.

Over the last 15 years, Tom has been heavily involved in the Peckham urban renewal project and his work, along with contributions from other local artists such as Anthony Gormley, has played an important role in reshaping the aesthetics of the neighbourhood. Stepping inside Tom’s studio is just as interesting. His official workspace houses a selection of his larger works, and, in keeping with Tom’s eccentricity, a large pingpong table. Tom professes to be a keen player and this feature, alongside the sparklingly clean New York loftstyle interior, would lead one to believe that his studio is more of an area for show and play than real artistic

Art Collection, is characteristic of much of Tom’s work.

Although Tom produces public art, his work remains in-

The A Humument project, which he has been working

herently personal and individual, and his generosity in

on for well over 30 years, reworks William Mallock’s

inviting us into his home reflects his gregarious attitude

Victorian philosophy A Human Document, a book Tom

to life. He still pursues private projects, such as painting

found in a junk shop and made his lifetime companion.

one periwinkle each day for a week at the beginning of

Tom illustrates each page, obscuring everything except

spring every year, an attempt, he explains, to keep his

for a few words, which he in turn connects in order to

hand in at life-drawing. Over the years, Tom has had

construct a whole new text from the original document.

the honour of producing portraits of many high-profile

As with A Humument, Rima’s Song shows Tom’s fasci-

characters, from the Monty Python men to Iris Murdo-

nation with colour and texture, and his enthusiasm for

ch to Samuel Beckett, yet he claims to know Salman

mixing media. The collage is constructed from American

Rushdie better as a ‘fearsome table-tennis opponent

comics, ‘without cheating’, as Tom explains. He uses the

than as a man of letters’. He collects postcards which

lines and shapes which exist within the original comic to

he now publishes in themed collections, from hats to

create new images in his comic collage series. In Rima’s

bicycles. He writes opera and has designed cover art

Song, the comic is recycled into a musical stave, with

for Brian Eno and The Who. With the release of his A

pictorial expressions of the sounds rather than notes.

Humument iPhone app, Tom, a regular blogger, is evidently not afraid of new channels of expression. He has

Tom’s artistic output is not confined to a single medium,

an admirable ability to pursue all of his interests, em-

and, in fact, across all his work is a distinctive preoc-

bracing and contesting the conventional restrictions of

cupation with the limits of form. Just as Rima’s Song

genre, discipline and medium, the separation of public

plays with the conventions of written music by con-

and private. Due to this outstanding commitment to the

veying sound through comic book explosions, Tom’s

world of art, literature and music, it is highly fitting that

other work often highlights the parameters of traditional

Tom was made a Commander to the British Empire for

mediums by turning it into ‘art’. The Wittgenstein’s Di-

services to the Arts in 2002, and even more fortunate for

lemma cube on the front cover reads ‘the limits of my

Pembroke that we now own three of his pieces, span-

language are the limits of my world’; the text itself limits

ning his diverse and profuse career.

the seemingly infinite and boundless space of the Perspex cube. A striking canvas in his Peckham studio had sentences laid one on top of another until they became indecipherable. Tom highlights the physicality of lan-

industry.

guage, reminding us that

Indeed, our suspicions were confirmed when we vis-

his Coronation Anniver-

ited the artist’s home, just a few minutes’ walk from the official studio. Tom’s home is an enormous studio in itself, with every room devoted to one or other of his many ongoing projects. He joked that we wouldn’t be able to tell which room was his kitchen, and indeed it is perhaps better described as a studio that happens to have a sink and fridge, an assortment of paints, pep-

letters are just letters. In sary Coin, the murals on Peckham High Street, or the stained glass windows he designed for Westminster Cathedral, Tom uses a unique and fluid font, drawing atten-

The newest addition to the Emery Gallery, Rima’s Song (©Tom Phillips).

On the Irony of Patriotism “True Patriots, pray look upon this sty of modern brutes who tarnish England’s name; the proudest men who cause the greatest shame.

No voices tell her beauties, save the sigh of those who know her ancient blood runs dry.

Great poems, prose and theses lose acclaim.

What stirs these souls? Not deeds of worthy fame, but flags held high, as swords to pierce our sky.

What country do they boast of? And what good is pride? Their empty praises pound in waves, wearing the slate of noble English graves!

Such Lords of art once lived, and name this nation great still! To think their hearts held British blood; long years before this paltry generation” Matthew Byrd

10 The Pembroke Bullfrog

Illustration: Tilly Smith

11

the art of street living

student accommodation. While at Oxford we are blessed with college

in Oxfordshire which attract many homeless people to either sleep

ramya arnold looks at art as a means of engagemenbt with down-and-outs in paris and oxford

accommodation for at least two years as undergraduates at most

rough, or find temporary housing in Oxford. It is true that the council

colleges, and most London universities guarantee 1st year accommo-

spends more per head on services for the homeless than others of

dation, meaning students can live in areas like the Southbank, Russell

a comparable size, but it seems a question of which came first, the

Square etc., in Paris there is a centralized system of student housing

chicken or the egg? Nevertheless, some of the work started by chari-

which only provides for 10% of the student population. Those who

ties in Oxford has shown a commitment from the local community to

come from the suburbs therefore largely decide to live with their par-

engage the homeless in Oxford in mainstream society. “The Porch”

ents throughout their university life (the impact of this on the student

provides IT and art classes and the social enterprise started by Oxford

community and social life in Paris is lamentable – don’t get me started

University alumni, ‘Aspire’ aims to connect homeless people with the

ing?

on that…). However this does mean that there are many more people

employment market by providing professional services to businesses

searching for cheap accommodation in the city, a pressure that

and individuals in the local area – for example, Pembroke used Aspire

Living in Paris has most certainly made me reflect on the plight of the

therefore disadvantages low-salary workers who do not necessarily

to collect and recycle old clothes at the end of last Trinity Term.

homeless more than ever before. While this may seem rich com-

have the willing parents to fall back on or to use as guarantors. One

ing from a Londoner, the statistics support the palpable difference:

blogger commented on how the word for “homelessness” translates

Paris counts almost 10,000 homeless on average whereas London

as the rather more cumbersome “le fait d’être sans-abri”, implying

estimates are around the 4,500 mark, particularly notable given how

that this reflects how long it is taking the French government to deal

much smaller the French capital is. The ubiquity of homeless people

with the issue. With so little potential for expansion and building of

in Paris is such that you can ‘bond’ with almost any other Parisian

social housing within the city limits, more certainly needs to be done

over the familiar faces lying in Châtelet metro station or outside the

to appropriate the thousands of abandoned and disused properties

doors of the Sorbonne, just as we might do with those faces on

for this critical use.

Sans domicile fixe = sans devenir fixe (no fixed abode = no fixed

ness of the creases in the crumpled khaki jacket of a homeless man is

future)

mirrored in the creases of the newspaper he sells – both are ultimately

Such is the bleak view which French photographer Franck Boucher evokes of the state of being homeless – and it could not be more accurate in its image of imprecision. Not knowing where you’re going to sleep that night, where your next meal will come from: the life of a rough sleeper is one where nothing can be guaranteed except your static state on the street.

I met the photographer through an NGO I work with in Paris that campaigns on issues of social inequality such as homelessness, and we are in fact exhibiting his work in Paris for the first time this May. Having worked with the homeless in France for five years, Franck has created various series of photographs involving the interesting characters he has met, the most recent and most powerful of which is Story Bord de Vie. Asking 28 SDFs to pose for him, the photographer tried to tease out an anecdote or situation that each homeless person would like to improvise as a representation of their life on the streets. In a

equally fragile and weathered by the conditions. Linking these two works of art made me ask myself: why do cities as diverse as Paris (a huge capital) and Oxford (a medium-sized provincial city) attract such great numbers of homeless people and why is the problem persist-

Cornmarket Street. The number of homeless seeking shelter in the

People say we ought to ‘put an end’ to homelessness, a problem that seems anachronistic and a visible sign of the poverty we are meant to have overcome in developed Western nations. It is certainly not as easy as that, not least since the factors that render people down and out are not just economic: the breakdown of relationships is a primary cause, and mental illness can regularly complicate matters.

Local and central governments should nevertheless be determined to allocate funds to increase the social housing stock as well as support

Oxford, ranked as the 4th largest urban area (after Westminster,

services. What the work of people like Franck Boucher and the social

the City of London and Peterborough) for rough sleepers in the UK,

enterprise in Oxford demonstrate, however, is that when tackling

suffers perhaps disproportionately from the issue of homelessness.

these issues, perception is everything – social exclusion is as much

elsewhere to go to lie in reasonable comfort and warmth.

With a relatively young demographic, given its large student base, the

about people’s attitudes towards the excluded as the real hard facts

profile of the Oxford homeless is strikingly young as well, with 50%

of their situation.

conveying their sense of being ‘left hung out to dry’ by society, while

While I was struck by the high rent and competition for flats in Paris,

being under 25.

in a comic position all the same.

