The Pembroke Bullfrog, Michaelmas 2013

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PHOTO ESSAY: SWISS TRAVELS

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PRERNA ASWAN'

DOES TRUE LOVE EXIST?

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PRAVINA RUDRA

BEHOLD, THE AMAZING SOICAL CLIMBER

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CLAIRE RAMMELKAMP

THE SIENA PALIO: 90 SECONDS OR A LIFETIME?

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CLAIRE COX

THE EVOLUTION OF THE SELFIE-LOVE AFFAIR?

TO

ELSPETH HOSKINS

ROWING AT PEMBROKE

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PEMBROKE ROWERS

INSPIRING SMARTER MOBILITY: PEGGIE AT THE ECO-MARATHON A

CHRISTOPH BIRKL AND THE

2013

ENERGY AND POWER GROUP

MICHAELMAS TALKING

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PHOTOESSAY: GOD'S OWN COUNTRY - NORTH YORKSHIRE FROM 18

TAISIE KINSKY & KATIE WOOD GARETH EVANS

THE AIR' THE PROJECT: A TRAGEDY IN THREE PARTS

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RENS KRIJGSMAN

PHOTO ESSAY: NATURE

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MAGNUS ROWBOTHAM

WHY MEN NEED FEMINISM

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JOE NICHOLSON

LUGUBRIOUS RUMINATIONS

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BAHATI MILLER

SUNSET

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CLAIRE RAMMELKAMP

JOURNEY

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ANONYMOUS

A HAIKU

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CHARALAMPOS-PHILIP

AN OAK TREE

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JOE NICHOLSON

A GREEN BALLOON

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REBECCA MOORE

INEVITABILITY

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REBECCA MOORE

PHOTOESSAY: HOLOCAUST MEMORIAL SITE

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SIMON POSNER

DOES 'TRUE LOVE' EXIST? Finding out my parents had had an arranged marriage was a bit like finding out that Santa Claus wasn't real. The only difference was that I was eleven, instead of seven, and that my mother didn't understand why I was upset. Maybe it's because I'm a girl, but the messages you usually get in today's world, not just from rom-coms and chick lit, but even from friends and family, is that there is a Mr. (or Mrs.) Right - a `lobster', in Phoebe Buffay's words- for every person. Visions of my mother being swept off her feet by my father on the sandy beaches of Sri Lanka were replaced by somewhat less romantic images of a young girl being wedded to an older man she had never met . Luckily, the years since I was eleven have allowed me to realise that : a) Although their marriage was arranged, it was based on mutual consent and not forced (there is a difference, mind) and my mother was well over the age of consent when it occurred b) Arranged marriages actually seem to work pretty well The latter realisation came as a bit of a surprise, and if I am honest, has put paid to a few of my beliefs about true love.

Although my parents knew each other before marrying, they did not feel any "connection" prior to marriage — most brought up in their culture did not feel any need for this.

However, my parents appear to love each other and be as content together as any happily married couple, as far as I can see. Indeed, the same story is true of the dozens of other happy couples I have met who have had arranged marriages (55% of marriages are arranged globally according to UNICEF). If partners in arranged marriages do not cherry pick each other, but are matched together by others, then surely there are many people with whom one can be matched, and experience love for. Could it be that Mr. "Seems Alright" should knock "Mr. Right" off the top of all Richard Curtis' casting lists?

Of course, we should not be too lavish in our praise of arranged marriages; while they enjoy a lower divorce rate (approximately 4% globally compared to as much as 50% of so-called "love" marriages in countries such as the USA), this may be more indicative of the fact that where arranged marriages occur there are usually mitigating factors including a cultural taboo against divorce, lower expectations of the partner's attributes, and greater family support. Moreover, it seems unlikely that there is as much "romantic" love in an arranged marriage as in a love marriage, although "love" is too subjective and amorphous to measure. However, it is worthy of note that even in a love marriage, the partners tend to come from the same race, background, and religion. In this respect at least, true love is hardly the magical phenomenon that transcends social barriers we often pretend it is, and bears some resemblance to an arranged marriage.

The success of arranged marriages supposedly points to the importance of commitment, limiting expectations and unconditional love (i.e. not ditching your fella because he starts hogging the duvet), and the danger of infatuation. This is a helpful distinction to make. The Antonys and Cleopatras of the world will enlighten us on how true love can actually be defined in due course, but in the meantime, it is obvious that true love has to be distinguished from infatuation. It is infat-

uation which gets rid of many of our beliefs about true love; we are often up in the clouds after being with someone for a short amount of time, but they turn out to be Mr. or Miss.

Wrong — often Mr. Why Did I Even Go There? Indeed, it is often said that the honeymoon period of a relationship only lasts two years, and many romances and marriages come to an all too abrupt end after this length of time.

To get to the bottom of this matter, like any practiced Oxford student, I asked Google for its opinion: "Does true love exist?" In turn, Google pulled up 46,200,000 results in 0.28 seconds, many from blogs and Yahoo Questions (Interestingly, dilemmas which bear arguably more importance for humanity such as "How to solve poverty" only summon a mere 32 million responses). The first few responses are "No" from a few misanthropes who either cited "really good sex" as the basis of relationships, or bitter experiences with unfaithful lovers as proof that true love does not exist.

"Yes" often issued from thirteen year old girls who claimed they had "found da one" (and known him for all of two weeks, although I grant my cynicism may be unjustified; after all Juliet married Romeo at this very age after knowing him for less than twenty-four hours).

When one takes the effort to scroll past these utterances, however, there are some gems; countless examples of people who claim to have experienced true love, and, moreover, have marriages of several decades to stand testimony to this.

So, how do these lucky few explain true love? They believe they have found true love because they have met someone whom they care about more than themselves, and are still together years after being struck by Cupid's arrows. This definition of true love appeals to me for its tangibility. Sure, these lovers are not on a constant high of pheromones whenever they are around their life partner. Sure, they kind of accept that there might have been someone else who could have made them just as happy. But, for them, at least, that doesn't matter. And to me, it seems obvious that if you define true love as finding your one in seven billion, probability suggests true love would be near impossible.

Paradoxically, arranged marriages provide optimism about true love, demonstrating that there is probably more than one candidate who will provide us with an amazing marriage. We don't need to agonise over finding the one who ticks every box. Despite there often being an absence of romantic, palm-sweating kind of love (which often fades in love marriages in any case), there is certainly committed and selfless love in arranged marriages.

That said, long lasting love does not have to be without that warm fuzzy feeling. Scientists found that when people were shown pictures of their partners, the same chemical reactions occurred in the brains of 10% of those with twenty year old relationships as those who had only recently fallen in love.

Sure that's only 10%, but, as Blaise Pascal said "The heart has reasons, which the reason cannot understand." Against all reason, I myself can't help but hold on to that oh-so-soppy hope that there is someone with whom I can fall head over heels in love, so that after decades, like one online blogger, my heart still "picks up a beat when he walks through the door".

