The Pembroke Bullfrog, Trinity 2013

ALTARNUN COTTAGE Contact details for booking are: Mr. & Mrs. Dunley Rose Cottage Tanhay Lane Golant Near Fowey Cornwall PL23 1LD or telephone 01726 832807

CONTENTS PHOTO ESSAY: PARIS

I

ELSPETH HOSKINS

FEELING SLEEPY

5

SIMON POSNER

OXFORD VS. SANDHURST

6

ERIN WYSOCKI-JONES

COMING UP AND GOING DOWN: MY YEAR OF DEPRUSTICATION

8

CLAIRE RAMMELKAMP

HUMAN WRITES

I0

ANONYMOUS

PHOTO ESSAY: LONDON

12

MIMI KIM

'WHO YOU CALLING A BITCH?' HIP-HOP, FEMINISM AND ME; A

13

ELLA ST. GEORGE-CAREY

COMPLEX LOVE AFFAIR

AN INTERVIEW WITH PAULA BYRNE

MADELEINE STOTTOR

TRINITY TALKING: Do STUDENTS HAVE A DUTY TO BE POLITICALLY 16

SUJITH RAPHAEL

ENGAGED?

ERIN WYSOCKI-JONES JACK RAMSDEN ARTHUR KNAGGS

To WRITE

18

HAIR CARE PRODUCTS FOR THE MODERN SAMSON

18

(NO TITLE)

19

ANONYMOUS

A TERRIBLE CLANG

19

SIDI BAI

DREAM

20

DYEDRA JUST

SLEEPING

20

ELSPETH HOSKINS

CREATIVE: THEY ARE EXCRUCIATING

23

STEVEN KYLE COOK

CREATIVE: A FRENCH PERSPECTIVE

24

ARTHUR KNAGGS

LA TRAVIATA

27

HARRIET BAKER

DOCTOR WHO-THE BELLS OF ST. JOHN

28

Aux FISHER

THE INFERNAL DESIRE MACHINES OF DOCTOR HOFFMAN

29

JOE NICHOLSON

ADAME LOWE

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FEELING SLEEPY

A

s a young child I hated bedtime. I didn't see the point of lying in the dark, wasting all that time, when the world was full of excitement, such as Haribo, Noddy and flashing trainers. But as the term charges to a hectic end I struggle to sympathise with my younger self. The unbroken nine hour sleep that once seemed a waste of my childhood night-times is something I can only dream about, and I don't have time for dreaming.

Essentially, we all want to find a balance between sleeping as little as possible and keeping ourselves relatively sane and awake through the day. I have tried to research this paradox, armed with a humble A level in Psychology (grade B, if you must ask), and a keen interest in using my time as efficiently as possible.

The basics go like this: we all have an internal body clock (or endogenous pacemaker to those 'in the know') called the suprachiasmatic nucleus (SCN) which consists in neurons with a natural rhythm of about 25 hours, according to experimental research. Being a clever Oxonian, you're quick to notice that this is a little longer than our 24 hour daily cycle. Consequently, our brain relies on external influences to calibrate it. These so-called exogenous Zeitgebers are factors that recur at fixed times of day, such as your neighbour getting up for rowing, Christ Church bells, the 6am Marks and Spencer's delivery lorry and so on. The most important of these is, of course, light. When little or no light gets through your eyes to the pineal gland, it is stimulated to produce the hormone melatonin, which (to cut a long story short) sends you to sleep. Needless to say, messing around with light levels by rapidly traversing timezones frustrates this system. The same is true to a lesser extent if you change the other Zeitgebers: by suddenly changing the time of your alarm clock or, as an arts student, deciding to find out what a 9am lecture is like.

Many will have noticed, however, that it is relatively easy to stay up an extra hour to finishing an essay, compared to getting up a few hours earlier than usual, which feels decidedly hellish. For the same reason jet lag is worse travelling eastwards. This brings us back to the 25 hour body clock, which welcomes a slight extension in the length of the day, whether it is spent in the library or in Camera, because it naturally operates on a longer daily cycle than the standard 24 hours.

Nevertheless, when it comes to the weekly essay crisis what we all want to know is how to stay productive for longer. The old favourite, caffeine, has substantial experimental evidence for its effectiveness. However, if you're in the habit of drinking a cappuccino, two lattes, an americano and several cups of espresso everyday anyway, then a midnight trip to G&D's is going to do little to help you get through to the morning.

It would be better therefore to turn our attention to the

role of light. Maximising natural light may be difficult in the depths of the Macmillan building and for most of an essay crisis it is going to be dark outside anyway, so it serves to make the most of the artificial stuff.

Diming the laptop screen brightness may make things easier for your eyes, but it also stimulates that melatonin that will send you to sleep: turn it up and bring in supplementary desk lamps. In the event of more serious eye pain, it may be worth considering the bizarre discovery of scientists at Cornell University, who found that shining light at the back of the knees kept participants awake for longer.

Regarding the role of McCoy's, research has established that high fat foods are particularly associated with sleepiness, suggesting that the mixed kebab is probably more of a post-bop remedy than essay-crisis fuel. Yet the brain needs something, so some sort of sugary beverage would be in order: no surprise then that energy drinks will keep your brain lively well into the night.

Although Lucozade originates in my native Newcastle and so I feel a particular affinity for the orange stuff, Dr Carl Heneghan of Kellogg College led research last year that showed Lucozade to be rather less beneficial than its marketing team claim.

Therefore in the quest for more efficient sleeping habits, we might take the approach of afternoon napping. While many of us are accustomed to this practice during afternoon classes, few students intentionally kip through the afternoon, even though this surely suits a lifestyle of early rowers' mornings and late nights.

Substantial research at Harvard University has shown siestas, even among young adults, to be associated with lower coronary mortality, regardless of diet and physical activity. Although few young people give much thought to such long-term benefits, it seems that the afternoon nap could be less of time-costly indulgence than you think. Researchers at Flinder's University, Australia, conducted a study of young adults to see what length of nap is most effective following restricted sleep at night and found 10 minute naps to improve subsequent concentration more effectively than 15 or 20 minute naps, because kipping for too long induces greater drowsiness upon waking up.

The real problem though, is this: the more we search for ways of compromising on sleep, the more we are reminded just how fundamental it is to our daily functioning. Losing significant hours of it is surely a false economy, given that we can't learn much in a lecture when dazing wearily into the middle distance, hoping to be sitting far enough back that the lecturer cannot notice that our eyelids are in fact firmly shut. Hence we can all take something from the words of Ernest • Hemingway - "I love sleep. My life has the tendency to fall apart when I'm awake, you know?" SIMON POSNER

OXFORD VS. SANDHURST xford is the oldest university in the Englishentrance and the stately grounds which includes every speaking world and provides its students with a sports facility imaginable: stables, a fishing lake and a rich and intensive education taught by world leading helipad Sandhurst comes out on top. experts through the unique tutorial system. The Royal Military Academy Sandhurst was founded over 200 The Student Lifestyle vs. the Officer Cadet Routine years ago and is the centre for Officer Training in the As a humanities student, life is relatively easy (I can British Army. I began my History and English degree at hear the scientists grumbling to themselves already). I Pembroke in October 2011, only a few months before get a decent amount of sleep and attend a few lectures my long-term boyfriend Sam started at Sandhurst. and tutorials a week. At Sandhurst however, things are It would be fair to say that there has been a healthy rather different. After all, Cadets are paid twenty four amount of rivalry between us over which institution is hours a day, seven days a week for a reason. Norgreater: Pembroke or Sandhurst. Perhaps much of this mally a Cadet is up at 06:00 and in lessons by 07:00. comes down to the fact that I couldn't think of anyAn average day involves five to six hours of lessons thing worse than enduring the Officer training regime, (from war studies to theories of leadership), three to and Sam would hate to be in my shoes; writing two four hours of exercise a day as well as drill, shooting essays a week. So the question I would like to approach on the ranges and navigation exercises. Lessons finish is which comes out on top, Oxford or Sandhurst? at about 21:00 and if they are lucky they are in bed at 23:00 after ironing their kit, polishing their boots/belt Pembroke vs. Old College buckles/cap badges, and writing orders for the next day.