I crucially, benefitted from parents who could counter-sign and guar-

meeting of photography and drawing, the cartoonish images depict the nature of their social exclusion and relationship with the city in an at once humorous and pathetic way. The two homeless men hung on a washing line between apartment buildings is a great example of this,

Franck’s work is not simply a study of the homeless community but is almost like a social enterprise, engaging them in a project that helps them express their creativity and reclaim their identity. Indeed, the photographer has created a personal philosophy of Human Social Art, in which he seeks to bring together artists with an interest in the social impact of their work. After all, art is a medium highly suited to changing perceptions.

Seeing Franck’s work immediately made me think of The Big Issue, a painting in Pembroke’s very own JCR art collection where the vivid12 The Pembroke Bullfrog

Metro system was in fact so great that the authorities introduced individual plastic chairs spread metres apart on platforms to replace the benches that had long been an ideal place for someone with no

In George Orwell’s fictional but semi-autobiographical work Down and

The social demographic of Oxford also contributes a great deal to the

Out in Paris and London, the narrator recount his experiences tramp-

problem. Oxford has an unusually large population of middle class

ing and living in slums both sides of the Channel. He ends his diary

graduates for a city of its size, but at the other end of the scale, the

with the following thoughts: ‘At present I do not feel that I have seen

number of people earning less than £20,000 a year is significant, with

more than the fringe of poverty. Still I can point to one or two things I

the social deprivation in Blackbird Leys, for example, comparable to

have definitely learned by being hard up. I shall never again think that

Inner-city London. This polarized population creates a market where

all tramps are drunken scoundrels, nor expect a beggar to be grateful

prices are driven close to London levels, but a large section of the

when I give him a penny, nor be surprised if men out of work lack

access to benefits or registering with a doctor a huge feat.

local population is far from able to pay.

energy, nor subscribe to the Salvation Army, nor pawn my clothes,

The Parisian housing crisis is particularly severe due to the lack of

Some argue that it is in fact the impressive social support services

antee my rent if I failed to make a payment. The number of papers required when flat-hunting in France (you are advised to visit flats with a dossier prepared of National Insurance, pay-slips, utility bills, recommendation from your bank among other documents) is also a great obstacle. It is estimated that 25% of homeless people in Paris are in this situation by virtue of a lack of official papers. The sans papiers are those that find it hardest to come out of their situation as this renders

nor refuse a handbill, nor enjoy a meal at a smart restaurant. That is a beginning.’

Photos: courtesy of Franck Boucher, to see more go to: http://web.me.com/atelierboucher/officiel/Art__Photo-graphie/Pages/Story_Bord_de_vie.html

13

david bowkett discusses the future of science funding for students

O

n 20th October 2010, the Treasury released its comprehensive

little bit more money to counter out inflation; there would be a major

spending review. This gave details of the budgets of different

change to how PhD studentships are allocated. Previously, academics

governmental departments up to 2014-2015. The good news for the

would apply for a studentship that would pay a student’s fees, pro-

scientific community was that the science budget wasn’t cut. The bad

vide living expenses and contribute to the cost of their research. These

news was that it was frozen at 4.6 billion per anum, when inflation is

would be given to academics based on the strength of their research

taken into account, this works out at about a 10% cut in real terms.

proposals. Academics could then choose a student to take up the stu-

Compared to other areas of government this was not a terrible result for

dentship. The student would then undertake research under the su-

the scientific community, but it wasn’t a great one either. Two months

pervision of the academic for the length of the studentship, normally 3

later, on 20th December, David Willets – the Minister for Universities

years for a PhD. Under the new system, the EPRSC will fund Centres

and Science - announced how this money would be broken down be-

for Doctoral Training (referred to as Doctoral Training Centres - DTCs).

tween the UK’s seven research councils. Knowing how much money

Each centre will focus on a particular area of science, for example,

is being given to each research council is important, but perhaps more

Oxford has (amongst others) a Systems Biology DTC and Cambridge

important is finding out what they plan to do with the money. Luckily,

has a Nano Science and Technology DTC. These will offer students

the research councils thought this too. So to coincide with the an-

taught courses for the first year, before they join the research group of

nouncement by David Willets, they published delivery plans, stating

an academic associated with the centre for three years of research to

what they were going to do with the money they had been allocated.

complete their PhD. This means that it will take an extra year to obtain a

As a chemistry student, and a chemistry student who is applying for PhD places at that, I was keen to find out how the research council in charge of funding chemistry, the Engineering and Physical Sciences Research Council (EPSRC), was planning to spend its money. With my immediate future depending on what they decided, I was obviously delighted to find out that the amount of money the EPRSC was

PhD, but students will benefit from more taught courses. They will often get a chance to undertake a couple of short research projects in their first year, giving students a chance to try different areas of research before choosing which one to follow for a PhD. This is similar to the American system, where students take advanced classes as well as doing research.

to spend on studentships in the academic year 2011/2012 would be

Speaking from the point of view of a student, this is an excellent sys-

£133 million, a 3% increase on the £129 million spent in 2010/2011.

tem. Getting the opportunity to sample different projects in the first

But this wasn’t a simple case of keeping the old system going with a 14 The Pembroke Bullfrog

year, then choosing one of them for the next three, is a nice way to

without any experience of what your colleagues are like to work with,

Now some would argue that at a time when our nation has little money

what your day-to-day routine will be like and (crucially) what kind of a

to spend we should only spend money on research that aims to give

boss your supervisor is going to be, is not. But that’s not the only ad-

us things we really need. DTCs, which train students in specific areas,

vantage; DTCs are designed to create scientists with the skills desired

are an excellent example of how the EPSRC will shape the immediate

by the science industry, making their graduates more employable, a

future of British science. However, I feel we should not concentrate sci-

great advantage in a highly competitive job market.

ence that has obvious, real-world applications at the expense of “blue-

On the face of it, the EPSRC’s decision to stop project studentships and focus on funding DTCs appears to be a good one. Yet some people disagree. Academics who find themselves at Institutions without a DTC focusing on their area of science will now find it increasingly difficult to get funding for PhD students. An academic whose research is relatively weak that happens to be at an institution that has a DTC in his or her subject will be able to get PhD students, whereas an academic

sky” science. The accidental discovery of penicillin by Scottish biologist Alexander Fleming is a brilliant example of how seemingly useless research can have a massive impact on the world. Fleming is famously quoted as saying, “When I woke up just after dawn on September 28, 1928, I certainly didn’t plan to revolutionise all medicine by discovering the world’s first antibiotic, or bacteria killer, but I guess that was exactly what I did.”

with a record of excellent research who happens to be at an institution

Every time an organisation makes sweeping changes to the way it op-

that doesn’t have a DTC will not. Surely this is not a desirable situation.

erates there are bound to be teething problems. The EPSRC’s change

There is also another major concern. In their delivery plan for 20112015 the EPSRC state that they want to “move from being a funder to a sponsor” and that they will “In concert with our partners in business, academia and government, co-define more explicitly the landscape of research we wish to support.” They also state that they would like to “Encourage the UK’s best minds to engage with society’s most important research problems”. It seems that in the age of “Free Schools” and “The Big Society”, a state funded organisation is trying to increase central control.

ease yourself into a PhD. Jumping straight into a three year project,

of focus to DTC style PhDs will go a long way to ensuring that PhD students graduate with all the necessary skills to become successful scientists, and its attempts to tackle areas of science which relate to areas of national need are commendable. However, it must still support excellent academics wherever they are conducting their research, and it must not forget the story of Fleming’s serendipitous discovery.

The major challenges facing science at the moment - energy, security, tackling food shortages, providing clean water for the world - could as easily be solved by someone conducting research that seemingly amounts to pure academic indulgence as by someone who sets out to meet these problems head on.

Photos: Ollie Ford, jenni from the block (Flickr) Graphic: Charlie McCann

15

Sunrise on the Nile.

Taxi park full of matatus in Kampala, Uganda.

The Inaugural Gulu – Kigali Dash

600 km. Seven Days - aneira roose-mcclew and alex temple race from uganda to rwanda

Aneira: Day 1: Alex, drunk and full of pork, played the ‘French Fancy’

little black mounds (hippos) basking in the shallows. No lions, just lots

card last night. We split this morning, eager to tick off as many boxes

of big game. Stunning place. We left at midday. I lunched at Masindi –

as possible on our list of challenges. The objects each participant must

the typical Ugandan lunch is a plate of rice, posho (maize flour), yam,

acquire: a presidential election campaign t-shirt, a root vegetable you

matooke (mashed plantain) and stew - then took a matatu to Hoima. A

dug up yourself, a bird’s feather, a witch doctor’s brew and a living

tyre burst, we were unloaded. Hoima, 7 pm. Ate some meat on a stick,

organism from a national park.

found a guesthouse and fell asleep listening to the BBC World Service

I took a matatu (a van licensed to take 14 passengers, but always

– all guns blazing in Libya, apparently.

packed with 22) to Pakwach with the intention of going south through

Day 3: Hoima to Fort Portal - via Kigardi. Time to start dealing with the

Murchison Falls National Park. The driver, mid-journey, decided that his

‘challenge’ element of the race. I started with the veg and was soon

vehicle was not full and that it was, therefore, not worth his while. He

tearing up plants, with a small audience - a woman sitting outside her

ditched 14 passengers, including several nuns. The nuns cursed – God

house was intrigued, rather than perturbed, by my cassava plant query.

would have his vengeance.