PRAVINA RUDRA

5

BEHOLD, THE AMAZING SOCIAL CLIMBER! So I am sitting on a jetty with a boy whom we shall name Tarquin, watching a not inconsiderably small yacht float by in the (wait for it!) village lagoon. He is sporting last night's bow-tie undone. This outfit has taken on a certain rakish characteristic that clashes awkwardly with his well-nourished baby-face. He resembles a kind of milk-fed James Bond.

I am brooding silently over my lack of accomplishments.

Tarquin-of-the-Jetty has two grade eights, one of which is, of course, in piano. At last night's party he tried to impress the guests with his musical skill and 'mucked up horribly'. In my ignorance I thought it was the most beautiful thing ever played by human hands. The gathering, full of his fellow grade-eight-holders, thought otherwise, and confirmed that it was in fact 'utter rubbish'. I lamented my lack of musical skill to someone nearby, (we shall call him The Dabbler) who tried to console me with tales of his own incompetence, 'I gave up after grade five.' He merely dabbles, he insisted.

I turn now to Tarquin-of-the-Jetty, remembering last night's scene, and the subsequent discovery that The Dabbler could also 'sail a little'. Which apparently meant regional championships as opposed to national. I ask Tarquin, can he sail?

"Yes".

Of course he can sail.

Now, as an Oxford student, I am somewhat used to this.

The average Oxford student, not content with the simple achievement of 'Oxford Student', has accrued such titles as 'champion fencer' and 'opera singer', always steadfastly maintaining that they merely dabble. I've grown accustomed to this, as one does with a too-hot bubble bath. Or the smell of cat. It also helps that 'dabbling' tends to be code for a genuine sense of modesty which stems from how grounded said talented being is. But I wasn't quite so prepared for the material wealth of everyone in the room. I seemed to have ascended to new and dizzying heights of upper-middle-classness. Again, as an Oxford student, I am used to middle class.

In fact, I like it, with its interesting cheeses and broad-sheet newspapers. I can handle Waitrose essential rhubarb and National Trust properties with finesse. Black-tie birthday balls at giant country houses are, however, a little trickier.

This was a party in a second home in Sussex. Now, my very middle-class boyfriend, who is also an Oxford student and also lives in Sussex, is a more manageable level of posh. He, like the party goers, has two grade-eights. But at least he only has one house.

Before this party, his house was the biggest I had ever seen, excepting the National Trust houses we attend on his family outings. His was also the biggest house I could have conceived of anyone owning in real life.

"People do have bigger houses," he once told me. I reacted as though he had suggested the existence of, say, unicorns.

"But your house has five bedrooms! Five!"

The party house had twelve. But I digress

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I arrived at the party via public transport, somewhat clumsily taking an accidental bus tour of Chichester (which is lovely, by the way) before arriving at the closest bus stop to the village of Itchenor. Being the city slicker that I am, I assumed this was my destination. It turned out to be about two miles off; my first indication that the upper-middle-class world is one that cannot be reached by bus. So I set off in my heavy boots down a pretty lane which opened onto a sprawl of beautiful-but-not-ostentatious houses. They were all, aesthetically speaking, eighteenth-century manor houses, but seemed to have only been built about a week ago. Their owners had filled their gardens with artfully rustic flowers, ponds, willow boughs, wickerwork and BMWs. And the scene stretched out like this at least for miles; potentially forever. It seemed that I had become trapped in a strangely idyllic wormhole.

As I tramped past garden after eerily similar garden like a conveyor-belt backdrop in a film, I became conscious of the growing twilight with still no end in sight. Finally, with blisters forming, I saw balloons, glorious balloons, directing me to the house. The houses thus far had all been named things like `Ticklemarsh' and Progmill'. The party house was called, rather majestically, Samphire.

If I may return to briefly to Tarquin-of-the-Jetty; I ask him if his house has a name. It is called Upper Cobb House, and I will recognise it as the film location of The French-Lieutenant's Woman. Brilliant.

"You know what my house is called? 34. Like a normal house."

He helpfully adds that his London residence is just called number 6. Brilliant. But I digress.

So I arrived on the glittering scene, sweaty, red, flustered, heavily laden, tired, muddy, in the manner of a Dickensian urchin on a picaresque journey. I looked a bit like Tess of the D'Urbervilles, post-turnips. I tend generally to be a bit flaily and ungainly, in the manner of a spider monkey half way through being tranquilized. I occupy too much space for my limited spacial awareness, and the resulting jumble of limbs can be a bit frightening. Watching me move is rather like watching someone struggle to unfold a deck-chair. And thus, I entered the guest filled entrance hall, my general presence clashing horrendously with everyone else's evening wear. I extended a sweaty hand to my hostess's handsome father and immediately proceeded to be extremely socially awkward.

I was then shown up to my hostess's enormous bedroom, overlooking (here it comes again!) the lagoon, to change into my black tie. Two very leggy, smiley friends from her boarding school were getting quite comfortably undressed when I walked in, one of whom was the spitting image of Emma Stone. In the mirror I saw something the approximate shape and colour of a beetroot, which turned out to be my face.

Thankfully Emma Stone came to my rescue. "Use whatever you want," said she, Emma Stone, holding out a bag of expensive make up. Being a little tired and hungry, her friendliness nearly made me cry.

So I returned to the entrance hall, refreshed and de-beetrooted, wearing an outfit carefully calculated to make me look like Joan from Mad Men, though I suspected it made me look rather more like a sparkly librarian. Wonder of wonders, there were people I knew and loved to ease me into the dense crowd of beautiful people. I could be introduced, rather than introduce myself (Panic Panic Panic). After the initial confusion of how many kisses, I was being introduced like nobody's business.

Finally I met Tarquin (of Jetty fame), who struck me as some sort of posh and enthusiastic alpaca, rather adorable with a slightly unhinged edge. He asked me if I had seen Mad Men. Hello, says my compliment-eager brain, could this comment possibly me going in the direction I hope? "Because you really look like Joan..." The night had taken a distinctly upward turn. An hour or so later I was shimmying past the team of caterers to the dance floor in the rented marquee, grooving on down with Granny Peacock and Uncle Geoffrey. The decor was lavish enough to have been a wedding. Even the portaloos they had rented distinctly resembled the toilet of a comfortably housed, aged aunt. My cubicle, for example, had a toilet-paper cosy and a painting of a pheasant. But the sangria and general warmth of human kindness had acted like sunlight on my cocoon, and I had burst forth a gleaming social butterfly. This thought made me smile as I fell drunkenly off of the toilet and Charlie-horsed myself in the thigh with the loo-brush.

All in all, a miraculous success. Behold! I am Claire, the amazing social climber, tremble at my awesome powers of mingling! I happily muse over this as the gentle hum of the train home lulls me to sleep. Three hours later, having missed my stop, I wake up somewhere in Wales. There are no more trains home that night. I hysterically ring my mum as I am ushered out of the station by a gruff platform manager who seems to find crying women vaguely repulsive, and sit in the street waiting for my dad to rescue me. I cannot help but ponder; how the mighty are fallen.