I maintain that Pembroke is one of the most beautiful I often consider my day to have been busy when I have colleges in Oxford with its lush green quads, peppered located the books from this week's reading list on Solo. with beautiful seasonal flowers. Admittedly Sandhurst is Oh, and not to mention the fact that Cadets routinely also exceptionally striking, with perfect parade squares disappear on 'exercise' for few weeks in Scotland or nestled in front of imposing regal buildings. Both have the Brecon Beacons to live in a hole in the ground and their flaws of course. Behind the beautiful white front get "attacked" by Ghurkhas in the middle of the night. of Old College lies a smattering of unimpressive build- Student life wins. ings that suspiciously resemble Pembroke's eyesore: the Macmillan Building. The Sandhurst accommodation Subfusc vs. Blues also bears striking resemblance to the Mac 'band A' At Sandhurst an Officer Cadet has a bottomless wardrooms, the only difference being the strict rules surrobe with specific instructions detailing what must be rounding room cleanliness. Every morning, Officer worn for certain activities. The finest outfit of them all Cadets have a room inspection which goes into minute is the Blues uniform (see photo). Royal blue in colour, detail. For example, all clothes in draws must be folded with perfectly polished boots and buckles and smart to the size of an A4 piece of paper, socks must be white gloves, makes for an unforgettable sight, parrolled into balls in a specified way and bed covers must ticularly when all three hundred Officer Cadets are on be crease-free, which means they must be ironed every parade. Oxford's equivalent the subfusc pales in commorning! Aesthetically speaking, both the buildings of parison. When it comes to Uniform, Sandhurst blows Sandhurst and Pembroke look like they have been lifted Oxford out of the water. from a postcard. However, for its majestic columned

O

6

Freshers' week vs. Weeks One to Five When you start Oxford as a Fresher you are likely to be sick in your first week due to an excess of alcohol and McCoy's. At Sandhurst, Officer Cadets are often found throwing up during their first week due to the litre of water that they must race to finish at 05.30 every morning. At Pembroke, the Freshers are normally found sobbing in the corridors, telling their new best friends that they love them. At Sandhurst, Cadets are found crying down the phone to their loved ones telling them that they want to come home. Of course, things do improve at Sandhurst, but even so, while the Freshers are learning of the delights of Camera, the Cadets are polishing boots and going on 10 mile runs. I know where I would rather be.

tions, but ultimately, at both Sandhurst and Oxford the friendships forged are just as strong, the opportunities are once in a lifetime and, most importantly, the sense of personal achievement is the same; regardless of whether you are handing in essay or completing the assault course.

ERIN WYSOCKI-JONES

Of course, it has not gone unnoticed that Sandhurst and Oxford actually have a lot in common. Most people who attend Sandhurst or Oxford believe they were awarded their place by accident and that it is simply a matter of time before they are discovered (myself and Sam included).

Yet it is difficult to say which institution is greater as the very essence of Oxford differs so substantially from that of Sandhurst; Sandhurst is a means to an end whereas Oxford is an end in itself. There may be banter between Sam and me over which ball will be better or whether Hall or 'Scoff' produces the weirdest food combina-

7

COMING UP AND GOING DOWN: MY YEAR OF DEPRUSTICATION Ten difficult months later, I am sitting in a finished (ish) was recently diagnosed with depression and general anxiety disorder, on the grounds of which I have New-Build corridor. I am wearing a fluffy dressing gown been rusticated, or, as I like to refer to it: deprusticated. (perceptive readers may start to see a pattern emerging) For a lot of you who know me, this knowledge won't overlaid with my bop costume from the night before: come as much of a surprise. Nor will it surprise you a representation of the Beatles' "Octopus' Garden." I when I write that an alarmingly (if understandably) large have fashioned an octopus head from an XL Man's Priproportion of Oxford is populated by, to use the techni- mark t-shirt. I have elected to affectionately name him cal and politically correct, term: 'crazies'. So here is the `Mr Boptapus', and he sits on my head sporting a Sharpstory of one of those crazies. ied smile which is ludicrously incongruous with my own glum expression. I have just been told that I must go Pardon a brief descent into whiny, left-wing proselythome. If I'm honest, the image doesn't do much for my ising. A certain pearl-clad Maggie Thatcher fan once protestations of sanity: described my writing as "some of the better written communist-claptrap I've read", which, to this day, I still How did I reach this stage, you ask? regard as the greatest compliment I have ever received.

But I divulge. Education is still fundamentally unequal.

The catalyst was, ironically, one of the most fantastic My school had race riots, stabbings, daily fights, ilevenings I'd had in a long time. A friend and I had literacy, and buildings which were literally falling apart shamefully inebriated ourselves with half-price Valenand needed to be held together with industrial staples. tine's rose and vimto gin — or Ginto, for the playfulThe government rebuilt it just as I began Year 10, and it minded among us — and proceeded to dazzle the Oxford became much better. Yet Oxbridge had still never been club scene. Later we were sitting in her room gnawing achieved (or in fact attempted) by any one from my at the last dregs of our Big-Macs, contemplating life in school. However, with no small effort, and a generous the way one does after the cathartic experience that is dollop of positive discrimination, I got in.

Thursday Junction. And somewhere among the hazy discussions of feminism, and mothers, and confidence, I My Mum, who went to a good university from a state told her I had been raped. school, had created an image of universities as frightening places where everyone is mean to you if you are She was the first person I had ever told, including mypoor. Fortunately, she was unaware that things have self, really. I had never conceptualised it as rape. It was moved on a bit since the early eighties. Universities, one of those stories people bring up in feminist meetit transpired, are brilliant. They are full of inspiring, ings to educate women with low self-esteem; the kind of friendly people. And you are allowed to drink there, story I had brought up time and time again in academic, because your Dad can't see what you're doing. theoretical, abstract conversations, where I had despaired at another's lack of understanding. And all this Halfway through Michaelmas, and I am so drunk I don't time I had never made the connection. I had never once realise that I am searching for the boots I am already considered that I might be one of those women who wearing. Somewhere in the background, Jon turns to hide it from others; hide it from themselves. So I lay on Brannan and says 'I don't think she was exaggerating my friend's bed with my smudged make-up and put my when she said she hadn't drunk much before.' It is aphead on her shoulder. And I didn't cry, straight away. I proximately nine p.m. just stared at the ceiling and let her stroke my hair.

I

Then suddenly my parents split up. I'd always felt that the only thing keeping them together was me. Their splitting up after my leaving home was too much of a coincidence. My Dad soon helpfully informed me that I had caused years of arguments with my selfishness, which is not, I gather from years of T.V. cliches, what you are supposed to say to your child when you tell them that you are getting divorced. I didn't respond well, yet I somehow managed to retain my wonderful friends, who surrounded me with a small mountain of chocolate as I sat slumped in the Mac corridor, wearing a cow onesie underneath a pink polka-dot bikini. Yes, really.

Brannan has photos. Which I posed for, doing shoulder stands. Everyone deals with crises in different ways.

8

The following night I lay curled up in my boyfriend's arms, crying into his chest. I had just unlocked the repressed memory. I'd always assumed repressed memories were just plot devices for Danny Boyle, and some of the more adventurous Neighbours screen-writers. But there was mine: raw and damaging. The next day I went to the doctors and told her about it. Being the same doctor who responded to my friend's eczema with the words teeeeaaargh!' and then Googled the symptoms, her response was unsurprisingly not very helpful. After a ten minute consultation, she insisted that I leave college.

"But I don't want to go home. I cut myself at home. I can't sleep at home. I have no stable relationships there and I spend every evening crying. I want to stay here, where I have lovely friends and a boyfriend and a counselling service."

"It's a difficult situation. I'm sorry" That was that.

I managed to stay at home for two days before the depression took over. My Mum had been too low to cook, or do any housework. Everything was caked in dirt, and a pile of Aldi frozen pizza boxes indicated a somewhat insufficient diet. My little brother hadn't managed a full week of school in almost six months. My dad came round every evening to shout, and I was too upset to help.

I escaped back to Oxford, dodging the porters when necessary. At one point I decided the best way to ensure they wouldn't notice me was to stand perfectly still and avert my gaze; ignoring the fact that my coat makes me look like a New-Romantic traffic cone. The lack of subtlety did not go unpunished; I was caught at Torpids and sent to the Academic Office (of Doom). A certain senior tutor asked me why I'd been at the boat house.

"Why can't I be at the boat house with my friends?"

"It's college property," he said.

"But I really needed to see my friends."

"They can visit you at home."

"But they don't have time to travel. And it's not a nice place; I wouldn't want to put them through it."