She let me loose on her garden. Success. En route to the matatu, I

Before long, I scrambled onto a truck - much to the disapproval of the nuns - carrying two tonnes of cassava crop and 40 odd people. I had my first sighting of wild elephants seated on cassava.

4.30pm – Pakwach: No idea of how to get to Murchison Falls. After wandering, I chanced upon some park wardens driving in and hitched a lift. Murchison Falls: baboons, elephants, buffalo, giraffes, warthogs, hippos and the Nile. Wondrous.

I was dropped at a hostel in this African wilderness – ‘No booking?!’

No, no booking. ‘No space’. Hmmm. A worker took pity on the dusty girl covered in bedbug bites. He led me to some basic dorms. Luckily, National Parks have cheaper accommodation (1/3 of the price) for locals. I dropped my bags, then went to find out about Safaris and boat trips. Turns out you need a car for Safaris and the boat trips go in the afternoon – I needed to be out of the park by 5.30 pm to avoid paying $30 for another 24-hour access permit, and to be in good stead for the race. I went to the bar, bought a beer and wondered. A Brit (plenty of them in the National Park) struck up conversation; she was going on an early morning Safari, in a car with a space, before driving onto Masindi – my second destination. Double luck. I had another beer.

Day 2: Early start. The sunrise on the Nile was amazing – it illuminated 16 The Pembroke Bullfrog

exchanged words with a local – did he know where I could get a presidential t-shirt? He did. He sold one to me. Fort Portal,11 pm.

Elephant in Murchison Falls National Park.

Alex: Adventurer, thief and all round man-of-action Alex Temple quests

“My lord, the generals are here.” King Mabutu, chief of the N’kole tribe,

once more in service of the British Crown. But his expedition takes

had been a gracious host. His daughter too had taken to me. Stepping

him far from home, and has he bitten off more than he can chew? And

out to meet the generals, I looked back at her as she slept, and desire

so the race began, and, elevenses over, I prepared to depart. A large

rose inexorably in me once again. “Damn armour”, I thought to myself.

and tearful crowd gathered to see me off. “Do not fear!” I called out,

With not only the N’koles in peril, but Kigali itself, I had agreed to help

mounting my horse Wellington, “I shall defeat her!” But I would come

Mabutu. For I could not risk Aneira’s safety, and thus thoughts of the

to regret this braggadocio, for I had boasted of sure-fire victory to all

dash were far from my mind. With the Masai’s arrival we numbered

and sundry. And, unbeknownst to me, mysterious happenings were

500, but we needed a plan, as I didn’t much fancy dying so far from

already underway.

home. If the demon brought fire, I must too.

Those who probe Africa’s darkest reaches tell of strange and malevo-

Day Four, Dawn: Preparations made, we lay in wait for the coming of

lent beasts. I had laughed at tales of monsters prowling the bush’s

the beast. Without warning, the skies clouded, and rains began to soak

shadowy tracks, or lurking in the swamps and forest depths. ”What

the savannah. “Odd…” “No,” said Mabutu, “Khodumodumo.”

tripe!” I’d cried, hearing of Ndalawo, the shrieking man-eater of the Ugandan jungle. And what of Mbilintu, the vast pachyderm of the Congolese marshes? Or the dreaded Mngwa, the silent fiend skulking in the mangroves of the coast? “Poppycock and claptrap!” I’d exclaimed; such foolishness would not deter me, Alexander ‘Silverback’ Temple,

Day 4: To Kasese and Rwenzori National Park (RNP), or, just Kasese.

from storming to victory, from upholding my reputation as both hellion

My bank card failed. Banks closed – bank holiday. I sat on the street

and hero. And thus, maintaining a herculean pace, I reached the do-

reading and was approached by two London-based salesmen (small

main of the N’kole tribe by sundown.

world, eh). Their product: clothes that made you lose weight, but this was a holiday.They offered me a drink. I said yes, and spent two very long hours realizing salesmen are never on holiday. I used my remaining £3 on a guesthouse.

Day 5: No luck on the card front. I got desperate, opening a Ugandan account in hope of an automatic transfer – but, alas, they take 48-hour

The boda driver who took Aneira to Rwenzori National Park.

So my plan was in motion. I’d declined to use cannon fodder; if bait was needed, I would do it myself. Mounting Wellington for perhaps the last time, I turned to Mabutu. “Remember my instructions.” I rode out to meet the beast. The morning was ethereal, silent. A stately hippo lay still in the water, blinking thoughtfully at the scene before him. For Khodumodumo, fire-devil, had joined me on the plain, a towering inferno of malice and ash! “Over here, you swine!” I cried, speeding North, with the mighty demon now in pursuit. My fate was in Mabutu’s hands,

Yet word of my coming had already spread, and as dusk fell, I found

but he did not disappoint. A thunderous boom! Embers rained. There

myself surrounded. Vicious spears and cut-throat blades gleamed

would be no third act twist. The brute was dead.

murderously in sunset’s crimson hue. “Whoa, Wellington!” I bellowed, though leaning close to my loyal steed I whispered softly in his ear, “but prepare to fly!” A behemoth of a man strode forward, handsome but deadly, and my hand slowly closed around the flintlock Webley pistol

With Mabutu’s charcoal, and potassium nitrate, the curing agent for my bully beef, we had dispatched him. No match for gunpowder, Khodumodumo succumbed. Cheers rang out, but I’d no time to celebrate.

After all, I had a race to win! A hasty goodbye and I was off, Mabutu

precautions with African accounts. Thank God for Western Union. I

that was tucked in my belt.

took a Boda (a motorbike) to the border of the RNP. Had a beer with

“I am Omikye”, he said calmly. “We have been expecting you.”

answering the sobs of the doe-eyed princess.

Three days later: I paced around my tent. My armour was less stifling

I had saved the N’koles, Kigali, and perhaps Aneira’s life. Contented, I

now, and the acacia bow felt natural in my arms. I was comfortable,

arrived at our rendezvous still optimistic of victory. But there she was, a

but I was not confident. The scouts had reported that Khodumodumo

vision in green, elegantly sipping Earl Grey.

the driver. Put some grass in a deodorant lid (living organism challenge). Found a feather. Caught an overnight coach to the Rwandan border.

Day 6: Kabale, 6 am. My coach slumber was broken by a taxi-driver,

was approaching from the East. I had just a smattering of Swahili, but

who wanted my custom, prodding me. To the border? Yes. Rwandan

glancing at Arthur Cornwallis Madan’s dictionary, I’d translated the

border to Kigali by coach: three hours. Time of arrival: 10 am. Sign of

name: ‘Gape-mouthed Fire Demon’. “Ex Africa semper...”, I muttered.

Mr Temple? No. Was victory mine? Alex, knowing I was penniless, had

Omikye entered and passed me my helmet.

ensuring swift passage on to Kigali. “You won’t forget me,” I whispered,

“You’re late” she said, as I pulled up a chair.

“You’re welcome”, I replied.

lingered in Uganda. Saviour or fool? Well, he didn’t do any saving.

Photos: Aneira Roose-McClew 17

I don’t think about you during the day, Because you are not paper, or plastic, or wood, I don’t see your faces reflected in car windows, Or in the patterns on train seats, Or in words, which run like ants Across the lines of the paper I am writing on, And hurt my eyes when I am tired.

But when sleep swallows me, And I am drunk on the dark, Which curls around me like a black dog, Aching with its own deafness, Your faces come into my mind, Sharp little bits of your faces come into my mind, And stick there, like shrapnel, or splinters, And sometimes in my dreams you say you love me, And sometimes, I imagine you are dead, The dark soaks into me, It soaks into my skin, And it makes me dark.