I think the message to be taken from this is that, on a personal level, social stratas boil down to nothing but vapour; to spectral clouds in the minds of those who fear the unknown and allow their expectations to be governed by the stereotypes we grow up with. Or possibly have accrued through watching too many costume dramas. The modern equivalent of the Scholarship Street Urchin at Oxford is far less likely to be found getting shunned by an Etonian than sharing a bottle of cava with them over an episode of Sun, Sex and Suspicious Parents. Or, for that matter, dating them. And the clumsy, crazy and socially awkward among us can take comfort in knowing that once we shed our inhibitions, any social occasion, no matter how grandiose, is really just about people being together and having a good time.

Also; don't fall asleep on a train.

CLAIRE RAMMELKAMP

7

THE SIENA PALIO: 90 SECONDS OR A LIFETIME? 'Three laps of the shell-shaped piazza, under two minutes of actual racing time and Siena's famous biannual horserace (Palio) is over, in a heat haze of elation and disappointment- it all depends if you're on the winning side or not. Yet after a year in this beautiful Tuscan town, it seems as if those fleeting minutes were not able to sum up the true heart of the race, a race that is really lived by the Sienese on a daily basis, for 365 days of the year, and not merely on race day itself.

"TATATA, TATATA, TATATATATA TA TATA", wandering the Tuscan streets, the sound of the Palio drummers begins to run in your veins, you start to listen for the rhythm in your own footsteps, and you find yourself drumming your fingers absentmindedly on the bar top as you wait for your early morning cappuccino and cream-filled pastry, for an indulgent (yet frequent) breakfast.

Indeed, my first reaction upon arriving in Siena last September was as likely as not a bemused side-grin at my Mum, as we walked past the group of costumed representatives of the youth of Siena, following the indefatigable drumming through the old medieval streets. A trip back in time?

Or rather that one of the beautiful things about Siena is the very fact that time seems to have stood still, here in this little pocket of Tuscany, many things are the same as they were hundreds of years ago.

So what therefore is the Palio of Siena? In essence, a bareback horserace, consisting of three laps around Siena's Piazza del Campo (the main square), with ten competing teams. The Palio runs twice a year, once at the beginning of July and again in mid-August, with the winner being awarded a special silken flag called the Palio. The different sections of the city (seventeen) form different teams (known as contradas), ten of which are then drawn by lot to participate in each race. little did I know, when house-hunting last September that not only was I choosing a place to live, but also a way of living: I was choosing my territory, my contrada. For the Sienese, the choice of contrada tends to run in families, historically according to where you live in the city. And you don't change contrada. Each has its own allegiances and adversaries, its own colours and dress-code, its own dinners and football clubs. I'm proud to say that my adopted team

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`Valdimontone' sported a definite Pembroke- pink as their colours. I only had to pull on a bit of Pembroke boat-club kit and I was sorted.

I've used the Palo, the focal event of the year for the true Sienese, as a way to orientate myself this year in Siena. To say that I'm now au fait with the ins and outs of the rules and workings of this historical event is laughable- as a good Sienese friend kindly told me, it takes years to even start to understand rules that the Italians themselves still don't entirely understand. Agreements and bribes are made between the different captains of the competing teams, and each contrada has its own internal politics and government.

Reading Siena's local paper, 'La Nazione', in the run up to the big day and on the morning after, the headlines became evermore strewn with military vocabulary- the war is on, every strategic move is a 'triumph', the outcome of the race will be a 'victory'. Strangers turn to embrace or to scowl at their neighbours, as the madness contained in the terracotta semi-circle is unleashed at the end of the race. And so it is that all the strands of my year in Tuscany seem to meet in Piazza del Campo- all roads might lead to Rome, but in Siena, all streets lead down to the Piazza. Considered 'neutral territory' by members of the different contradas, the piazza serves as a meeting point before hitting the evening bars, a spot to people-watch and for a slice of pizza and a beer at lunchtime.... and the stage for Siena's Palio.

The names of the different Contradas cover quite a range, such as the team of the Porcupine, Unicorn, Ram, Owl and the Wolf.

Each Contrada has its own government with its own Captain and Prior, Executive Council and Priest. The Sienese are baptised into one of these 17 teams as infants, and I was lucky enough to attend one of these baptisms at which the new member is presented with their own silken scarf or fazzoletto to be proudly worn for a lifetime. Each Contrada has its own private chapel and baptismal fountain where all ceremonies in the life of the Contrada take place. It is at these chapels that the blessing of the competing horses takes place on the day of the race. The ten chosen horses are brought into the individual chapels and are given a blessing, being told "Va', e torna vincitore" (Go, and return the victor). Yet, in spite of blessings, only one horse will return victorious in the evening, to be blessed again in one of

During the week of the race, meals are held in the Contrada headquarters, offering the opportunity for members to discuss and predict the outcomes and the draw of the horses over a plate of local fare. Once allocated, the horse returns to its given Contrada, which prepares a stable for the horse in the area of their headquarters and the horse is treated like a God, constantly guarded along with its rider to protect them from potential pre-race interference (or bribery!) from rival teams.

So where to stand on the day, for the fleeting few minutes that are the race itself? Most opt for the groundling option, standing in the piazza itself, which in spite of limited vision, is certainly the best way to absorb the true atmosphere of the race, standing shoulder to shoulder with true Contrada patriots brandishing their coloured flags. Or for the more pricey option, the cafes and apartment owners rent out places on their balconies for the day, with prices ranging between 180350 euros.

As I sit in the middle of the piazza on my last day in Siena, looking up at the tall bell tower which casts its long shadow over the terracotta sun-warmed stones, to my right the top of the black and white humbug-patterned cathedral is just visible, behind me the sound of the first shovels removing the sandy powdery tufa laid in the piazza to form the racetrack. Whilst restaurant owners begin to stack away the piles of temporary seats, life in Siena starts to go back to normal, save for a grain or two of overlooked sand. Soon there will be fresh footprints here, and mine will merge with those of the many others who over the years have fallen in love with Siena.

CLAIRE Cox

9

THE EVOLUTION OF THE SELFIE.LOVE-AFFAIR? With little over a month until my twenty-second birthday, I have found myself harping back to the days of yore. I mean, of course, the days of when Pluto was a planet, Fridays were spent recording 'Top of the Pops' on VHS, and my own personal raison d'etre, the Tamagotchi.

To my un-technologically savvy mother, the last few years haven't really thrown up anything new, digitally speaking. She would say that the emergence of Facebook was a watershed moment, but since then social media has remained static. Yet for us "digital natives", this native landscape has changed dramatically.