"I'm sorry, it's not an ideal situation. But you have to go home to get better."

"But it's making me worse. I'm cutting myself again."

"I'm sorry, it's not an ideal situation. But college rules stipulate that..."

I was crying rather a lot now, and he was looking at me like a hysterical Victorian woman. My friends had already written to him to plead with him, explaining that home was a bad place for me. I didn't want to tell him, but I felt I had no other choice, so I said: "I feel like I'm being punished for telling the truth. The counselling service didn't recommend I go home. The psychiatrists didn't recommend I go home. The only reason I'm being sent away is because I told a doctor I

had never met before that I had been raped." I waited for a response.

"I'm sorry," he said, "The college rules stipulate..."

I found myself in the disabled toilets of M&S, trying to slit my wrists with a compass. Fortunately, my steadfast lack of maths proficiency resulted in my purchasing the wrong kind of compass (apparently they vary) and, instead of the intimidating implement I was hoping for, I ended up with something vaguely similar in sharpness to a wax pencil crayon. After ten minutes, I achieved nothing more than an ugly cut and several bisecting arcs drawn on my forearm where I'd forgotten to take the pencil out of the compass; ironic, considering how my Year 9 maths teacher had criticised me at length for forgetting to leave in my construction lines. Had I noticed the irony of this, I might have laughed. As it was, I just lay on the floor, waiting for the courage to tell my anxious friends where I was. Three hours later, I texted my boyfriend, who came to scoop me off the floor.

I've gotten over the shock now, but the experience has made me question the way in which such things are handled. I think, perhaps, in the race to climb the ancient stony wall of the Norrington table we sometimes unwittingly root out the more fragile flowers growing in between the cracks. Perhaps it is because in our haste we assume they are weeds. But perhaps with a little nurturing they would show themselves to be stronger, as ivy will bind together ancient stone.

CLAIRE RAMMELKAMP

HUMAN WRITES began writing to M a year ago. The way in which it about was somewhat haphazard, but nevertheless a memory II; arry with me. It was an evening in late November. The s ilcet was displaying its usual attempts at Christmas joviality, one memorable example being a dove bearing a flashing Olive sprig. Unfortunately, it happened to have been placed upside down.

I had made the walk to the house of a girl I knew only through a mutual acquaintance. That mutual link happened to be my brother, David. Now, perhaps, I would be nervous about such a meeting, but at the time it simply happened. For months I had been told to just put one foot in front of the othelaby steps.

Laura was one of those girls peop would call 'weird', exactly the kind of girl I expected my brother to have been friends with, the kind of girl he would have furiously defended as 'quirky'. As I walked into her house, I couldn't help notice that the carpet was strewn with jelly beans. From what I deduced, Laura had embarked on a challenge of sorting the jelly beans into categories.

"The difficulty is", she said "to them correctly. See, Coconut, Sunkyou can easily confuse Cream So issed Marshmallow for TuttiFrutti".

"Then how exactly can y.

the dif-

"Oh, you'll only really know once you've eaten 1 I remember laughing and feeling completely at ease; ease in the bittersweet knowledge that David would have smiled at this strange meeting.

There was a reason for my visit though, beyond that of sorting jelly beans. I had come to this unfamiliar house to collect some of Laura's artwork that David had helped with the previous summer.

"Here they are." Laura said, pointing to a collection of paper handprints and photographs. I recognised the reluctant adolescent faces instantly. It was David's group: a group now lost. I reached for the print that had 'Dave' scrawled on it in that untidy handwriting that had characterised many a birthday card; handwriting which caused my chest to tighten, my heart to sink.

I suppose I could find some elaborate metaphor, but all I remember was that sudden sinking. The signature was identical to that which I had read two months before, on a note that David had left me before "the incident" : a convenient term that people insisted on using to mask that grim 'S' word.

"You can have it, and the photos." Laura added.

My eyes scanned to an adjacent handprint. "Who is Geoff?"

"Oh, he's my pen friend on Death Row. I sent him my handprint and he sent one back: the hand of a mur10

derer. Cool huh?!"

My face fell. Desperately I had been thinking this enigmatic figure may have been another link to David.

"I needed to do something charitable, mostly for my CV, so I signed up to this charity called Human Writes.

You are assigned a Death Row inmate and, well, write to them."

I took David's hand print and left. It was three years before I gave Human Writes another thought.

One week after visiting Laura, David passed away.

Characteristic of my brother's strength he had defied all the odds in his 'S' attemit. But it wasn't pretty, and my memories of the time are faded: pho have been left in the sun too long. I am thankful, I suppose, for the haze-lifter that the mind employs in such circumstances.

For mvo months we had li Id in hospital accommodation, so that, we had costa t access to the Intensive Care Unit. My mum didn't em to leave. I sometimes wonder why I sperft compar y little time with him, given that I thou about him constantly. I guess it was "too much". Ins • d, I spent my time with the other families in the munal kitchen, struggling to gulp down tepid cu f tea. There were never any emotional embraces w one of us was informed of a medical improvement, or that our loved one had managed a smile, but just a simple look of understanding; intelligible only to us. That was the beauty of it I suppose. His arked a strange point in all of our lives.

Laura carried on in her quirky way, my mum found solace in her faith, and for a long time, I can only remember being jealous of that. I gradually started going back to Sixth Form, but I felt distant from the community that was once so integral to my identity. I put one foot in front of the other for what seemed like a very long time.

There was no turning point that brought it about, but I eventually found myself becoming increasingly involved with all aspects Mental Health: a coping mechanism, I suppose. Having grown up with David, who had Bipolar Type 1 and Schizophrenia exacerbated by drug use, I seemed, by means of difficult experience, to have developed some sort of understanding of that mindset.

Accordingly, perhaps, my friendship group changed.

I started spending time with those who suffered from their own problems. It wasn't conscious, I think I just felt that anyone who suffered with a mental illness was, in some way, a link to the person I had lost. Comments from people I deemed 'normal' upset me. "Time heals" they would say, coupled with one of those awkward comforting smiles. I hated that.

Funnily enough, they were right: time does heal. Not as a physical injury can: capable of leaving no scar at all, but the weight lessens.

Three years on and I was back at home for my first Christmas 'Vac'. Perhaps it was the trigger of being home, of seeing Number 24's skewed Christmas dove resurrected once again, but I suddenly recalled that day at Laura's. Something had hit me. Soon after, I found myself scanning the website of Human Writes — the charity through which Laura had met Geoff — and before I knew it, I ad signed up. , I couldn't determine why I felt so strongly s charity in particular. I had been working Menealth charities since David's death, but something about this felt very raw, very real. I began to wonder if writing to someone who was, as Laura said — a murderer — was taking my interest in the mindsets of others a little too far. My mum seed to think so.

I remember reading the words of former Archbishop Dr. Rowan Williams, someone whom I have always a Death Row admired, that a person who inmate is "a small but hugely significant witnes Ring someone that they are not facing death alon . The words struck me as beautiful, but not ones to which I found myself explicitl drawn. Strangely, the macabre Ig to die sort of passed me fact that this erson d up with interest about the by. Li crime itself.

Strangely, I had never really given the notion of Capital Punishment much thought. While others debated it in class, I sat and listened. While I strongly believe in the importance of bringing a perpetrator to recognise the extent of the crime and the trauma felt by the families of its victim, death never seemed to me the correct mode of recognition. The words of St Ambrose r nate with me still: `God drove Cain out of his presence and sent him into exile far away, so that he passed from a life of human kindness to one more akin to the rude existence of a wild beast. God, who preferred the correction rather than the death of a sinner, did not desire that a homicide be punished by the exaction of another act of homicide.'

"Do you think you write to M because you feel that he could have done something? David, while having an episode, I mean. It wouldn't have been the David that we knew, but people wouldn't know that. They would simply see a monster. I always pray for those who commit such crimes too. I suppose it is because deep down I feel, perhaps, that anyone that troubled could do something."

While it seemed to have come from nowhere, what my mum said struck a chord within. While I feel unable to accept her words directly, for not wanting to see that someone I loved so dearly could, at his lowest moment, be capable of anything like this, or was like M in any way, there was a part of me, somewhere, that silently nodded.

And it is true-,. I have never once thought of M as a monster in spite of the horrific crime that he committed. I see him as somebody who is extremely troubled.