Rachel Wilson

18 The Pembroke Bullfrog

Photo: s.alt (Flickr)

19

partying beyond the fringe Paul Seddon examines some of the less serious political parties on the British ballot paper

I

t’s sometime in the wee hours of the last General Election night at

government or hopes of having their election promises picked apart by

the Windrush leisure centre in Witney, Oxfordshire, and David Cam-

Paxman on Newsnight . Candidates that make John Prescott sound

eron stands at a makeshift rostrum to address his constituents and

lucid. And come election night there’s usually one decked out in ri-

the nation. Having been returned with an increased majority and with

diculous clobber behind the all the suits in every provincial town hall in

his sights on Number Ten, he’s looking pretty chipper. The customary

Britain, waving uncontrollably at someone towards the back whilst the

thanking of the tea-ladies over and done with, he speaks of building a

returning officer reads out the results. I am of course speaking of the

stronger and better nation, of a brighter future, of leading his party back

more frivolous of the political alternatives before us, of the parties that

into the corridors of power after thirteen years on the dark side. And

seek votes on the promise of, among other things, filling the Thames

all the while, swaying somewhat awkwardly behind him, stands a man

with alligators or making it illegal to sell socks in anything less than a

dressed in a cream-white suit and matching Stetson, with an enor-

pack of three. In amongst the grey and greying of the traditional British

mous yellow rosette hanging precariously from his lapel and his mouth

political establishment, it is these groups that add a bit of colour to the

ever so slightly open. The man, of course, is Alan ‘Howling Laud’

process of scraping together a new government. They are to the elec-

Hope, candidate in the constituency for the Official Monster Raving

toral process what Ricky Gervais was to the Oscars, a kind of ‘inside

Loony Party, and its sole leader since the unfortunate death of his cat,

man’ making sure those involved don’t take themselves too seriously.

‘Mandu’, in 2002. That night, his party fielded twenty-seven candidates

But surely there can’t be anything more to them than that?

all over the country, but in the circumstances, it was the defeat of its leader here that was by far the most high-profile. The scene was an odd one, but up and down the Isle, a similar picture was being painted.

Dave Bishop of the Bus Pass Elvis Party reaped a mighty 112 votes in my own constituency of Kettering; up in Cowdenbeath, Derek Jackson of the Landless Peasants’ Party only managed 57. They had all taken the time to stand, promulgating some pretty preposterous manifesto pledges in the process, and been roundly rejected by the electorate without even the small consolation of keeping their deposits. But what was the real point of their foray into the murky world of politics? And why, in the face of inevitable defeat, had they decided to put themselves forward before the voting public?

”a relatively new kind of political satire, working from within the system itself” Well, looking a little more closely at some of them reveals that there might be. Most of these ‘frivolous’ parties, it has to be said, started out as nothing more than a bit of political tomfoolery, a bit of light fun to bring good cheer at election time and make the whole process a little bit more bearable. But behind all the absurdity stand the foundations for a relatively new kind of political satire, working from within

Considering 95 per cent of the seats in the House of Commons are

the system itself. What else could be discerned, for example, from the

held by the larges three parties, it came as a surprise to me to learn

Monster Raving Loony policy of re-naming the Isle of Man the ‘Isle of

that there are over three hundred of them registered with the Elec-

Person’, if not a jibe at a perceived over-extension of political correct-

toral Commission. The vast majority of these, of course, are pretty

ness? How about their policy of joining Europe ‘in a big way’ by invit-

serious organisations, and that includes the ever-increasing number

ing the rest of the continent to join the pound sterling, before making

of single-issue protest parties that have made their way onto the bal-

Britain an off-shore tax haven? The Citizens for Undead Rights and

lot paper. Animal rights, piracy laws, the necessity of a new bypass in

Equality Party, standing in four seats in 2010, pledged to increase the

the Lincolnshire town of Boston – all are causes espoused by genuine

minimum statutory retirement age to ‘beyond death’. Captain Beany of

political parties. But more careful inspection of the electoral roll reveals

the New Millennium Bean Party (the ‘party for human beans’) stood in

an altogether different breed of political group, fielding candidates in

Aberavon last year – beating UKIP – and promised to put the faces of

towns and cities all over the land. Candidates with no real plans for

politicians who abuse office on toilet roll packaging. In many respects,

20 The Pembroke Bullfrog

these less serious parties use political lunacy as a smokescreen for

Dems have snuck into government by the back door. So what’s the

lampooning those in power.

alternative if you really don’t much like either of the big two, or if you

All such parties, of course, do not expect to win power and would probably (and hopefully?) reject it if it ever came to them. ‘Howling Laud’ Hope, of course, is a rare exception, having experienced genuine political authority when he got his feet under the desk at Ashburton town council in Devon in 1987. But such notable exceptions aside, a vote for the Death, Dungeons and Taxes Party (the other one – not the Tories), or the Fancy Dress Party, or even the True English Poetry Party, is really nothing more than a wasted vote, the ballot-box equivalent of registering as a Jedi Knight on the census – although arguably even that has more serious ramifications. Scratch below the surface, however, and these so-called ‘joke’ parties actually reveal a more fundamental malaise with the current state of British politics. It’s at the cornerstone of both the Common Sense Party (whose leader stood in Reading West in 2010, and campaigned from behind the tiller of a purpose-built yellow submarine), and the Movement for Active Democracy (or M.A.D., who

happen to live in a safe-seat constituency where the locals would send a Furby to Parliament if someone pinned the right rosette to it? You can stay at home and not bother, as 35% of the electorate did last time, or perhaps spoil your paper in an exuberant manner and then run wildly around the voting hall spooning spaghetti hoops down your shirt. But that’s it – and if you still want to exercise your right to vote as a matter of principle, one of the quirkier options may do the job. In our postexpenses scandal age when the public’s confidence in politicians is at rock bottom, the eccentric parties at the bottom of the list provide a genuine method of registering dissatisfaction with the lot of them at the polls. In a way, not voting at all shows disillusionment both with politicians and the system that put them there – but putting your cross next to the name of a party with barmy policies at least shows a residual faith in the democratic process itself, even if simply as a method for protest, and even if your vote ultimately counts for nothing.

stood in South Dorset), who both put forward some pretty serious pro-

Besides, aren’t some aspects of our political process rather silly any-

posals for Ancient Athens-style direct democracy and the sort of public

way? Our state opening of Parliament, for example, features mem-

initiative system used in California. Increasingly, these parties seem to

bers of the Commons slamming the door ceremoniously in the face of

reflect disenchantment among the electorate, at a time when the poli-

someone called the Gentleman Usher of the Black Rod. Ten minutes of

cies of the major parties are virtually identical in so many areas, and so

PMQs is enough to make you laugh and cry. The whole way of doing

many of those standing are career politicians who have only ever cut

things in Britain involves some pageantry that’s pretty absurd when you

their teeth at think-tanks or research departments. It could be said that

think about it, and the less serious political parties have become an ad-

they provide the real alternative for those wishing to participate in the

ditional part of that tradition. People scoffed at the Loonies when some

voting process, but who can find nothing in the major establishment

years ago they made a manifesto commitment to introduce passports

parties worth voting for.

for pets – but roll forward to 2005, and what did the last government in-

People have always voted for parties without credible plans for government as a sign of disillusionment; the problem now is that the Lib Illustration: Ellie Wylie, Graphic: Paul Seddon

troduce under new quarantine legislation? Exactly that. Perhaps there’s some method in madness after all.

21

suit, casting his eyes perplexed across the sea of little silver trian-

Japan would have an effective plan in place to deal with the situa-

gles, before identifying one or two as his, catching them up in his

tion. Surely, It would be over by Sunday.

arms, and taking them off into the still unsettled night.

in the wake of the great wave Genny Edwards describes the shock of living through the tsunami, earthquake and ensuing nuclear crisis in Japan

T

he murmur of ‘earthquake’ ran across the classroom like a rip-

his chest and made a little motion to indicate a heart beating fast.

ple. We waited, eyes wide, faces expectant. What we expected,

When I cast my eyes across the children, I could see that many of

however, was for it to end, for the brief shaking to pass as it always

them were doing the same. With time now to register it, we were

did, so that we could finish lessons for the day. Instead, the shaking

all aware of our pulses going at an extraordinary rate, so fast it felt

became more violent. We told the children to get under their desks,

like our hearts were buzzing against our ribcages. Some children

whilst I remained standing, my fingertips resting on the surface of

were crying, but most simply looked stunned and wary. Soon, the

the desk in a neat row. From our classroom on the third floor of

headmistress had gathered the teachers together, and I watched as

the hilltop school, you could see all across Tokyo – from the busi-

their faces, calm and serious in front of the children, melted instantly

ness district right down to the bay area and out to sea. Now, as I

into fear and apprehension. I was used to Japanese people masking

looked out across the city, I could see everything: every roof, tree,

their emotions; the sight of a dozen or more adults so visibly fright-

and building, beginning to shake. Soon, what had begun as a shiver

ened left me feeling unnerved.

became a rocking, and birds launched themselves into the air in scattered clouds. The teaching assistant, Yusuke, and I glanced at each other, and silently withdrew under our own desks.