Recently my thoughts have turned to the changing means of self-documentation: from Bebo mirror photos, to the characteristic "Myspace arm" photo, to witnessing my Facebook newsfeed pour out images of those doing their greatest teapot impressions or questioning the location of the beach on a Saturday night, to the newer "Insta-selfie" or "hungover" Snapchat. And then I realise, somewhat ashamedly, that at some stage in my life I have partaken in all of these photographic crazes, some with more attention than others. When I was fifteen I wasn't quite "cool" enough to master the Bebo mirror shot (a fact for which I am now thankful) and my sole Myspace attempt resulted in a traumatically disproportionate arm to face ratio. Snapchat is something of a different story. In fact, I am pretty much associated with bombarding my poor friends with countless photos (5,000 at the latest count). The little yellow icon that is Snapchat regularly boasts a number of notifications higher than any phone calls or text messages.

In fact, only this summer the Oxford English Dictionary Online "formalised" the selfie by adding it to its database of the English lexicon, and quite rightly. The selfie, defined by the OED as "a photograph that one has taken of oneself, typically one taken with a smartphone or webcam and uploaded to a social media website", is more than just a fad. Looking back, selfie is the fitting term for all these previous modes of self-portraiture. The selfie actually pre-dates the internet.

According to my photographer grandfather, the first shutters with self-timers were actually available as early as the late 1880s, and allowed five or ten seconds for the subject to get into the shot. And then there was the Polaroid. Of course, with the emergence of the Smartphone and then specific photo-sharing social media platforms more and more selfies have appeared.

Undoubtedly, the need to not only take but to share our work makes the subject all the more interesting. Psychologists have been quick to theorise about the selfie. For many, concerns arise when the sharing of a selfie appears to represent a current fear that without visual documentation, we no longer have a memory (I for one am guilty of excessive photo momentos). Yet the wider concern, many feel, is that the selfie can become a call for external validation. There is perhaps too much power invested in that "like" button. While a serial selfie-taker may think that he or she is simply sharing his or her life experiences, a selfiephobe may read his or her uploads as a means of making others envious. There's a fine line, it seems.

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Yet for many, the selfie can actually be an extension of a professional life. I spent my summer working across marketing, PR and advertising sectors and came to realise that if you work in such industries, social media can play a large part in how you communicate. And having a strong media presence may be essential to bettering your own prospects.

For those in such an industry, a documented facial expression may simply be another creative way of communicating a story. But word-lovers should not fear, as for many the fun comes with conjuring up a fitting caption. The selfie, then, can be regarded as a form of branding in a competitive world. If done well, it transpires, a job could be more readily achievable. At least this offers a lifeline for all those who have tirelessly attempted to communicate in a C.V just how a month at Yatton Fish Bar provided invaluable experience for the corporate world.

In the last year, Instagram has become the host platform for the selfie. A quick search on Instagram reveals that #me yields over 121 million images, and #selfie over 43 million.

Particular crazes are #selfiesunday and #selfienation. Yet the most interesting selfie movement at present is #fitnotthin.

While the movement is commonly associated with women, men also partake, as a Twitter search reveals. Across nations people are now photographing their fitness progress, sharing schedules, and before and after images. I must confess it may prove testing when your friend uploads a daily photo of her developing abdominals as you watch on, stuffing your face with Cornetto ice creams. But it is unquestionably inspiring how this movement is challenging some deep-seated cultural assumptions that surround the selfie.

Perhaps it is a result of tighter privacy settings, or more likely our warped priorities, but selfies are largely criticised not for their potential risks (such as "sexting", in which sexual photographs are sent via text, which has become a serious issue in schools), but for their associations with narcissism and vanity. Culturally, we are discouraged from indecorous selfpromotion and bragging. Yet it seems erroneous to conclude that all selfies are simply that. Indeed, the recent flood of selfies from those who have achieved their fitness goals can be regarded as an attempt to redefine vanity by those who no longer want to be publically scorned for showing appreciation for their bodies, and, more importantly, the attainment of their fitness goals.

Yet we return again to the fine line of which I spoke earlier, for a constant stream of shared selfies may actually lose you friends, according to Dr. David Houghton, leading researcher in the area. Literally, people may "un-friend" or "un-follow" you. However, this may seem like less of an issue considering that, nowadays, the selfie is becoming less about looking good, and more about "ugly chic". Under the definition of selfie in UrbanDictionary.com, it is written "you can clearly tell that this person does not have any friends to take pictures of them". The definition, posted in 2012, is now clearly outdated. Friends take selfies even if there is a designated photographer present. Perhaps sharing a #selfie legitimises a healthy dose of silliness or quirkiness. Take Obama's teenage daughters for instance, spotted at their father's second inauguration taking selfies, not smiling, but pulling faces. On a wider scale, "ugly" snapchats and #antiselfie movements

have become popularised, with participants sharing their most unflattering poses and pleasantly forgoing the many advisory "how to take the perfect selfie" blogs that suggest looking wantonly to the left of your lens while uttering the word "prune".

The recent departure from sharing a selfie in which you look good is matched, or perhaps a result of, a similar movement within celebrity culture. Part of my task this summer involved scanning through hundreds of websites, newspapers and magazines. The biggest take away was that Cara Delevingne, the new girl du jour, is all about the quirky selfie. Whether she is grimacing while playing the bongos or making double chins in an animal onesie, Miss Delevingne is documenting herself looking "normal" in a way that is

pleasingly divorced from how she is captured by her Fashion House photographers.

And it can be amusing. This month I have logged in to various social media platforms and have seen a variety of bemusing, inspiring, and above all creative photos, all of which fall under the negative category of the selfie. In fear of writing a "defence of the selfie" I can only suggest that we all watch on as the selfie continues to evolve, as with the many forms of self-portraiture preceding it. And so long as if shared, careful attention is paid to who may have access to it, the selfie, like other art forms, may continue to throw a further creative spin on self-expression and communication.

ELSPETH HOSKINS

v, ILLUSTRATION: CLARIE RAMMELKAMP

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ROWING AT PEMBROKE o quote a rower from the 2012-2013 Women's First Eight: `I don't know much about rowing, but I know I didn't sign up to train with you girls just so I could learn to make sure I put my seat back, and I had a late arm draw and a defined tapdown. This is so much more than that for me. You guys have inspired me every day since I started training with you. That's not because you're technically brilliant. It's because you throw everything into every stroke on the ergs, every push in training, every rep in circuits... You've forced me to get out of bed in the morning, stop feeling sorry for myself, and push myself harder than I have ever been pushed. I can't even begin to say how grateful I am for the opportunity, and to all of you, for giving me that.'

To non-rowers the idea of getting up early to go and sit in a boat and row for a few kilometres in the morning doesn't seem like a very good way to spend their time. But until you've felt the adrenaline rush of sitting on the start line at Torpids or Eights, or until you've put everything into a race and won, it's hard to appreciate just how much you can get out of being a part of the Boat Club.

Rowing is a sport full of highs and lows - whilst losing the Summer Eights Headship to St. John's this year was more painful than all of the training put together, the feeling of rowing over at the Head on Wednesday of Eights was perhaps the highlight of the year for me, and it's hard to put into words how that felt. The girls who sat in the boat with me showed resilience, courage, and discipline; I have a huge amount of respect for every one of them and I know that we will be good friends for years to come. Rowing is a sport that requires discipline, and at times can be mentally and physically challenging. But would I do it again? Absolutely.