He was imprisoned when he was 19 for a crime which circulated the news of the time. Now, aged 29, he often expresses the horror of ten years of guilt. At times however, he is just upset by the conditions in which he now lives, victimising himself almost: a naTural cry for help, I suppose, in a situation that we cannot conceptualise.

While Ldo not respond or sympathise with his situation or complaints directly, I always ask him questions and, for the most part, our conversations are entirely "normal". He corrected my misunderstanding of shooting stars, taught me how to DIY tattoo — "prison style" -and recommends a new band for me in every-letter. M is always amazed to learn about World news and trends; the "hashtag" phen merlon was of particular interest to

I suppose my reason for writing this is a defence, of sorts, of those e so readil n. My oVertmexpeentally rience growin up with some unwell has taught me that WM e we cannot stand or excuse people of their actions, actions of w they may or may not be fully aware, holding out the hand of support should not be beyond us. M wrote that he has not seen the seasons change for ten years now. I didn't realise just how much my description of walking up Cornmarket Street in the snow meant to him.

ANONYMOUS

Perhaps it is this fusion of views — the need for recognition without tempering the thread of humanity — that brought me toiluman Writes in the first place, and that fostered the 'balanced, approach I take when writing to M. But perhapsrtIttre is something else, something born of my own 'life experience.'

esaid I vV s recently having dinner with my mum when she iove something which made me stop:

11

WHO YOU CALLIN' A BITCH?' Hip-Hop, FEMINISM AND ME; A COMPLEX LOVE AFFAIR Cornmarket and hearing the lyrics "You're the type of C Out Molly all in her champagne/ She ain't even guy that has no idea/That a sneaky, freaky brother's know it/ I took her home and I enjoyed that/ She ain't even know it." The recent controversy surrounding sneakin' in from the rear," you don't necessarily need to Rick Ross's shocking and apparently blatant glorification be a brother for the song to make you feel like a boss.

However, there are obviously instances where a line of date rape (Molly is slang for the powder form of MDMA,) has thrown the spotlight on the tension-filled is crossed, "U.O.E.N.O," being one example, Eminem's "Kim" another (telling the mother of your relationship that Hip Hop and rap music share with child to "BLEED! BITCH BLEED! BLEED! BITCH women; alternatively laudatory ("you're unbreakable, BLEED!" whilst choking sounds are heard. Just too unmistakable/Highly capable, lady that's makin loot/A livin legend too, just look at what heaven do/Send us an far bro.) So, for the wannabe ball-ers reading this and wondering where the line is, Queen Latifah (Whose angel") but more frequently derogatory (numerous examples, my personal favourite being; "you know a bitch song "U.N.I.T.Y," gave this article its name) puts it best: "every time I hear a brother call a girl a bitch or a ho/ like that makes me sick/But I've heard that she sucks a Trying to make a sister feel low/ You know all of that good dick.") Ross (real name William Leonard Robgots to go/" However, she goes on to add "Now everyerts II) denies that the controversial lyrics in his song body knows there's exceptions to this rule/ Now don't "U.O.E.N.O," are about rape, insisting that he intended be getting mad, when we playing, it's cool." So when we to condemn the aforementioned actions.

Given that many successful rappers were raised in single playing, it's cool, alright fellas?

Sensitivity in the industry is growing too, as the current parent households, (DMX, Jay-Z, Eminem and Tupac rap royalty ages and settles down. Take, for example, have all made records concerned with the emotional Jay-Z's alleged vow to never use the word "bitch" in his impact of their fathers' abandonment,) the generally dismissive attitude to women found in mainstream (and music again after the birth of his daughter, Blue Ivy. In 1999 Jay-Z was "[thuggin', fuckin', lovin' and leavin',]" hardcore) rap music appears superficially difficult to women because he didn't "fuckin' need 'em," but fast reconcile. This reconciliation is particularly difficult for forward to 2003 and it's a case of "ladies is pimps too," me, as I am a feminist. I love women. I think they are (N'awww thanks Jay.) awesome and brave and funny and I really love beFor those of you who remain unconvinced about femiing one. I also love a bangin' rap tune. The American comedian and actor Chris Rock addressed his particular nism and hip hop being (consensual) bed fellows, I'll remind you that regardless of the music made, we, the siscontradiction in his 2004 stand up "Never Scared," terhood, will always have the last laugh, as Nas pointed saying "If you mention to a woman that [a] song is out in "Daughters", even "the coolest playas and foulest disgusting and misogynistic, they all give you the same heart breakers in the world, God get's [them] back, he answer: "He ain't talking 'bout me!" " And that, whilst makes us have precious little girls," forget the media, not perfect, is the compromise I've made with myself.

Sometimes great music makes individuals cross perhis sponsor Reebok and his record label, I reckon Rick sonal, political and societal boundaries that they would Ross is now most afraid of what his daughters (he has not under normal circumstances. When walking down two) are thinking.

Rostron Introducing The Blog for Short Books.

http:/ / www.theblogforshortbooks.blogoot.co.uk/

It's important fun and we'd like to make it bigger. Read the blog, get the idea, read a book, and send a review to: Sfmrostron@gmail.com.

No prize but there's to be a regular contributors' lunch.

Communications Clerkenwell, Financial PR London 13 www.rostronpany.corn

AN INTERVIEW WITH PAULA BYRNE ane Austen: the BBC-beloved nineteenth-century authoress who, according to family mythology, J shied away from publicity and professionalism, and little hoped that she might ever make a financial success of her writing. In popular imagination, Austen was a writer confined to a life of sheltered spinsterhood, a writer whose romantic novels translate perfectly into chocolate-box television and film adaptations. 2013 marks two-hundred years since Pride & Prejudice was first published, and this image is as strong as ever. But this is exactly the misconception which biographer Paula Byrne's new book, Jane Austen: A Life in Small Things, works against, taking an experimental thematic approach to write a 'partial life biography' and get to the 'inner world', 'the spirit of a person'. The Bullfrog interviewed Byrne last term, and talked to her about her career as a biographer, Clueless, and foot-stepping.

After working as a teacher after university, Byrne then went back to study as a mature student and did an MA and a PhD. For the latter, she wrote a book about Jane Austen and the theatre, and her writing career took off from there. Her first biography, of Mary Robinson, was a Richard and Judy Book Club success story, and her next book, Mad World, focused on Evelyn Waugh, particularly his relationship with Oxford and the Lygon family, who inspired the Flytes of Brideshead Revisited.

Hugh Lygon (who inspired Sebastian Flyte) attended Pembroke College.

Advised by her PhD supervisor to 'write about somebody whose company you can endure for many years and still love', Byrne has now returned to Austen with A Life in Small Things, rejecting the traditional cradle-tograve biographical method to create a 'partial biography', much as she did with Mad World.

In Austen, 'very small details reveal a lot about character. She's a very precise and detailed writer', which means that 'objects can be the bearers of big emotions', as well as being able to 'evoke distant places'. This aspect of Austen's own writing prompted Byrne's use of 'real life objects' (like a topaz cross and Kashmiri shawl) to get closer to the 'real' Austen. For Byrne, the biggest misconception about Austen is the 'myth' that she wrote all her novels closeted in her family's cottage in Chawton. Byrne's Austen is a 'Jane in the City', 'buzzing around in London' and travelling a huge amount, to Bath, Lyme, Southampton, and elsewhere.

Byrne herself, a big believer in foot-stepping (retracing the journeys of your subject), visited many of these places while writing about Austen, recreating a famous portrait of Austen on a rock overlooking Charmouth with herself in Austen's place and her dad taking the photo.

What television and film adaptations of Austen

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often lose is her use of irony, her wit and sometimes dark comments. Byrne's favourite Austen novel is Mansfield Park because it is 'ragged round the edges', 'dark in places', with a 'shadow story of the slave trade' and an anti-heroine in Fanny Price. The recent ITV adaptation starring Billie Piper captures few of the nuances of this problematic text. Ang Lee's Sense & Sensibility, starring Emma Thompson, is, for Byrne, unsatisfactory because 'it doesn't at all try to capture the fact that Jane Austen is an anti-romantic', 'it doesn't ironise it enough', but Byrne still argues that 'it's wrong to be snobby' about Austen adaptations, which can 'bring people to the novels'. One of the best adaptations is Clueless because 'it utterly captures the spirit of Jane Austen': 'it doesn't try to recreate the world of Austen with the same sort of language and mores but it captures the essence and the social nuances of Emma beautifully', using `pacey, witty dialogue' and an 'ironic voiceover'.