As several teachers took children to their homes nearby, the rest of us stood uneasily amongst the remaining pupils. They were dead quiet, but all around, the dull rumble and creak of shifting earth

Once under, the shaking became even more violent. Like all schools,

and buildings continued. Suddenly, the clouds parted, and the sun

the building was well earthquake-proofed, yet still the threat of ‘the

burst through. The children looked up, dazzled. The boy beside me

big one’ hung over Tokyo with a palpability that is difficult to imagine

tugged at my sleeve and said: ‘Miss, isn’t it funny. After an earth-

in a place as relatively safe as Britain. Throughout her history, Japan

quake, the sun is shining.’ I was still wearing the school slippers,

has suffered at the hands of her unfortunate location at the meeting-

so I scurried back inside the main building to get my shoes. In the

point of four tectonic plates. Although earthquakes are notoriously

staffroom, the television had been left on, and as I passed the dark

hard to predict, the Kanto region, encompassing Tokyo along with

room, I caught a flash of the screen, a map of Japan. The whole

six other prefectures, has been due a major earthquake for about

stretch from Hokkaido down to Chiba, and even to the south as

20 years. Crouched low, knuckles white as we clung to the legs of

well, was flashing red. The entire north eastern coast looked like a

our desks, we waited to see whether this was to be a big one or the

slashed artery, pulsing and haemorrhaging blood. That was the first

Big One.

concrete indication I got that this was something bigger than Tokyo.

The shaking subsided. It cannot have lasted more than a minute in

Even then, though, I did not know just how big.

total. From the window, I could see thick plumes of black smoke bil-

The night wore on. The time at which I was meant to meet my friends

lowing into the air from Odaiba on the coast, where fires had broken

came and went, and in any case the trains had halted. The doors to

out. Minutes later out in the playground, we could feel the earth

the sports hall had to be kept open in case we needed to evacuate,

still lurching beneath us. A few old women came stumbling into the

and the cold seeped in quickly. Policemen arrived with insulating

school grounds, casting their eyes about, disorientated, and repeat-

foil for the children and the elderly people who had congregated in

ing the word ‘earthquake’ again and again amongst themselves.

the school. Bundled up in the foil, still wearing their pointy earth-

Turning back to look up at the school building, I could see it sway

quake hoods, the children looked like little Christmas trees. There

heavily from side to side, and the tree in front of it was shaking from

was nothing to do now but wait. The only children left were the ones

the trunk up, its branches swinging here and there. I glanced to-

whose parents worked far away, and were making the long trek on

wards Yusuke on the opposite side of the pitch. He laid his hand on

foot to the school. Every several minutes a father would arrive in a

22 The Pembroke Bullfrog

Sunday came and went, and things only got worse. Japanese

With the last of them departed, I was finally able to make my way

friends were staying in. Safer to stay in, they said. We had been

back home. I followed the motorway above my underground line,

told that there was a 70% chance of another earthquake, as big

which was still out of service. Around me, hundreds of other com-

or even bigger than the last, over the next three days. The min-

muters were doing the same. A river of people flowed for miles

utes and hours dragged by with a sense of uselessness, because

ahead, spilling off the pavements and weaving between static cars,

no one knew what we should be do-

slowly ebbing along an imaginary train line. I passed old men and

ing or how we should be behaving,

women, who moved slowly, in visible pain. For myself, I knew the

and irrelevance, because of what

journey would take no more than three hours, even in my heels and

was happening elsewhere. We

with my heavy bag, but who knew how far and for how long they

watched fresh news of the de-

might have to walk. Buses started to roll past, throbbing with peo-

struction emerge minute by minute

ple pressed up against the heavy glass opaque with condensation.

in places like Iwate, Miyagi and Fuku-

Taxis stood in unhappy traffic jams, their passengers looking weary

shima. People had lost family members,

and resigned.

houses, cars, livelihoods, all destroyed by

I passed a noodle shop, with sounds of news radio leaking from its open window. There is something peculiar and old-fashioned about the radio when a disaster has happened: the tone is one of controlled panic, with no room for jingles or ads. The sounds of swallowing, or a paper being passed quickly from hand to hand tell listeners that something is wrong before the words do. Behind the counter, the cook sat in profile, a towel wrapped around his sweaty forehead, his face heavy and stiff as he craned forward to listen. The snatches of words and phrases that I caught were ominous ‘…measuring 8.9 in the Tohoku region…’ ‘massive tsunamis striking…’ ‘… we cannot rule out the possibility of more

an unstoppable wall of water that had washed six miles inland, tearing down everything in its path. The damage was so extensive that at first we had no comprehension of its scale, because there was no one living to tell us.

And in those areas in which there were survivors, all lines of communication had been lost. I had friends who for several days after the quake had no idea where their friends or family members were, or whether they were still alive.

By lunchtime on Wednesday, I was on a

…’ ‘… aftershock measuring six about to hit

flight back to London. The time in between

…’. Later I passed an old lady walking her

was such a sleepless mess of packing, clean-

dog. An aftershock hit and the little thing

ing, and phone calls, that it was not until I was on

began yapping insanely. Its owner

the plane, my headset sitting in a neat little packet on my

looked up into the starless sky. I

lap, that the guilt and fear flooded into me. When I had spo-

thought about how strange it is that when an earthquake

ken to my Japanese friends the day before to say goodbye, some

hits, people look up rather

were considering leaving Tokyo, and all sounded scared. I felt ter-

than down.

ribly guilty that for me, it had been almost as simple as packing up and leaving. My job and apartment contracts had been due to end

Nearing home, texts started to seep through from several hours

earlier. The tone

that month, so running away had not been complicated.

whether

At home, I was frustrated by the way certain things were being re-

this was something to be taken seriously or treated as a joke. As

ported in the British press. There had been no mass panic, no emp-

far as I could see, Tokyo was alright. I switched on the news, and

tying of supermarket shelves into a single trolley. When speaking to

was told that a large earthquake had struck off the northeast coast

my Japanese friends now, the word that comes up again and again

of Japan, sending a massive tsunami crashing into the towns and

is ‘ganbaru’. It means to work hard, to persevere, and it sums up the

cities near the sea. The quake, I was told, measured five in Tokyo.

selflessness and presence of mind with which they have handled

was

confused.

People

didn’t

know

So far, just over 100 people had been confirmed dead. When I was

a situation where instinct might provoke over-reaction. I hope that

shaken awake by an aftershock the next day, the rating in Tokyo

by the time you read this, this situation in Japan is much better. I

had been bumped up to a six. The Richter scale does not go up in

hope that people are starting to be rehoused. I hope that towns

regular increments, so the gap difference between a five and a six is

are beginning to be reconstructed. I hope that families have been

significant. A message from a friend later that morning told me that

reunited and victims laid to rest. I hope that the nuclear situation

the death count was now being projected at over 10,000. I was sure

is resolved, and that the people around Fukushima can move back

at first it must have been a mistype – how could it have gone from

into the homes that they left behind. But even if all my hopes have

just a few hundred to 10,000 literally overnight? Soon, our dawning

come true, there is still huge damage to be repaired, and the scars

realisation of the tragic scale of destruction in the north of the coun-

left behind will be enormous, and permanent.

try was joined by another worry. Power had been knocked out of a nuclear plant in Fukushima, and the back-up supply had failed too.

Things like that don’t happen in real life, and not in Japan. But I felt

To help, please go to http://www.redcross.org.uk/Donate-Now/ Make-a-single-donation/Japan-Tsunami-Appeal to donate.

confident that, being as prone to earthquakes and tsunamis as it is, Artwork: Genny Edwards

23

class control Lauren Clark-Hughes grades the school system across the channel

I

t’s

an

average

morning

Reims,

France.

enceau,

every

morning,

darkened staff

corridor

room

the

so

at

to

between

15

worksheet

all

in

else

them

fails,

it’s

good

for

real

reason

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along

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days

lowed

7:57.

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bag

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into

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about

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tation, the

placed

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happened with a

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lack

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to

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and

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have

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British

Illustration: Nishita Singhal 24 The Pembroke Bullfrog

to

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25

was ‘immediately moved to take my son to the Michelin-starred Fat Duck in Bray to eat cuttlefish cannelloni, sea bass in a vanilla sauce and white chocolate with caviar’. Unfortunately, this undoubtedly delicious remedy is not one open to the majority of the population. The price of dinner for one at the Fat Duck, at £180, amounts to considerably more than the average family food budget which was just over £50 per household per week in 2009 according to a 2010 Office for National Statistics report, let alone the 37p per meal budget of children’s school meals. Eating well is not simply a matter of being ‘adventurous’ as Jay Rayner suggests, but neither are items of processed food, like turkey dinosaurs, the automatic solution to this.