T

ALEXANDRA HOLDEN CTry rowing, they said. It will be fun, they said.'

When I decided to leave the working world and return to the student life I am not ashamed to admit that my prior time spent with PCBC was a major motivating factor. It has so far turned out to be one of the best decisions I have ever made. 2013 was a prime year to return to the club. Every level of the club was met with success and there is truly nothing like celebrating two hard fought Headships in one year. My experience at Oxford and Pembroke would not be the same without PCBC and I truly cannot be thankful enough for all of the friends that I have made (and will make in the future).

ANDREW PAZDON

arly mornings and exercise have always been

Fitwo of my least favourite things (after stinging insects), but perplexingly I've wound up captaining Pembroke College Boat Club, membership of which can entail exposure to all of these things (although in fairness, the wasps have less to do with rowing and more to do with the abundance of sweet, delicious Pimms around the boathouse at races). So how did I become a frequent exerciser, occasional early-riser, and constant wearer of lycra to boot?

Well, the only reason I started rowing was because I heard there would be free burgers at the taster session (and tasty indeed they were). After having a lark splashing around on the river that day, I revoked my status as couch-potato-in-chief, and started going to practice a few times a week. I soon became a bit of

a keen bean, training hard with the team, and I finished my first year of rowing as part of a Headshipwinning crew. All this from a person whose ideal Saturday consists of sleeping until 3pm, and trying to employ a maximum chocolate-consumption to minimum effort ratio: my parents nearly keeled over in shock.

Rowing is jolly good fun. Whether you're a first timer, a lapsed member, or a pro, tall or short, sporty or out of shape, we'd love you to join PCBC. We are not a classy bunch — we sweat a lot, and eat ungodly amounts of pasta - but we work hard, play harder, and brush up nicely for crew dates and post-competition dinners, of which there are many. How much time you put into rowing is up to you, but bounteous good times are guaranteed.

MILLIE O'DRISCOLL

think what I love best about PCBC (Pembroke College Boat Club) is the community. Rowing has given me some of the closest friends I could ever hope for. There are nine of you, working towards one goal (usually a regatta of some kind), totally united in your desire to succeed. At Pembroke your success is shared with the other members of PCBC and the college and equally, you get to share in their successes. It might sound ridiculous (as in the grand scale of things, rowing doesn't matter) but during regattas and the weeks of training that take you to the start line, you really do feel proud of what you and your team have achieved.

One of the highlights for me this year was when I was invited to the Master's lodgings for breakfast on the first morning of Summer Eights, and I was presented with a pendant of the Pembroke rose (given to all new female members of the first team - the men get a tie). Later that day when I sat on the start line at the Head of the River (the top position in the regatta) and looked at the eight girls sat in front of me, I had, and still have, no regrets. Although Summer Eights 2013 didn't go exactly to plan, I would do every training session and outing again. The best feeling was 'rowing over' on Day 1 of the regatta: the worst was getting 'bumped' by St. John's on Day 2. I guess that is just the nature of sport. However, during those 90 seconds that we were rowing away from St. John's, I executed some of the best coxing moves I have ever done, managing to buy us more time. Despite the outcome, I am very proud of those 90 seconds as I know I did everything I could for my crew.

I

Of course there are many social aspects to PCBC- copious amounts of Pimms, crewdates, and the opportunity to make friends with people across the JCR and MCR. Also, the rowing itself is pretty awesome. I am still amazed that in the regattas in Hilary (Torpids) and Trinity (Summer Eights) the aim is to physically hit the boat in front of you! When I was a novice cox I spent most of my time trying not to hit other crews! As a cox, there is nothing more fun that telling your crew to turn up the power and smashing into your rivals.

Although admittedly, I perhaps took this too far in my first year when I hit Balliol's 3rd boat so hard that it smashed in half. Luckily our boat survived with barely a scratch and we got out as quickly as possible for the safety launch to rescue a few poor Balliol girls who were swimming by this point!

Rowing at Pembroke can be taken seriously (and we often win!) or light-heartedly. This is the beauty of the sport. In the same regatta, our Ml took the Headship (biggest accolade in Oxford Rowing) and our M5 rowed in 'The Fellowship of the Ring' attire. No matter if you want to train hard or just jump in a boat for Summer Eights, PCBC is the most welcoming boat club with a strong reputation for Pimms consumption, community spirit and winning. There is no better feeling than being cheered on by the hundreds of people outside PCBC and knowing that when you cross the finish line, there is a Pimms waiting for you. Perfection.

ERIN WYSOCKI-JONES Arriving at Pembroke last summer as a visiting research Fellow, rowing was at top of my list of chances I couldn't miss. I wasn't disappointed. Only at Oxford could I find a current Olympian rowing in our college crew, with another former Olympian chatting with students on the bank. Given that level of quality, what genuinely surprised me was how open the club was to welcoming an outsider.

So if you are still reading you may be considering rowing. Some key points to remember: One. If you are curious about taking up a sport while at Pembroke, remember that whichever one you choose, you will be wearing pink. Given that, a lycra all-in-one really isn't such an issue.

Two. You may get wet and cold. For those students who are visiting this country, I have bad news. You will be wet and cold anyway. Even a blazing fire in an ancient Oxford hearth (well, a half burnt-out electric heater) often just reminds your bones of

the seeping chill only ever a few meters away. So you might as well be wet and cold for a reason.

Three. The river in summer in the sunshine is a very good reason.

Four. In the world after Oxford, it can be insurmountably difficult to find that combination of place, money and people which allows you to row at all. At Oxford, the river is close by, the club well funded and equipped, and wherever possible we avoid getting up at hours best reserved for insomniacs and ninjas. If you are curious to try something you might not get the chance to again, Pembroke is as good as it gets for rowing.

PCBC is the top college rowing club in Oxford, fact. Look at the results. But the PCBC I discovered isn't about selecting the biggest, strongest, and fittest to breed winners. It's about welcoming anyone who has that spark to get out and do something when it's easier to stay in bed, stay inside, stay comfortable. That is what binds a crew together, and what makes being wet, cold and pink something of value.

SEAN RYAN

INSPIRING SMARTER MOBILITY: PEGGIE AT THE ECO-MARATHON 2013 lectric cars: environmentally friendly but impractical and

FA too expensive? Forget what you've heard about electric

vehicles (EVs). I will tell you the story of a little EV that's different. Its energy consumption is equivalent to about 15,400 miles per gallon. Theoretically, this could quite comfortably take you to Lake Malawi and back on the equivalent of one gallon of petrol. Local wildlife and belligerent tribesmen would constitute a greater threat than running out of charge. In theory. In practice, the adventure that I am telling you about did not take place in Sub-Saharan Africa but on a race track in Rotterdam, the Netherlands.