Of all the objects she writes about, Byrne's favourite is Austen's writing desk, her 'laptop'. Bought for Austen by her father, it demonstrates the 'great support' he provided, and also a freedom which is often ignored in conventional interpretations of Austen as a 'cosy sequestered sort of figure'. Her laptop was, like ours today, portable, and contained all her manuscripts, pens, and ink, and 'meant she could take her work with her, and write on the hoof', unlike the traditional image which sees Austen hiding her manuscripts every time a door creaks. Byrne says, 'I think of her like Jack Kerouac, on the road, with her laptop'.

So what's next for Byrne? 'I'm going back to the 1930s and writing about a friend of Evelyn Waugh's, who was J. E K's sister, Kit Kenney. And that's a bit of a scoop because I haven't told anybody yet!' You heard it here first, Bullfrog readers.

MADELEINE STOTTOR IMAGE FROM WWW.PAULAITYRNE.COM.CRDOWNLOAD

Y F HI

Austen was 'one of the funniest writers to walk the planet', like Byrne's other favourite, Evelyn Waugh. A Life in Small Things tries to recapture that voice, the `funny, irreverent voice' of her letters and juvenilia, the Austen who once sneaked into her father's church and wrote her own name down in the marriage banns using invented suitors. This 'naughty' scribbler is not the Austen we normally imagine. Byrne encourages reading Austen's juvenilia, which is totally unlike any of her mature novels.

People get 'Dead Drunk', girls as poisoned out of jealousy, hungry babies bite off their mother's fingers, characters manipulate, lie, and steal. You can't imagine Elizabeth Bennet in those situations.

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While writing A Life in Small Things, Byrne was lucky enough to find a previously-undiscovered portrait of, apparently, Austen. This portrait presents 'a serious-minded, professional woman writer who desperately wanted to be published', 'in a London setting in the process of writing a line of prose'. Even if it isn't her, this is what Byrne 'always felt like she should have been painted like'. Austen's popularity has endured because, although there were lots of other good women writers in the eighteenth century, `she's just better than them all'. Her works 'encourage you to reread', and each rereading leads you to new things.

DO STUDENTS HAVE A DUTY TO BE POLITICALLY ENGAGED?

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he issue of students' participation in politics has been going on for ages now. People across the globe have been divided on the topic. One of the challenges that the world faces these days is the lack of good governance even in countries where a solid democratic system prevails. This is mostly attributed to the involvement of people in politics and the responsiveness of the people to political practices. In many countries we see that people think and talk about politics during an election period, but soon after move into a state of political hibernation. This enables the democratically elected governments to take a somewhat 'easy' approach, which in turn results in bad governance.

In my opinion, students above a certain age should engage in politics. This will help in creating a generation which is politically aware. The students can start their involvement a couple of years before the legal voting age in their respective countries. This is where a proper definition of 'political engagement' is critical. The students need not have an affiliation to any political parties during the early years. This is a period where students

I

believe everyone has a duty to be politically engaged. We cannot moan about the smugness of David Cameron or the wetness of Ed Miliband (albeit the truth) if we didn't get off our sofas and vote. On the other hand, I think it is incredibly important that people's votes are informed choices... you cannot help it when a politician doesn't follow through on a promise *cough*Clegecough* but you can make sure that you know about the policies each party is intending on pushing through if they get into power.

I think that currently, students are disenchanted with politics. Nick Clegg appeared to be the knight in shining

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should concentrate on academics rather than political activism. At the same time they can use this period to understand the political climate of the country, the ideologies of various parties involved and the track records of the political leaders. So by the time they reach the age of legal voting rights they will be well informed citizens and opinion-makers, rather than opinion takers.

Engagement in politics does not necessarily mean that the students should align themselves with any political organisation. Students can actively involve themselves in opinion-building and also in the creation of responses to the manifestos of political organisations. With the network effect of social media, these can be easily achieved these days. We have seen the power of such responsiveness during the Arab Spring. A politically active young generation is important in any country to maintain the correct definition of democracy— to be a mirror of what people need.

SUJITH RAPHAEL

armour for students in England and yet he subsequently disappointed us all. The big question faced by politicians is how to get students interested in politics again. The endless stream of shoddily photocopied fliers haphazardly thrown into our pidges clearly isn't working. I think that politicians are missing a trick by not attempting to get the students interested and on side. The student may appear to be small fry now but we are going to be voting in elections for another seventy to eighty years. Parties need to make investments now in order to reap the benefits later. As Whitney Houston once said, "Children are our future".

ERIN WYSOCKI-JONES

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here is a tendency to measure personal political engagement by your voting record. That most insidious of platitudes which underlies this assumption, 'you have no right to complain if you don't vote', conceals the very sad reality that many of us are actively disengaged by the UK's First Past the Post electoral system from the start line. Take for instance my allotted constituency at home: South West Hertfordshire. In the last three general elections the Conservative candidate has returned a majority with between mid-forty to mid-fifty percentages of all the votes cast. You can see why I describe my constituency as allotted, for I feel no political affiliation with my neighbouring communities, or even within my own village. It's clear from the voting record at least that my views aren't anywhere near those of other voters; by an unfortunate accident of birth and geography, my voice is stifled by the clamour of the Conservative crowd.

This isn't (just) a stroppy swan song from a naĂŻve student socialist, before I am forced to grow up and develop mature political views. I question whether this strong (by FPTP's standards) and consistent (Conservative since 1966) cohort vote in each election having duly considered their principles carefully and having come to a reasoned decision, or simply out of a complacent compliance with tradition. That's not my place to assess how much thought went into each vote and weight accordingly, though more's the pity. It's a remarkable electoral system that can perpetrate two anti-democratic crimes in adjacent constituencies: the candidate with the

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oliticians today deal in dead language, language that no longer has the ability to evoke an engaged and emotional response. Bad news comes wrapped in familiar and uninspiring aphorisms, while we, the longsuffering public are constantly reminded of the need to "tighten our belts" and "look to the future." In this sense we are herded towards a stupefied state of inconsequence, in which we are not encouraged to consider the direction of the increasingly leaky ship on which we sail, but are rather prompted to voice our approval for the superficially engineered appearance of its generic and disappointing crew.

The concept of "duty" is itself indicative of the selfserving nature of the decrepit institution that governs.

A word seeped in history, full of emotion, carrying with it the refracted images of empire and national greatness gives to modern politics a sheen that it no longer deserves. However, the word is not as ill-chosen as the persistent and flagrant abuse of the electorate's goodwill might suggest, as the word carries the further connotations of tax and financial obligation to which we are bound. But why should we engage?

slimmest of majorities triumphs ensuring that the rest of the voters are disenfranchised, while in the safe-seats dissenters, like me, may as well not vote. A no-vote and a protest vote are for all intents and purposes the same; they both achieve nothing. Evidently there is no room for dissent in this majoritarian electoral system. At least, not in my constituency. In what respect is this representative, or even democratic? My knowledge of Greek isn't exactly great, but I didn't realise that demos meant 'the people, but only those who can form a bloc from the total population to exclude the rest'. I thought we were supposed to be a people working together, not peoples competing against each other. Funny that.

The alternative? Well, the Alternative Vote would not have been the answer, even if it weren't rejected (though only 42.2% voted and the campaign was plagued with false information, misleading rhetoric, and huge disparities of funding). I won't peddle the case for Proportional Representation here. Perhaps there's an alternative to voting, though it's a sad state of affairs when we have to find a way to express ourselves outside of voting, rather than through it. At university there are a myriad of opportunities for becoming politically engaged: societies (and not just the partisan groups — journalistic and third-sector societies are equally if not more fruitful), attending debates, or simply reading the newspapers in the JCR. As students that solves the issue of engaging yourself in politics. But as people in this `democracy', that doesn't resolve the issue of politics JACK RAMSDEN refusing to engage in you.

The student body, more than any, is without financial and societal constraint and is therefore in a position to see through the dead words and broken truths of today's politicians. However, to engage with the system, to acknowledge the power that it wields with the skill and ingenuity of an elephant taking tea from a china set, is to fail. It legitimises the broken fragments of our democracy and, like pandering to the child on the naughty step, is another pace on the long and muddied trudge towards defeat.

It is therefore apathy - active, applied and performed en masse - that will bring about the change, which our democracy is incapable of performing. With no mandate to rule, the government will have no choice but to turn to the people that it so frequently ignores and takes for granted. It is this state of passive defiance that will bring about change that no level of engagement with the current political system can effect. That is why je m'en fous - and you should too.