Stating the truth universally acknowledged that the clientele of a McDonalds or Kentucky Fried Chicken is, if a cross section of the population, one that is heavily weighted to the poorer end of the market, one cannot help but comment on the irony of this state of affairs, given the relative expense of the food provided. As the average £4.50 cost of a McDonalds’ meal would be spent to much greater value on the raw ingredients, it is not economic status which causes the poor to eat poorly but rather a lack of education and motivation. The inability to cook for oneself is becoming increasingly financially as well as physically harmful because food is becoming ever more expensive: currently the UN food price index has risen six months in a row to reach its highest since records began in 1990 And if education is the problem, then Jamie and food-saturated TV is surely a step in the right direction, even if a

eating to live or living to eat?

rather sedentary one. Food is deeply linked to both class and morality, with feeding children well becoming increasingly viewed as an ethical duty of the parent, and justifiably so in a sense, as good diets could

ALLY DOYLE discusses the haves and have-nots on the culinary spectrum

replace expanding waistlines with improved physiques, higher IQs and

I

increased potential for concentration. The crucial importance of diet

’ve never had the privilege of eating a turkey dinosaur, that strange

things about Scottish food, but despite the natural riches of salmon,

cross-breed even Jurassic Park didn’t attempt, in which extinction

scallops, pheasant and Scotch beef, it has traditionally been one to

and genetic dissimilarity are compensated for by turkey and dinosaur

feed a largely poor population – and unfortunately kippers, kedgeree,

sharing both a limited brain capacity and not having seen daylight for

oatcakes, porridge, haggis, neeps and tatties have largely come to

many an age; millenia on the part of the dinosaur, generations on the

be replaced by deep-fried pizzas, battered burgers, Irn-bru and, of

part of the shed-housed turkeys. When Jamie Oliver vs. Bernard Mat-

course, the aforementioned macaroni pie.

thews reared its rather more photogenic head in 2005, it induced reminiscences of my own school food which was, although dinosaur-free, crowned by a similarly bizarre cross-breed. My most treasured and perplexing memory from my short-lived experience of processed food in 1990s Scottish state education is one of macaroni pies – with chips of course, my five-year-old self’s favoured choice over peas when I was informed that I wasn’t allowed both by one not-so-charming and well nigh incomprehensible dinner lady. Unlike the deep-fried Mars bar that has become so successful that it has had multiple incarnations, the macaroni pie I can attest from school dinners c.1994 is a true stalwart of Scottish cuisine, up there with chips, the staple which apparently saved the populations of Edinburgh and Glasgow from scurvy during World War II (praise be). Not to be confused with the West Indian version, the Macaroni Pie (Scot.) is macaroni cheese encased in shortcrust pastry, which Wikipedia conveniently informs me has become something of a favourite in the American Deep South because of the Scottish ancestry of the region.

This somewhat surreal mishmash of fat and carbs was not at all recalled, however, in another recent culinary experience of mine at the Fat Duck, Heston Blumenthal’s restaurant in Bray, Berkshire. The ‘nitro poached aperitif’ which opened the evening, for instance, looked like something the young Dali might have put together if he had picked up a rolling pin instead of a pencil. And it really is an evening: a 14-course and four hour extravaganza, appropriately balletic waiting staff included, one particularly ferocious member of which, in the manner of a youthful Rosa Klebb, squirted a spoonful of liquid from a pressurised container into a steaming flagon of liquid nitrogen and deposited the result on my plate. It looked a bit like a meringue. ‘All in one please’, she barked. Suddenly feeling a bit more like my five-year-old self confronted with the scary dinner ladies, I meekly complied. But the result was oh-so-different. It was like biting into a campari and soda-flavoured cloud. Blumenthal has spoken of reigniting a childlike sense of wonder in our eating, and certainly smell and taste are senses which have an extraordinary potential to evoke distant memories. Indeed Proust,

Perhaps it is no coincidence then that Scottish 12 year-olds in 2005

writing a century ago, used the taste of a madeleine cake to evoke a

narrowly pipped the Americans to the title of world’s fattest kids, with

whole childhood. From a ticking gold watch which dissolved in a bowl

one in five obese compared to one in six stateside. Britain as a whole

of mock turtle soup, to a tiny centimetre-squared brown film which,

only came in with a measly one in 20, despite the robust contribution

placed on the tongue, gave an unbelievably strong flavour of oak for-

of the Scottish average, amply living up to its well-earned reputation as

ests (even mine which I managed to get stuck to the roof of my mouth,

the ‘sick man of Europe’. Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely love many

a word of warning for anyone with my level of dining idiocy), the Fat

26 The Pembroke Bullfrog

to height has been common knowledge from the early 20th century onwards thanks to the Rowntree reports and the exposure of shocking statistic such as the six inch height difference between ex-public school boys enlisting and the rest of the male population in 1914.

Duck certainly didn’t disappoint.

When Jamie Oliver derided school food as ‘scrotum burgers’, he suggested something that sounds almost like the kind of culinary challenge Blumenthal would relish. Indeed, in making ice cream ‘as hot as fish and chips’ he used the very same machine used in the fabrication of the legendary turkey dinosaur. The British establishment has recently spent a lot of ink, time and money lauding a new renaissance for British cuisine and any number of television programmes celebrating Great British Menus/Pubs/Breeds of Pig seem to be continuously hogging air time (oink oink, but seriously, there is one on as I type). However, six years on from Jamie’s war with the turkey dinosaur and the damning report of the girth of Scottish 12 year-olds, have our diets really improved? The healthier food in schools has been countered by reports of children getting McDonald’s in their lunch hours, and in 2007, the Government-commissioned Foresight report predicted that by 2050, 60% of men, 50% of women and 25% of children would be obese.

At the same time, the increased press coverage of the prevalence of obesity and poor diets has resulted in what some have argued to be an equally unhealthy obsession with body image, which has itself contributed to the increasing numbers of hospital admissions due to eating disorders in girls and, newly, in boys as well, with a rise of nearly 50%

It perhaps appears that I have been indulging in a conflation of two issues that (despite Jay Rayner’s personal efforts) are really are two very different things – surely the bizarre artistry informing Blumenthal’s cooking and represented in recent publications like the princely £395, 2,438 page Modernist Cuisine: The Art and Science of Cooking has nothing to do with how many vegetables our five year-olds eat and the health of the nation? But this is simply not true. Rayner’s vaunting of his opportunity to, at a whim, take his son to the Fat Duck, rather than emphasising his son’s wonderfully sophisticated palate, as he claims, rather reinforces the fact that food is fundamentally a class issue. And the fact that it is so absolutely fundamental to our sense of ourselves, that it is able to evoke the most incredible sensations, bring back distant memories and on a more fundamental level really make us better and more intelligent human beings – makes the disparity between what the educated and less fortunate of the nation eat even more distressing and remarks such as Rayner’s even more ill-conceived, demonstrating, if I am not as equally lost in translation as the British establishment has been on Marie Antoinette’s count, the same ill-judged naïvety as the perennially misquoted ‘let them eat cake’. Splashing out on a lavish meal at Bray, no matter how nice it is, is a reminder of the continued prevalence in our society of the division between the gourmands and

being recorded between 1996 and 2007 in England.

the have-nots, and the appreciation of the cognoscenti leads us no

Jay Rayner, a food writer for the Observer, wrote that seeing a turkey

turn the telly back on.

dinosaur on his son’s plate at a zoo resulted in such outrage that he Illustration: Verity Whiter

further towards a solution to that old dinosaur of a problem… so let’s

27

Underwater T

anya howe, winner of the 2011 Emery prize, discusses the inspiration behind her sculpture he piece was partially inspired by Landing Under Water, I see Roots (see right), hence the sculpture of a guy holding his breath underwater, all pressure and suppression. I particularly like the way the poet has thoughts that she is squashing so hard, she can’t even admit them out

loud - instead they burst out in parentheses. I guess I’m trying to evoke this sense of suffocation of self and to convey a whole tangly forest of thoughts and feelings, imperfectly repressed, by means of the deep, stylised grooves and furrows in the man's face. Perhaps this is every student’s secret response, at times, to Oxford life? Or maybe just the morning after a night on the lash…

Landing Under Water, I See Roots All the things we hide in water hoping we won't see them go— (forests growing under water press against the ones we know)—

The Pinnacle

and they might have gone on growing and they might now breathe above everything I speak of sowing (everything I try to love).

He walks, headfirst into the wind, Absorbed, lost in foreign thoughts twinned with a whispered wish for knowing

Annie Finch

Who he is. His face is glowing Like a daffodil whose first bloom Is born with Christ. The storm clouds boom And drown out seagulls caught in flight As Phoebus leads away the light.

The gold’s replaced by murky grey, And time moves on – He’s had his say; He takes the maps that plot things gone In a small bag. The man walks on.

No better place to find oneself Than where the cliffs reveal their wealth.

The place where man first found his feet And learnt to think and breathe and eat And use his hands - the pinnacle Reliant on the Big Bang’s pull, Or push – one sees things as one will.