Our team, the Energy and Power Group (EPG), designed and built an ultra-efficient prototype EV, named PEGGIE, to compete in the Shell Eco-marathon 2013. This endeavour was led by our determined team manager Rob Camilleri and our inventive technical manager Pete Armstrong. The objective: complete 10 laps of 1.6 km length in under 39 minutes with minimal energy consumption. PEGGIE was propelled by 14 lithium ion battery cells, which hold roughly twice the amount of energy stored in an average laptop battery. To make it through the race on so little energy, PEGGIE's components had to be as light and efficient as possible, comprising a light-weight carbon fibre shell, low rolling resistance wheels and bearings and a highly efficient electric motor. Regenerative breaking and an array of solar photovoltaic (PV) cells partially recharged the battery during the race. Most of the components we used are commercially available. The greatest challenge lay in combining them into a functional vehicle. As if this weren't a difficult enough task, safety was a non-negligible concern, particularly when using lithium ion batteries, whose reputation has suffered a bit as a result of recent incidents such as the fire in a Boeing 787 Dreamliner. This is where I came in. I was assigned the task of designing and building a battery management system which would prevent the lithium ion batteries from doing something nasty like catching on fire or exploding. To our general delight (particularly to Lucy Mahoney's, PEGGIE's driver), this didn't happen.

On May 12th, our van left Oxford filled with a collection of potentially groundbreaking technological innovations.

Groundbreakin thou h the were, most of our brilliant

14

concepts were neither implemented nor tested, which caused various degrees of concern among the members of our team. "We'll be fine, we still have five days in Rotterdam" Pete would reassure us with as much confidence as he could muster.

We arrived at the Shell Eco-marathon venue the next day.

Each team was assigned a paddock in a gigantic hangar to prepare their vehicles during the days leading up to the race.

The competition was fierce. More than 200 teams or 3000 students participated. The categories of prototype vehicles were divided by fuel type: battery electric, hydrogen, petrol, alternative diesel, diesel and ethanol. Before the teams were allowed on the track for testing or racing, they had to pass a rigorous technical inspection in which the "roadworthiness" of the vehicles was assessed. Once the inspection was completed, each team was given a total of six racing attempts to qualify for the ranking. The atmosphere was tense in the hangar: complete deprivation of natural light, the air filled with engine noise, shouting, hammering, honking and the odd — minor but unmistakable — hydrogen explosion. Teams were beavering away 24/7, the states of their vehicles ranging from barely assembled to fully functional. Unfortunately, our team was not part of the latter category at that stage.

Six days and two unsuccessful racing attempts after our arrival: PEGGIE returned from the track after 10 completed laps. Lucy got out of the car. Did we have a valid attempt?

Everyone was staring at the screen, anxiously awaiting the result. The tension at the finish line was unbearable. "Invalid" flashed in big red letters on the screen next to our team's name. The reason: PEGGIE was 8 seconds over the allowed 39 minutes for the race. The disappointment was devastating and the team had to face the fact that returning home without even qualifying for the ranking was an actual possibility.

We had one more day to prevent that from happening.

Meanwhile, PEGGIE's performance on the track was not the only ace up our sleeves. We had submitted an application for the off-track Technical Innovation Award. These innovations included a reconfigurable array of PV cells located on top of the shell, designed by Richard Wong, Ren Kang and Pete.

Depending on the amount of sunshine available to generate electricity and the voltage of the lithium ion battery (which drops as the battery is discharged), a number of solar cells in the array would be connected either in series or in parallel, to operate the PV cells at their optimal efficiency. The second innovation, designed by Pete, Nathan Ewin and James Fotherby, was an electronically controlled clutch mechanism, which allowed both regenerative braking and free-wheel coasting. To slow down the vehicle, instead of slamming the brakes, Lucy could effectively drive the motor in reverse to act as a generator and recharge the batteries. During coasting, the clutch would disengage the motor to avoid losses caused by the drag of the motor. Christian Wehrenfennig designed the third technical innovation: an Android App on a smart phone that mapped the efficiency of the motor in real time for Lucy to optimise her driving style.

Sunday, May 19th: last day of the competition, last day to make a valid attempt for PEGGIE and the day the off-track award for technical innovation would be announced. The bright sunshine lifted both our spirits and the energy output of our PV array. We were determined to realise our final chance to turn the competition into a success for the PEGGIE team. With team members positioned at all corners of the track, telling Lucy her lap time by radio, we made sure Saturday's debacle would not be repeated. Lucy completed her 10th lap without difficulties and arrived at the finish line where her fellow team members were nervously awaiting the outcome of what could be our only shot at a valid attempt.

Finally, with an energy consumption of 370 km/kWh, team PEGGIE was officially qualified for the ranking. But we were not going to stop now that we had smelled the scent of success. With everyone heroically realising their crucial roles in the pit-stop, the battery pack was exchanged and PEGGIE was back on track in no time for another race. Incredulous, we read the result of the second valid attempt on the screen: 547 km/kWh — an improvement by almost 50%! Entering with a half discharged battery (originally designed for only one race), Lucy skilfully manoeuvred PEGGIE around the track to complete the third and last successful attempt. With

565 km/kWh, an equivalent of about 15,400 mpg, we managed to secure a 7th rank out of 27 competitors. This meant an improvement of over 50% compared to the team's entry in 2012 (366 km/kWh), which exceeded even our supervisor Malcom Mcculloch's ambitious expectations of a 20% improvement. Finally, the months of hard work had paid off. What could be better? The answer to that question was announced through the microphone at the stage during the award ceremony: team PEGGIE won the Technical Innovation Award! To us, this was even better than a victory in the race, since it was only one award among all 200 participating teams. Now we could hold our heads up high upon our return to the UK. Admittedly, PEGGIE is not a very comfortable means of transportation if you are taller than 1.6 m. You certainly wouldn't want to drive her to Lake Malawi. However, this is not her purpose. PEGGIE and her competitors were designed as showcases to proof that sustainable transportation is possible and feasible. If a bunch of PhD students can build an EV in a moderately equipped workshop, financed largely by donations of generous industrial partners, surely our automotive giants sooner or later have to come up with an EV worth your money. So don't give up hope — the future of transport will be electric.

On a closing note, I would like to express my gratitude for the award of the Santander Travel Fund, which gave me the financial means to join this memorable project.

CHRISTOPH BIRKL AND THE ENERGY AND POWER GROUP

MICHAELMAS TALKING

While it is inevitable that we individually value our own democracy, the question that comes to the fore is do we believe in it strongly enough to intervene in, and potentially impose our democratic values, upon persons in states other than our own? In doing so, we surely damage that liberalism which is so important to a self-governing populace.

Consider, for instance, the much-considered relationship between democracy and Islam: one of the main religions of the Middle East, where most of our democratic neo-imperialism takes place. The Middle Eastern region is characterised by those whose lives are centred on religion, unlike the arguably more secular societies of The West. The word of Allah is final in how one should live his life - free choice is not perceived as desirable, let-alone favourable as a basis for a form of governance.