ARTHUR KNAGGS

To WRITE The terror of an empty page Surrounds the pen that indents' Craftily weaving its way between the lines Of ambiguity and opportunity

It calls for substance and drama rather than Those obnoxious statements of little weight Perpetuated by maudlin voices Drowning in their own discomfort

Meaning is all there shall be But where has it been hiding this time

ADAM LOWE

The page may fill and the plot may thicken But the voices ring beyond that full stop.

HAIR CARE PRODUCTS FOR THE MODERN SAMSON

I

'm not a narcissist; I'm just lost in my own reflection.

Take a breath here.

My reticence is not arrogance but ignorance, there is shame I cannot bear nor hide.

Phrenology will soon have something to say and the Philistine will be content at least.

Who else is my temptress but time?

Perhaps forget to breathe.

BAHATI MILLER

ILLUSTRATION: DYEDRA JUST 18

(NO TITLE) I don't follow the sun: I live beneath the wet trees, clamped to the trunk, painted in moss to let the green osmose...

I roll in sludge, like the worm in my dreams, covered in seeds - indulge in greed to let that taste diffuse on my tongue...

I am the undergrowth, rich and earthly, hands squeezed, flesh on the ground to let the pulse resonate...

I rub my belly into the squelching mud, like elemental salt into the Earth's raw wounds.

ANONYMOUS

A TERRIBLE CLANG At one bus stop in the whole of the world, we met again, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw you perch down gingerly on the narrow seat.

Too scared to come any closer, too nervous to say hi.

There we were, once again side by side.

Because it was a misplaced moment, a malfunction of the universe, I continued pretending I was reading.

After a minute, I stood up, and carrying on failing to notice, left.

Your heart fell like a tree in the forest of this city.

Yes, only I did hear it I walked away from a sound like a piano crash down from heaven, behind me

ILLUSTRATION: ELSPETH HOSKINS

SIDI BAIL

DREAM A dream A world A life A wish For better Always for the better The more you have The more you can Lose In madness And dreams Everything is Possible But nothing Stays With You For you All that was And all that is Blurs Into an endless Spiral Of dreams And hopes For the better Always for the better Until you Wake And realize Nothing matters More than The good you do In this Moment DYEDRA JUST

SLEEPING I am going to miss you when I wake up.

I thought I hadn't been sleeping But I think it is that I have not been waking.

But as the sun drifts through and softly asks me back I know it is going to be just about okay.

ELSPETH HOSKINS

20

N

)5PRATIC

CREATIVE: THEY ARE EXCRUCIATING GWeird thing happening lately. I'm giving a lot of compliments to people and they just aren't acknowledged. I will say the nicest, most genuine shit and the person doesn't even respond," Eva said, not upset.

He heard this, and somehow Austin became aware that since what she was saying was not a compliment, no irony would be won or lost by his responding or not.

"I just want to know that it's registered," she continued.

"What's the point of complimenting someone if it's just floating around in the ether awkwardly, not being acknowledged? I complimented my philosophy TA for being a just generally wonderful person and caring about his work. He never replied to my email. Not only that ..."

She had explained all this to him before, probably realised this, he guessed, and was gauging his reaction a second time. "... but he has ceased to talk to me. Like, actually won't even talk to me. Won't call on me in section either."

"He's probably being coy. You should send another email to confirm he got the first one," Austin suggested, enjoying that mental picture.

"Like, 'Hey, don't know if you noticed, but I sent you a really nice email. You should go back and check! P.S. Wanna get drinks sometime?'," Eva asked.

"No, no." Austin again spoke not intending to be unhelpful, "Reiterate what you said in the first email with more impassioned language and at greater length."

"Okay. I'll keep sending these until he responds," and she agreed to send one email per day until he responded. Austin did not sense either irony or honesty in what she said.

"Also try to find him on Facebook and LinkedIn," he offered less helpfully.

Austin and Eva's conversations artfully conveyed a blurred grasp of reality. The meanings of the words passed between them were hardly invested in anything material because their conversations were held primar-

ily for entertainment's sake and lacked sustained or thematic concentration. They went on and on because no one was expecting them to tell stories with purposes or consequences.

Austin started on a new episode.

"The fire alarm went off this morning. They are excruciating. The one time the drill is for real is 6am on a Saturday. Everyone was supposed to assemble on the quad. I try to sleep through it. After 15 minutes I go outside. The security guy says something snide to me about being late. But I'll take my chances. I have heart murmurs just thinking about it. That sound compromises my longevity." Austin said.

"I'm sure it will get better," she extended.

"How are you?" Austin rebooted the conversation again, knowing she would draw up the next episode.

"Today my room was ringing with the shouts of small children. When did this campus become a playground?

I think I missed something," Eva said.

"Lodge a complaint to administration: 'I think, for the tuition I pay, I should not be made to listen to the laughter of children."' Again, Austin offered a hypothetical whose weight was not particularly ironic or earnest, just entertaining to him for the picture proposed.

"Or, I could solve two housing problems. Impale those cockroaches I found the other day. Stick them on a pike out of my window," Eva suggested, tacking on "to frighten the children" as though clarification were expected.

"There's your more effective method."

"Can't wait around for bureaucracy," Eva rationalised.

"Why would you, if you're the sort of person who owns a pike?"

"Exactly. Can't wait around for bureaucracy," she said again.

Austin began a new aphorism. "Did I ever tell you about the time I got a ticket for drinking outside MadiSTEVEN KYLE COOK son-Square Garden?"

CREATIVE: A FRENCH PERSPECTIVE 12/07/12 (Magnus) I find myself seated in a photograph from someone else's travel.

I nearly expect a caption of "we camped here" or "we walked there" but as Arthur has beautifully pointed out:• we WERE here and we DID walk there (Although the next "there" seems to be a bloody long way el) The only evidence of reality are the chirps of the Marmots and the fastidious organization of Will as he silently does his best to prepare some sort of food. Now striking a noble pose — his feet placed shoulder width apart — he surveys the domain and his face mirrors the biblical conceit:• "he saw it, and it was good." The others have dispersed themselves in the landscape, each of us perhaps seeking a moment to ourselves to cement the feeling of being here.

13/07/12 (Kris) Buoyed by our efficient conquering of 900 metres ascent, the mere 3-4 kilometres of valley floor to the 'la de Gaude' seemed the best course of action, so after a healthy sized second lunch and a bit of a laze in the afternoon sun we set off. Soon, however, we discovered this section of track to be neither as flat nor short as anticipated (and hoped!!).

Yet onwards we trudged, until the relentless boulders took their first victim. Thus fell Magnus. Despite a now weakened ankle and with full pack on, Maggie went on, inexorably drawn to the elusive blue glimpses of lake. After a brief foray into the long sought water, to a crowd of decidedly urban France school kids the matter of 'where to spend the night' came into play. The delta we were initially in was soon vetoed with us being driven off by the threat of flash floods and the potential annoyance caused by our would be camping neighbours. After a stint of scouting - which

74

went through some stunning orchid filled water-meadows and some decidedly Scandinavian terrain - a site among the trees was selected and a camp quickly erected. The path aside with the rushing water and slightly over-friendly flies it feels like we have indeed gone into the wild!

14/07/2012 (Alistair) Unfortunately, something less pleasant also characterized the morning's descent: a violent debate about `athleticism' and 'sportsmanship' that raged on for what seemed like hours.

Arthur, with the analytical deftness of an Oxford English student, consistently linked his final points back to the initial proposition.

Will, clearly referring back in his mind to those quite unique history essay plan he is famous for, insisted on using big, clever words such as "furthermore" (perhaps in the hope of confusing his inferior biologist rivals?!)

Magnus would not be swayed and continues to think that sheer VOLUME may have won him the argument.

Kris gasped frequently in despair, with much rolling of the eyes and many claims of "staying out of the debate" before hearing Will make a particularly outrageous statement and suddenly rejoining with rigour and renewed enthusiasm.

Alistair looked for salamanders.

Argument over, we very reluctantly made up and were friends once more. The light is almost gone and bed calls but tomorrow will bring a well earned lie in, a hearty breakfast, pizza, a funfair and most appealing of all- the possibility that Arthur may find a boulangerie and shut up about his pain-au-fuckingchocolat!!!