A wave then breaks, shows land its quill.

He leans, his arms stretched out to sea, Revealing what it is to be The speck of dust left to linger On an ancient jagged finger.

Aneira Roose-McClew

28 The Pembroke Bullfrog

Illustration: Penny Andrea

Photo: Anya Howe

29

She noisily clatters through her front door, She slides down the wall, she hits the cold floor; She can’t remember with whom she’s just been, Nor what she’s said, nor what she has seen, And though in the morning she’ll feel really vile At least tonight happened in “proper style”: She went into town with all her best pals – A tasty bunch, those plus-sized gals – From pub to club, then kebab van: She loves a night that goes to plan.

But now all alone, and slumped in the hall, She concentrates and makes to crawl Into the bathroom, where she will start To deconstruct this piece of art.

She staggers and leans against the small sink, Eying the mirror she gives a coy wink Before taking a tissue to lips full and red To expose their true colour: cadaverous lead.

And reaching across with both of her hands She strips her false lashes in spider-leg strands.

Next come her nails, stuck on with glue: And promptly dropped into the loo; Her golden hair that cascades down Is unclipped and unfastened to show roots of brown.

She’s not finished yet as her brows dark as coal Are wiped off her head with dampened bog-roll.

Her face – a glowing orange sphere – Requires something more severe, So tilting her head back, she grabs for the jar Marked: “BEWARE! This product will wound or scar”, And pours it onto her ginger cheeks Till the tangerine tint begins to leak.

A last review of her pasty new face Reveals a dark beauty spot left in place: This she diligently peels away

ABeautifulYoungGirlGoingtoBed

after jonathan swift

Now she can start to detach and unhook The golden bangles completing the look: She replaces each shiny hoop and chain In the pink plastic packaging from whence it came.

Her last effort comes in removing the clothes That for this night she especially chose: A short mini skirt and push up brassiere Flatter her tits and large sagging rear, While out from behind a tight tee-shirt flops A pallid, round paunch, encrusted in spots.

Tossed in a corner she regretfully notes That her outfit is caked in what looks like dried oats.

To take off her heels is a painful convention For her blistered toes need a doctor’s attention, But she drags her sore feet and climbs into bed Foregoing the sheets, she lays down her sweet head.

And just before letting slumber constrain her, She pops in her mouth a night-time retainer.

This little routine she repeats day by day, In the hope, one suspects, of some midnight foreplay; Or a longing for praise from all who behold This charming young thing wearing skirts in the cold.

Perhaps an attempt to trap fading youth, Makes her maintain this aesthetic untruth?

Or maybe this costume improves how she feels: A crepuscular goddess in ten inch high-heels.

In the seconds before she falls fast asleep She addresses these doubts that she buries so deep And asks what it is that makes her decide To engage in this battle of Jekyll and Hyde?

Ziad Samaha

To place in a box for another day.

Illustration: Tilly Smith

31

lasting impressions

helen pye outlines the need for society to change how it looks at tattoos

N

early one in three Britons aged 16-44 has a tattoo. I have two.

the painful process with their gods, their ancestors and their tribe. In

Since the age of 15 I knew what I wanted and where. Just after

Samoan society, the pe’a and malu (female tattoo) are the indication of

my 18th birthday I got my first one done, and I have the feeling, bearing in mind the sentiment of the tattoo, that it won’t be something I regret. Even if it is, I think I’ll be happy for that to be the worst of my regrets when I’m older. The second tattoo is a line from my favourite poem. I consider both of these to be very significant to me: a reflection of what means the most to me at this point in my life and a reminder of how I want to live the rest of it. But with such a rapid increase over the past couple of decades in the number of people with tattoos, am I just kidding myself that these markings are something special to me?

Are tattoos a cultural phenomenon; the new fashion; something simply to regret when their heyday passes and in 5 or 10 year’s time we’re left with an indelible mark of our misspent and ill-advised youth? In fact, instead of expressing individuality, are tattoos the new symbol of conformity?

having achieved man- and womanhood.

”the stereotypical view of a tattooed individual needs to be challenged” So why is it that these symbols of cultural pride and kinship have seemingly been hijacked by a Jeremy Kyle-generation who flash their tramp stamps with pride and who scar their bodies with ‘England’ in bold, gothic print and the names of several ex-partners on their arms? Well, I don’t think tattoos have been hijacked. I don’t think they have lost their cultural or social significance. I think we have developed our understanding of tattoos just as our society has developed. While ink was once the preserve of criminals, gangs and sailors, that tattoos

The earliest inkings recorded were discovered on the remains of a Neo-

can now be found on the bodies of the most respected members of

lithic Iceman from 3300 BC and tattooed mummies from the second

society, in the highest professions, and with the greatest responsibility

millennium BC have been found in the Tarim Basin in western Chi-

for our country, children and future, shows that the stereotypical view

na. Evidence of tattooing stretches from Japanese societies in the

of a tattooed individual needs to be challenged.

Palaeolithic period, and Persians during the Achaemenid Empire, to pre-Christian Germanic and Celtic tribes across Europe. The word ‘tattoo’ first emerged in the English language during the eighteenthcentury when sailors described the traditional ‘tatau’ seen on Samoan islanders during Captain Cook’s 1768 voyage through Polynesia. For the Samoans, their traditional male tattoo, the pe’a, served as a rite of passage, a mark of status, rank and cultural identity. Their tattoos transcended the present and connected those who had undergone

32 The Pembroke Bullfrog

The attitude towards tattoos is still very society relative. Very few people still associate tattoos solely with the criminal underworld, gangs or a maritime career, yet the reasons that more and more people are getting them today remains fairly unchanged. Tattoos tell a permanent and public story of someone’s life: the people they love; the people they’ve lost; the things that bring them joy; what they see as beautiful. Tattoos are a form of self-expression and for those who choose their markings carefully, they have a personal and unique significance. Don’t get me

wrong, I don’t mean the butterfly, the dolphin or the dubious Chinese

for tolerance and open discussion, one reader on the Daily Mail mes-

character that you see branded into the hips, wrists and shoulders of

sage board suggests that if the ‘tattooed morons’ were rounded up,

a large percentage of society nowadays - although I think it would be

‘im sure violent crime, anti-social behaviour and illegal drug use would

arrogant to suggest that they had no meaning for their owner. I mean

virtually disappear from our streets overnite (sic)’. Considering nearly a

those tattoos that are painstakingly planned, a labour of love, and a

fifth of Britons have a tattoo, that’s a pretty damning statement.

true expression of the essence of the person who wears them.

It appears easy to completely ignore the fact that most people with

If there is any indication that the attitude to tattoos is fast changing, it is

tattoos, and I mean large, visible ones, have them done for a personal

the emergence of art gallery exhibits showcasing artists and their work.

reasons – that they’re not considered socially acceptable or socially

Thomas Hooper, a Sussex-born tattoo artist now working in New York,

attractive usually doesn’t play a part in the decision. Personally, I think

is one of many artists whose techniques were learnt at respected art

the most saddening perception that surfaces is that a tattoo, on a man

schools and whose skill and attention to detail has made him the toast

or woman, makes them less professional or good at their job. It’s easy

of the tattoo, art and fashion scenes. The skin is his living canvas, and

at university to maintain your individual ‘look’, whether through pierc-

the line between fine art and breakthrough modern tattooing is being

ings, tattoos, hairstyles or clothing, but the thought of a potential em-

blurred. Of course, the work Hooper’s best known for is that currently

ployer forces many of us to conform to a look which hides the very fea-

on Lenny Kravitz and Sam Ronson. The rise of ink on celebrities has

tures we chose to emphasise our individuality. A tattoo doesn’t lessen

no doubt contributed towards its boom in popularity in the last couple

someone’s natural aptitude, talent or suitability for a job, but its mere

of decades, and the growing fascination with tattoos is demonstrated

presence may be enough to discourage an employer. Yet, for that very

in shows such as Miami Ink, and its spin-off L.A. Ink. Instead of a fringe

reason, I too chose to have my tattoos in easily coverable places.

subculture, being a tattoo artist is a respectable career choice, and, for the most part, being tattooed is a perfectly acceptable choice.