Sharia law, which is specified in the scripture so fundamental to Islamic life, is constant. It does not follow a pattern of election cycles, or public opinion. There may then be a case in saying that implementing the values of western democracy upon a people also becomes an issue of driving one of the fundamental tenets of a culture or religion out.

How righteous a virtue is it, then, to try and impose western values upon a devoutly religious population who, perhaps, cherish authoritarianism over free choice?

Not beyond their borders. The word "protect" implies that something of ours is at risk. Our democratic values are not affected or endangered by undemocratic behaviour in other countries. We do not need to intervene overseas to protect them. Further, we should distance ourselves from "the end of history" idea, the thought that every country is progressing towards a liberal democracy. Whilst we may be convinced that a democracy is the only possible solution for us, that need not be the case for all countries, at all times. If democracy is to work at all, the state in question must be unified by the idea of a nation. Across much of the Middle East this is not the case. Complex tribal and religious differences make democracy close to unworkable. Perhaps we are blinkered ideologues when we insist that everyone should arrange their constitutional settlement in the way that we have ours.

It is not a question of appeasement because it is not our fight. We simply should not be looking to force everyone towards a democracy. It may be a good thing if a country should choose to adopt it and it works for them. However, who are we to say that democracy is the only way? Jordan, for example, is still, and very proudly, a Monarchy. What right do we have to say that they are wrong?

To consider the Middle East, we cannot and must not force democracy upon them. It may happen eventually or it may not, but a democracy must be by the people, of the people and for the people, not by or for other countries who believe their values to be superior to everyone else's. The Middle East is in a particularly complex situation at the moment. A "successful" intervention will not be followed smoothly by a move to democracy, nor will it be followed by peace. Intervention is rarely ever successful. The intervention in Libya was painted as some kind of wonderful victory, and yet it has left the country plunged into a political and economic crisis. It has stopped producing oil and the government authority is disintegrating as militia groups take most of the country. Conveniently, the pro-interventionists look the other way.

We also forget the cost of intervention. The "Responsibilty2Protect" gives us this martyr —like idea that we must protect at all costs. Even in hospitals cost is balanced against the probability of success.

Intervention costs greatly in economic terms and puts our own soldiers' lives at risk. And on top of this there is no guarantee that no innocent lives will be lost. We may send air strikes into Libya with the view of only hurting the "bad guys", but can we be sure that we won't hurt any of the "good guys". Furthermore, and back to my previous point, who should decide who the goodies and baddies are? We may seriously disapprove of Assad's reactions to the protests, but who should decide that the rebels are definitely worth supporting? This is not a case of Harry vs. Voldermort; in the real world the situation is never that black and white. I found myself shocked to agree with Putin, but his letter to the Americans in the New York Times pointed out very well the consequences of picking a side in Syria's fight.

TAISIE KINSKY 16

M

arch 2011. The Syrian government responded to peaceful protests with unthinkable brutality.

Over 2 years on, the tales of mass bloodshed, over 100,000 dead and 2 million refugees fill the news channels. We are left with a much-debated, multifaceted question which nobody seems to be able to answer in a straightforward manner — how far should the West go in intervening in protecting our values abroad and attempting to end the sheer ruthlessness of Assad's regime?

In 2005, the "Right to Protect" (R2P) doctrine was signed off by the United Nations. It seems impossible to argue, therefore, that intervening in Syria would go against the wishes of the UN or would be outside the framework of international law. Furthermore, by not acting in a case such as this, would the West not be proliferating the message to not only Assad, but tyrannical leaders worldwide, that they can effectively "get away with murder"?

Of course, arguing on a humanitarian front that intervening in Syria is the morally correct path for the West to take is not difficult. Protecting the lives of innocent civilians seems the obvious solution.

Yet things are rarely as simple as we would like. If the West were to take definitive action, the question of the form that this intervention would take is a thorny issue. Many argue that providing arms and equipment for the Syrian rebels would be the obvious solution. Why? Democracy — a government "of the people, for the people, by the people". By definition, in order for a nation to achieve this stable system of administration, the balance of power must be altered by the citizens themselves, the rebels should be given the means to enforce revolution when no democratic method is available.

This will avoid a cyclical sequence of events, where the West is seen to invade, instil its own ideologies, and leave the vestiges of hostile incursion behind. However, there are many problems with this. Firstly, what has been overlooked is the realisation that most citizens of a subjugated society do not possess relevant training in weapons-handling. This, combined with the fact that different rebel factions, although having the same over-arching aim of destroying the Assad regime, have no united long-term objective for Syria once this has been achieved, is dangerous.

If arming the rebels themselves is out of the question, where else can the West turn? With the recent allegations of the use of chemical weapons by the Assad regime, much talk has been focussed on military strikes, particularly from the Obama administration and the British government. However, as the recent wars in Afghanistan and Iraq have demonstrated, the civilian death toll from external military intervention often exceeds that which prompts the intervention initially. The old saying, "You can't fight fire with fire" is rather apt - military action invites a series of unintended knock-on effects which could escalate the Syrian conflict in such a way as to endanger the lives of far more Syrian civilians.

On the other hand, it would be very wrong to suggest that nothing is being done about the chemical weapons crisis which has arisen. On September 16th, the White House announced a series of measures to help protect the citizens of Syria against future mustard gas and sarin attacks. This non-lethal assistance includes chemical weapons-related "personal protection" equipment to organisations working within the country; medical aid to strengthen local healthcare providers' ability to prepare for and respond to future attacks; and defensive chemical weapons training and protective equipment to vetted members of the Syrian opposition. While these anti-gas measures being provided to the Syrian people are not going to prevent future attacks, should they arise, they are at least a step in the right direction, giving the citizens themselves the means to protect and rebuild their own country.

For while military intervention cannot be seen as the correct solution, nor can the West sit back and do nothing if the Assad regime is gassing its own countrymen in such a deplorable manner.

So, we seem to have come round in a full circle. While it seems inevitable that some form of action must be taken on a moral level, it is inconclusive about what that action should actually entail. In protecting our values across the globe, there is only so much the West can really do. And in some ways, doing less may realistically be doing more. Perhaps non-invasive assistance given to the oppressed civilians, and international "nudging" might be the only option. And perhaps not. Who knows? Tyranny, autocratic regimes and the lust for power will always be present in human nature' — whatever the West does to attempt to stop this, it is a demonic yet omnipresent force that we seem KATIE WOOD unlikely to ever completely overcome.