15/07/2012 (Arthur) And so it begins. After a lie in' (we eventually got up at 8...) a leisurely breakfast of porridge and a warm shower, my quest for a boulangerie began. In fact, it never really began as, by the time the baked goods pangs set in I was emerging from the town's first available boulangerie pastry in hand feeling pretty good about things in general.

We then swiftly moved on to mini-golf where Kris "I am terrible at this" Blake stormed into an unassailable lead as both myself and Ally gratefully took the offered 50 shots for the hole with the cannon. Not impressed.

Fed up with my lack of talent, I 'upped board' and left to fetch a banquet of dubious salami, bland mountain cheese, baguette and crisps. Moved on to Café Paris for an e-mail check and some tantalizing glimpses of the Tour de France. Kris and Magnus both severely tempted to smash and grab the goblets that their beer came in. I again caved in to the lure of Tatty treats', ordering a hot chocolate and chocolate crepe declaring myself in IT (a tour de France watching session) for the long run. I made myself comfortable in front of Bradley Wiggins' procession towards Paris and yellow tinged glory (!) before promptly leaving immediately as crepe and choc were finished!

Played bums with a sock-ball, a game whose arbitrary policy of—self-refereeing' was viciously exploited by Barnet for whom "dubious" became a comfort blanket in time of need [ EVERY LOST POINT ] Magnus was magnificent and caused no end of trouble as neither he nor we knew exactly which part of his body would hit the ball at any given moment nor where it would go. Ally marauded energetically and consistently targeted Kris before turning to his shot of choice: the hopeful lob.

Kris in turn threw himself about, although there is contention as to whether he ever really recovered from his laughing fit trying to hold Ally like an aeroplane on his feet... Suffice to say, Magnus eventually won and the game petered out before we discovered Will " I'm feeling a bit lethargic" McBarnet working out by the riverbed. In his own words... "Dubious!"

The on/y dubious thing a‘Soter` this ccvnpins 6--;,9 is 4,-Mar s beater. 4s much aS he inSiSZS on wearing ;e, itia3nus i 5 eswally adamant' that (a/on3 A_)%z`h the his/7/y Cash;cona6/e roaJins cap worn at at jaziney an3/e) is not to Ze Seen in the pu6/;c sphere. refrain 7<rom,jud3emene. qually efreicya6/e Mak;n3 Can <Dic penchant c01- al aZ; ou5 Sun /n?er 14.)eal- was the min; 3o/><' SeSSion in town today. 777e '/..s5Z` ceto 17o/e5 Sato a Steady same ctovn mySe/c Zecol-e if all Cell apart with a 4Zh ho/e shocker. fOr others it a)as a dif— took a ccp/ymnanclins /ead cerent Story which was not to 6e .5r1/79a5Sed and we all saluted his puking Superiority. Perfec— tion towed from 76"rs? to /aSe j indeed, neVelZeCot-e in the anna/s ni;n;aetere 3c:D/C can precedent be found for such do/n;na?;on.

4n impressive diSptay mei-ieedt joyoUS feast;n3, ,3,9/21-,,,Pri.cie,/y ham, cheese and stead evere Sel-Ved Zip by the vcinfaisheci and to the victor, the 5/9oi/S were to Ze enjoyed at lei sure .

(Arthur) Left campsite at Cauterets at 9:45 on a bus towards Lourdes where we will get a train to Gourdon and Ally's house. Had the now institutional bowl of porridge before, in a fit of arrogance and fuelled by an over-weaning pride in a metabolism that may no longer exist, I devised that the appropriate — nay logical — course of action would be the purchase and consumption of five sweet pastries. I immediately regretted my decision and, if the thought didn't make me want chun: I would be well over half way through a generous slice of humble pie.

ARTHUR KNACCS

LA TRAVIATA NO's 'dress down for opera' scheme, launched in October 2012 and now on its second run, hopes to encourage new audiences to attend the opera. One hundred tickets, the best seats in the house, are, sold for 05, which includes a pre-show chat about the production and cocktails in the Sky bar afterwards with members of the cast. I went to the opera last night (I took `dress down' to mean I could wear Dr Martens) and felt a new world curiously open up.

E

`La Traviata' was a captivating performance. The story follows Violetta, a courtesan suffering from tuberculosis, to whom Alfredo professes his love. After pushing him away, she realises that she can return his love, and they live in sequestered happiness. This is until, however, Alfredo's father arrives and declares that Violetta must leave his son, for her reputation is tainting their whole family. In a grief-stricken scene, Violetta rejects Alfredo and returns to Paris to resume her former life of hedonism. Alfredo retaliates first in anger, and, when Violetta's illness worsens, to ask her forgiveness and claim her before she dies. (We are told, glibly, that in opera, a woman always dies.) It is a timeless narrative, the tale of a woman whose past life catches up with her and yet, with the highest degree of nobility, gives the one transcendent gift of love.

The scene is set. We see Violetta surrounded by her friends and lovers with the glorious recognisable swirl of Verdi's music. Violetta is played by Corinne Winters, a petite soprano whose exquisite voice soars from her throat. She is wearing a burgundy satin gown, blending with the curtains onstage, seeming to suggest how at one she is in her environment. Alfredo, played by Ben Johnson, poses a contrast to the scene in a thick cardigan, whilst the other male characters wear black tie throughout.

Whilst some sartorial choices work brilliantly, as colour is often used for emotive effects with Violetta celebrating in red and dying in black, at other moments it doesn't work so well. As we see Alfredo's father, Giorgio Germont, played by Anthony Michaels-Moore, imploring the courtesan to abandon his son, Violetta wears a lumberjack shirt and brown boots. Against a deliberately minimal backdrop of black and red, she looks off-key and the result is a deflection from the potential power of the scene. Michaels-Moore is magnificent, capturing with compassion and intelligence a father who acts with his best intentions and yet must later account for his mistakes. The scenes involving the triad of lover, son and father are incredibly moving.

It takes a while to get used to watching a close-knit triad of central characters surrounded by a large chorus, and in one respect this production fails to marry the two. Whilst tableaux is often used to great effect, at times it falls short â&#x20AC;&#x201D; as Violetta is dying, father and son sing a duet and embrace off-stage at level with the first row of the audience, invisible from some parts of the theatre. Despite a minimal backdrop, the chorus often litters the stage with objects. Coherence lies in the detail, and often these haphazard effects were distracting. Aesthetically, this production feels ill considered, though could not detract from the strength of mesmerising individual performances. Winters tackles every scale and fluctuating melody with full force and is wonderfully convincing throughout. `La Traviata' closes with an unusual death scene; Violetta sings her last and, raising herself, walks out of the spotlight to the back of the darkened stage. The silence is palpable.

HARRIET BAKER

IIP

DOCTOR WHO-THE BELLS OF ST. JOHN

2

013 is a big year for Doctor Who. It perhaps did not occur to the original script writers that the programme would still be going after half a century, but the show has stood the test of time (pun unintended). One of the reasons for its longevity is its inherent nature of flux and reflux: both eponymous lead and typically sexy companion are changed every couple of years; somewhere different is visited or explored every episode (although our universe's aliens do have a particular penchant for Earth it must be said) and we are constantly introduced to new characters. In contrast to this, it is easy to overlook how Doctor Who draws on the modern day, the familiar and the seemingly unchanging. It is this blend of old and new which characterises the first episode of Series 7B â&#x20AC;&#x201D; The Bells of St. John.

Flitting between modern day London, Cumbria in 1207 AD and a plane set for a crash landing, The Bells of St. John is an action-packed urban adventure where the wifi is alive, harvesting the minds of all those who use it. Whilst I am a fan of the episode, the fact that it stands at forty-five minutes, leaves much to be desired.

In Tennant's era, if Russell T Davies wanted to write an episode that was one hour long (or, heaven forbid, one hour and ten minutes long) then it was commissioned â&#x20AC;&#x201D; no questions asked. Similarly, if Davies penned a three-parter (the end of Series 3 for example), that was no problem. However, due to the combined forces of BBC America and Stephen Moffat, Doctor Who episodes will now be restricted to forty-five minutes and all two-parters are henceforth banned.