Tattoos are experiencing a rush of favour and with them becoming a permanent part of society, for the time being at least, it is time that tra-

Yet there is still an undercurrent of hostility towards tattoos on women.

ditional stereotypes are challenged. The cultural significance of tattoos

The attention that they attract and the comments that a woman with

has changed; we no longer wear with pride tattoos proclaiming our

a tattoo can provoke seem to clash with a society that’s supposedly

tribal loyalties, but they are no less a sign of identity. I admit, tattoos

tolerant of most lifestyle choices. Looking at comments on message

aren’t exclusive and maybe it is fashionable to have one, but that does

boards, the main problem is that tattoos seem to offend a narrow-

not reduce their significance to the individual or lessen the expression

minded view of what a woman should look like – people pronounce the

of their personality. Tattoos will never be a symbol of conformity; their

women less attractive, assume lower intelligence, and announce that

very nature - the combined vision of client and artist in an intricate and

they will have less chance of getting a job. Admittedly not a paradigm

ornate design - means that every tattoo is unique, much like its owner

Photos: fura (stock.xchng), LaDeon (stock.xchng)

33

Squat upon a pile of Dishclothes and Bibles I was born A noun A nun in monochrome Groping a Waltz With the afternoon By twilight I had eaten your tongue for tea Poached in red wine vinegar taste of summer, Salt and the sea You empowered me with speech A throat coat of alkaline Aligned my honeycomb mind to yours All aboard the one way train! a destination we’d yet to name Oh but how I abhorred the way you ate your vowels Adored the things you found foul A shadow root, an autumn child I had you hole punched, tucked in a file Lucy Du

Window Shopping Flo Walker

34 The Pembroke Bullfrog

Illustration: Verity Whiter 35

on track for success at a time when many record shops are disappearing, charlie mccan reveals that truck store isn’t going anywhere

I

t’s no secret that the music industry is in trouble. The advent of new

considering that, over the last three years, physical album sales have

technology, enabling digital retail and illegal file-sharing, has caused

dropped by 12% and single sales by 32%, with three-quarters of the

once mighty record labels, founded on a now-effete business model,

one billion songs downloaded so far this year having being done so

to spin round and round in the pessimistic self-awareness that they

illegally.

may not be around to do so much longer. The plummeting cost and decreasing technical knowledge needed to make music has not only rendered labels rather more dispensable and certainly less relevant to success, but it has also made it much easier to create music. Theoretically, one could tool around on GarageBand for an afternoon and produce a hit. But that’s just what artists are doing today; rising rapper Tyler, the Creator, of the LA-based OFWGKTA collective, produces his music with Apple’s Logic Studio (a step-up from GarageBand) and Fruity Loops software, and while none of his singles have made the Top 40 (yet), his self-produced debut album ‘Bastard’ was ranked 32nd on Pitchfork Media’s list of the Top 50 Albums of 2010.

But were you to walk past the Magdalen roundabout and up Cowley Road, you might think these doom-and-gloom statistics sit rather oddly with the bright and cheery facade of one of Oxford’s newest entrepreneurial endeavours, the singularly-named Truck Store. Opened in February by brothers Robin and Joe Bennett, in collaboration with Rapture Entertainment Ltd., the record store has a strong, if not particularly lengthy, heritage. The Brothers Bennett founded Truck Festival, an annual independent music festival held in July at Hill Farm near Abingdon, in 1998. With an average annual attendance of around 5,000, Truck Festival is nothing like its mammoth competitors Glastonbury and Reading Festivals, but that rather misses the point. You won’t

The demise of major labels - often enormously inefficient and always

find Kanye West or Dizzee Rascal on one of the festival stages; not for

profits-driven - and, in turn, the democratization of the music-making

Truck the likes of U2 and Coldplay. That’s because Truck is informed

business, are perhaps developments to be celebrated. But there are

by a rather more ‘indie’ ethos, with its focus on supporting stalwarts of

victims to be mourned in the new era of Music 2.0, as it is now being

the local scene like Stornoway, The Candyskins and Youthmovies, and

called; these are the record stores. Unable to withstand the deluge of

by its emphasis on a small and intimate setting - Hill Farm is very much

new artists and the ubiquity of illegal downloading, record shops are

a working farm and one of the Festival’s stages has been branded the

closing everywhere. Indeed, over the last five years, an independent

“Barn That Cannot Be Named”, perhaps because the overwhelming

record shop has closed in the UK every three days. High street music

smell of manure overpowers one’s capacity for mental activity.

chains have been hit even harder: all of the high street chains are gone apart from HMV, and in January the HMV Group announced its intention to close 60 UK stores over the next 12 months, a decision affecting 10% of the group’s UK high street presence. This comes as no surprise 36 The Pembroke Bullfrog

Truck may be stereotypically indie, but this approach evidently works; the festival gave birth to Truck Records in 1999 and, this year, Truck Store. Indeed, the minute you walk into the store, you can sense that

the pleas of Oxford’s indie/alt/emo/hipster - whatever you want to call

ple? Robin assures me that the Store’s finances are solid on a normal

it - cohort for a suitably alternative record store have been answered.

day and skyrocket during events like Record Store Day, a worldwide

Glossy new vinyl records line the walls and the CD stands are filled

celebration of independent record stores which Truck turned into a

with the not-quite-mainstream. Indeed, Robin Bennett, of the founding

two-day extravaganza, with exclusive Record Store Day releases from

family, unabashedly admits in an interview during Truck’s celebration

acts like Radiohead, Caribou and Tom Petty, and in-store perform-

of Record Store Day in mid-April, that “the store has an independent-

ances, with the Young Knives’ set arguably being the highlight of the

alternative style.” Gesturing to his right, he points to the stage on which

weekend. There do exist other, more consistent, factors accounting

folksy Message to Bears had just played their mesmerizingly melodic

for Truck’s promising start. Importantly, vinyl, once the fuddy-duddy

set: “We got this stage so that we can hold regular events like [Record

grandfather of the CD, has become fashionable: “Sales [of vinyl] have

Store Day].”

just been going up and up. Initially, it constituted 10% of our stock

Indeed, when I question Robin about the financial practicality of opening a record store in light of the slew of statistics which seem to proclaim the death knell of such institutions, he eagerly rebuts, “Truck Store is not a record store, but it is. It’s a hub for the music community, for the Truck community. There is a community of musicians here and, just look,” he says, gesturing at the hot and sweaty crowd filling the store, making it feel more like a surging night club than anything else, “there’s an audience. This is a place for them to congregate.” That is, if you’re not intimidated by the pervasively indie staff, clientele and overall look of the place. But Truck Store certainly has made an effort to con-

which was quite a lot. We were surprised to see really high demand increase that percentage.” And after all, Robin admits, “If you wanted an MP3, you would probably just download it for free, right? Records are a nice artifact.” What’s more, he points out, all the infrastructure needed to support the Store in its infancy already exists: there are the Store’s forebears, Truck Festival and Label, and, perhaps more importantly, an already vibrant local music scene - the scene that spawned Ride, Radiohead, Stornoway and the Foals. There is, as Robin already mentioned, a sizable audience that is very ready and willing to participate in the local scene and in the life of the fledgling Store.

nect with its customers: “We put the counter a foot lower to make the

This audience, Robin is quick to point out, is largely devoid of Oxford

staff more approachable, and we want to get tables in here so people

University students. “I would really like to see more students involved,”

can just sit down and read, hang out,” says Robin. “We don’t have an

says Robin, a generous statement considering he went to “the other

algorithm. Instead, you get my brother.”

place”. “Sometimes I feel like Oxford students never make it to this side

It all sounds like a lot of offbeat fun and games, but who’s to say Truck Store won’t just go the way of the junkyard, even if the Bennetts do try to fashion the Store into a meeting place for musically like-minded peo-

of the river. People should embrace this side, and Cowley.” He might just have a point. There’s something to be said for engaging with the city that is our home for the ‘best years of our lives’. And if it’s distance you’re worried about, well, c’mon. It’s not as if it’s a truck drive away.

Photos - Flickr: Laurence OP, brunobucci, g-monkey, Jacob Whittaker, anataman, red beddy black, RTPeat, hlima, funkandjazz; Stxchng: RAWKU5; Graphics: Charlie McCann

37

he Pembroke bullfrog We would like to thank all of the contributors who made this issue possible.

To get involved with the next issue, please email the editors.

Editorial

editor: Charlie McCann charlotte.mccann@pmb.ox.ac.uk editor: Paul Seddon paul.seddon@pmb.ox.ac.uk sub-editor: Helen Pye helen.pye@pmb.ox.ac.uk

design

designer: Charlie McCann charlotte.mccann@pmb.ox.ac.uk

Photo: Flo Walker

treasurer

treasurer: Charley Fuscone charlotte.fuscone@pmb.ox.ac.uk

alumni

If you would like to receive a hard copy of the magazine, there is a subscription pakage available where we will mail you three issues for a donation of ÂŁ20. If you are interested, please email Helen Pye at helen.pye@pmb.ox.ac.uk

advertising 400 undergraduates and 200 postgraduates receive a hard copy of the magazine.

Over 4,500 alumni are emailed an electronic version. If your company would like to advertise with us, please email Charley Fuscone at charlotte.fuscone@pmb.ox.ac.uk

disclaimer

The views presented in this publication are the opinions of the named writers and do not represent the views of the College or the JCR.

38 The Pembroke Bullfrog

Photo: Ollie Ford

39