As a result, this means the brilliance of some of the story ideas is undercut because there simply isn't enough time in which to pack everything. As an example, The Power of Three from Series 7A was gripping, forcing the Doctor (and the world, I hasten to add) into a seemingly impossible position just minutes from the end of the programme. However, (and watch out for spoilers here folks), one wave of the sonic screwdriver and all is back to normal. Something similar happened in The Bells of St. John. The twist was clever, but understated and too quickly (or easily) wrought for my liking. Rather than have Matt Smith eroticise a packet of Jammy Dodgers, more time should have been given to the climax between Miss. Kizlet (played by Celia Imrie) and the Doctor.

Celia Imrie is a stunning choice for the role of villainess.

There is a general theme of iniquitous women at the be-

ginning of series (I am reminded of Florence Finnigan in Smith and Jones or Miss. Foster in Partners in Crime) and Imrie did not disappoint. Whilst I was initially dubious, for all I've seen her in is Acorn Antiques, she pulls off evil excellently, coolly organising the murder of one of her colleagues: "Actually, he's about to go on holiday.

Kill him when he gets back â&#x20AC;&#x201D; let's not be unreasonable".

However, her radical shift in character at the end evokes both fright and sympathy simultaneously.

The other new girl in town is, of course, Jenna-Louise Coleman. In some respects, she is similar to her predecessor Karen Gillan (her reactions on the aforementioned plane are particularly reminiscent of the Doctor's former companion), but nonetheless, she is her own.

Coleman is both enthralled by the Doctor and able to run rings around him (at times) and I wait eagerly to see how the dynamic between her and the Doctor will evolve. Moreover, I think this is the first episode where I have truly warmed to Matt Smith as the Doctor. As a die-hard David Tennant fan, Matt Smith has always filled the void rather awkwardly, as his portrayal of the Doctor was always too childish; but Moffat's writing and direction is also to blame for this.

However, it would appear he has finally grown up (sporting a slightly more adult, Victorian fashion sense), but retaining the distinguishing marks of wildness that characterises his portrayal of the infamous Timelord. As a result, the show as a whole has grown up too. Whilst people often refer to it as a programme for children, there are a number of adults (myself included) who also watch it. Consequently, the writing has to appeal to both children as well as adults, and whilst Moffat has leaned to the former since he has taken over as head writer, The Bells of St. John was just the right level of complicated and silliness.

Moffat's inspiration for this may have come from Patrick Troughton's stint as the Second Doctor and indeed, the episode points numerous times in this direction: UNIT and the Great Intelligence first appeared with Troughton, and the redesigned Tardis (which, in my opinion, is a huge improvement from the last one) pays homage to this era. Like the Tardis, the show is able to span old and new, cater for young and old and move effortlessly between past and present. If the rest of the series maintains this level of brilliance, 2013 will be a year to remember in Who-dom.

Aux FISHER

THE INFERNAL DESIRE MACHINES OF DOCTOR HOFFMAN Most who have studied A level English literature will be familiar with Angela Carter, author of The Bloody Chamber, the collection of fairy tales that is seemingly taught across the land. Violent sexual politics are brought to the fore in these rewritings of childhood stories in a richly crafted, baroque prose. The fame of this collection, however, eclipses The Infernal Desire Machines of Doctor Hoffman, brought out in 1972, a novel which already presents Carter's preoccupations with how notions of gender and sexuality are performed by characters, the borderline between what characters imagine and desire and reality, and what meanings emerge from and can be brought to the fairy tales with which we are all familiar.

ous excess. So, too, is the rigorous reading of theories of literature that evidently influence Carter: Desiderio's narration frequently alludes to the metaphor of a narrative as sex, but the writer is aware of that such a suggestion is inevitably funny, playfully extending the notion to encompass delayed orgasm and unsatisfactory climax.

Carter demonstrates, time and time again, her irreverent attitude towards the authorities that exert influence upon her writing, making for a captivating and tireless read.

Carter's 1972 novel is fascinating in that it develops of her interest in oppressive categories of gender from her earlier novels in the late 60s within her surreal, boundless narrative. In an article entitled 'Notes from the Front Line' Carter described how, after her return Carter pulls off a remarkable feat in the cli7zying scope from a lengthy stay in Japan, she "began to question the of her book. We follow Desiderio, an elderly politician, nature of [her] reality as a woman", and The Infernal who recalls his youth in the days of Doctor Hoffman.

Desire Machines of Doctor Hoffman, like her other The latter is a scientist who wreaked havoc in the unnovels, arises from a concern with notions of sexuality named South American country in which the story is and gender that remain cemented in everyday reality, set with his desire machines: he reshaped of the world no matter how extravagant and fantastic the fiction in into the projections of anything that the city inhabitwhich they are packaged. The author demonstrates a ants desire. Desiderio narrates how he was deadpan and marked interest in how the concepts of masculine and detached from these illusions that his fellow citizens take feminine are roles which individuals can consciously or for reality, and is thus enlisted by the Minister of the city unconsciously play. In this novel of 1972 she attaches in order to combat Doctor Hoffman's campaign. Carter these questions to debates over visual objectification, harnesses this image of the expansive possibilities of the desire and pornography, notions with which readers of imagination as a method to her writing. Desiderio falls The Bloody Chamber will be familiar. Carter is permain love with the alluring but elusive Albertina, daughter nently willing to shock in her writing, and her repreof Doctor Hoffman, and his mission for the Minister sentations of sexual relations offer transgress the limits becomes a quest for her. A romp ensues through an that readers expect as they crash into violence. Fairytales exuberant selection of settings, from an English seaside fall under her scrutiny here as in the later collection, resort to the boat homes of a tribal River People, from with the plot of Sleeping Beauty refracted in ingenious an unsettling circus to a timeless land of violent Cenways through Desiderio's journey. Carter destabilises taurs. the fictions that she sees as instituted in her culture. Her novel embraces the freedom that comes with a sense The novel is astonishing in that it continually draws of gender and sexual roles as performative, one which upon the eclectic spheres of thought that interested informs the celebratory mood often to be found in her Carter, such as anthropology, literary theory, and last two novels, Nights at the Circus and Wise Children. feminist discourse, but it also testifies to her wide and The Infernal Desire Machines of Doctor Hoffman, like enthusiastic reading in English literature, with its vast The Bloody Chamber and much of Carter's writing, array of references to canonical texts. The cultural declares a love of language and the pyrotechnic configuresources that she draws upon are testing, but never tax rations into which it can be shaped, but also provides reader. She draws, for instance, on Claude Levi-Strauss, an intellectually rigorous and hugely entertaining read Jonathan Swift's Gulliver's Travels and the novels of in which many of the key concerns of her fiction are the Marquis de Sade at numerous points in her text, but already addressed.

JOE NICHOLSON these originals are parodied and often pushed to humorILLUSTRATION: ELSPETH HOSKINS

OUR CONTRIBUTORS: We would like to thank all our contributors for making this issue possible. If you would like to contribute to the next issue please contact bullfrog@pmb.ox.ac.uk

Where is your favourite place to eat in Oxford?

Pat Val (shameless sweet tooth) Who would be your ideal dinner companion?

Tarantino. It'd be a hoot.

Most anticipated event in 2013?

June the 16th: better known in the Joycean world as Bloomsday What is the last book you read? `An Enquiry into the Causes of the Late Increase of Robbers', shortly remedied by 'Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire' And a little quotation: `Don't stress never forget, That God isn't finished with me yet' — Tupac Elspeth Hoskins

30

Where is your favourite place to eat in Oxford?

QL Delicatessen Sandwich Bar on the High Street — for a quick and tasty lunch Al-Salam — for a nice Lebanese dinner Who would be your ideal dinner companion?

David Eagleman Most anticipated event in 2013?

My graduation What is the last book you read?

Antifragile - Nassim Nicholas Taleb And a little quotation: "Reading a book of aphorisms is like meeting old friends you never knew you had."

Dyedra Just

THE PEMBROKE BULLFROG

Treasurer:

Elspeth Hoskins Madeleine Hartley William Clement Jack Ramsden Alexander Trafford

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Prerna Aswani

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Front Cover by Prerna Aswani

Where is your favourite place to eat in Oxford?

SOJO Who would be your ideal dinner companion?

Reginald D Hunter Most anticipated event in 2013?

The Pembroke Ball, why not!

What is the last book you read?

Summertime - JM Coetzee And a little quotation "Just erotic. Nothing kinky. It's the difference between using a feather and using a chicken."

Terry Pratchett, Eric Arthur Knaggs

Disclaimer: The views presented in this publication are the opinions of the named writers and do not represent the views of the college, JCR or MICR.

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