17

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GAIUM I EVANS

THE PROJECT: A TRAGEDY IN THREE PARTS and produced his cigarettes. Fred had already started tapping the end of his carton. Both men lit up and a lazy smile of indulgence briefly passed their faces. "Maybe tomorrow Fred, Camp Evans, New Jersey, 09-JAN-1946 we're bound to get a clear signal soon enough." Fred's lined The coffee had run out again. Edward rubbed his fingers face cracked into a warm smile. "I hope so too son, you just through his eyes, heaved a sigh and shouted to an indistinct mind those dials." They continued their morning ritual in figure in the back. "Hey, how can a guy get some work silence. done around here without his coffee?" The figure merely Lieut. Colonel John DeZwart drove home after the shrugged. "You have to do everything yourself around here," meeting. It had been long and formal, but the upshot was Edward grabbed his cigarettes and pushed away from his that they were getting some extra funding next year. Prodesk. Maybe some sunlight would help get his head together vided they delivered of course. He didn't see any reason for again. With slow, unwilling paces he set out for the elevator the secrecy surrounding the meeting though. They were just on the other side of the hall. It was one of those days again. trying to echo signals of the moon. It wasn't anything like these mysterious X-types he'd heard rumors about. 'Well, Oxford, Brazen-nose, January 9, Anno Domini 1589, they must have their reasons," he muttered. It was probably Serlsby had gladly taken up Friar Bacon's patronage. Sure, just the brass showing of their power. "Humph, `classified'!

Brazen-nose wasn't as welcoming as Broadgates, and he had Give me a break" John decided to give Ed a little heads-up to admit they weren't as well stocked on Cognac and Scotch though, just in case. either, but at least it didn't remind him of that horrible day so much. Revenge sounded splendidly heroic on stage, but in the flesh, as it were, a dagger was decidedly uncomfortable. Brazen-nose, The night of January 9th Serlsby kept staring at the mirror. Lambert's dagger should Better to not show his face there again. He and Lambert have ended it. But the Lord had other plans for him, another had been respected young scholars, and news of their death part to play. At least, that was what the friar had said. Serlsby had spread like wildfire. It would be awfully tactless to prove them wrong. For the sake of decorum, it would be best if he wasn't so sure. He wasn't so sure about anything these days.

Ever since he had woken up, surrounded by the shimmying stayed in Friar Bacon's study for a while. lights of tallow-waxed candles and the putrid airs of some foul and wicked concoction, strange apparitions drifted in Nuwa 9/ sector X6, Nom. 18358, Guihai. front of his mind's eye. Was the devil out to taunt him? Or "They should have had seen it coming. They should have." was it the tormented soul of Lambert, his once dear friend?

Daohe shifted in his seat, grunting noncommittally. "Sure If it weren't for Friar Bacon, he would have succumbed enough," he thought, "Xindai corp's R&D budget had already. "Steadfast my boy, it will all pass away," the doting skyrocketed over the last couple of years, but you were too old man would say. And it usually did, strangely enough. But busy believing in managerial competence." Dai slammed his not today. fist on the stack of papers in front of him. "But they didn't The mirror glittered menacingly. Small flecks danced across even listen to the committee! "We will take it into account," its surface, slowly outlining the scarlet visage that he had is what they said. As if no-one knows that it's more likely to come to loath and fear. "Our Father Who art in Heaven, halend up buried in some sorry-ass clerk's file cabinet." Dai was lowed be..." Serlsby's resolve broke mid-sentence. The wanlike that, thoroughly committed to changing the world and equally convinced that those in power where trying to do just ing power of his prayer suspended in midair. "Empty words will not protect you, my young scholar." The devil's unctuthat. "Poor sod," Daohe chuckled, "he'll soon forget his bad ous timbre filled the study. With measured steps it stepped judgment again." Daohe shifted in his seat again. "Take it easy Dai, it's probably not as bad as it looks." He knew it was through the mirror. "Your soul is mine, and forever will be." Serlsby's legs felt like lead. He stood transfixed, swaybad, but what else could you say? ing under the mesmerizing power. The devil's claws gripped Dai harrumphed noisily, and gave one of his famous accusahis face like a vice, compelling Serlsby to look the fiend in tory stares. "You just wait," he said, "It's all corning down the eyes.

"Thy will be done," croaked Serlsby defiantly. "It this time. HQ's files back in the capital are being confiscated will indeed," laughed the devil. A searing pain shot through as we speak, and when they find out what has been going on his head.

"I have another task for you, my young scholar. here, heads are going to roll." That was true enough, even Lambert was just the beginning. This time, you're going to Daohe felt slightly uncomfortable with the research they had been doing here. But people have to eat, don't they? "So what Abingdon." do we do?" Dai only shrugged, of course he didn't know, he Nuwa 9/ sector X6, nom. 18358, Jiazi. could only complain afterwards. "I think it might be a good Dai should have been back by now. Daohe's mind was racidea to prep the samples for destruction," Daohe said, "And ing.

"Ok, think clearly now, get your act together. He must the results too." Dai nodded slowly in resignation. "Yeah, let's still be on Gamma deck, that's where the power outage do that, who knows what they might find out." started." Alarms had suddenly gone off, red lights flashing all over the station. The corridors were silent now. The yellow Camp Evans, New Jersey, 09-JAN-1946, 1800 hours. fluorescence of the emergency lights kicked in. They lined A cold wind harassed Edward on his way to the barracks. the silence in an eerie glow. Daohe strapped on his bio-suit.

The radio tower danced to its chilly tune. At least the trees "Better not take any chances now," he thought as he drifted gave some shelter, but the sun couldn't do much to cheer down the stairs. Artificial gravity systems were still out. Beta him on. Edward quickly entered the warm, neon-lit barracks. deck was lined with black monitors and still stacks of paperFred handed him a steaming mug. "I knew you'd be comwork. ing topside sooner or later. Plenty of static again, I bet, with these conditions." Edward gratefully accepted the coffee Project Diana Site

20

Daohe quickly pushed off towards the bio-lock. He punched in the codes for manual override, "Protocol be damned," he cursed as he drifted into the decontamination area. The monitor here was out as well, all it showed was a vague reflection of his red bio-suit. No way to tell how things were going down on Gamma deck. He shut the door and counted to ten.

"Here goes," Daohe opened the other lock and floated down into the darkness below.

The lab hummed with expectation. At least atmospheric control was still operating. The glow of a single screen in the back accentuated the darkness of the lab. Xindai Corp's R&D wasn't without results. Biotops didn't need an external power source, the Yang-Friedman principle took care of that. Tiny Nano cores fed on the energy generated by the spin of paired hydrogen and antihydrogen kept in a perfect vacuum. "Forced to chase eternally, never to meet," Daohe mused. He couldn't help but grimace at the ironic parallel to his love life. "Dai, are you out there?" No reply.

Daohe pushed himself towards the light of the Biotop. As he passed row upon row of cultivation platforms, he felt a vague sense of foreboding. Something was off.

A muddled lump of humanity lay sprawled on all fours next to the Biotop. Daohe's breath faltered from shock.

He struggled to bend down in the clumsy Bio-suit. With effort he managed to turn Dai's limp body over. The remains of Dai's face were contorted in anguish. Bubbling froth poured forth from a crack in his helmet. Daohe sagged down next to the body and cried in silence.

Camp Evans January 9th, 20:00 hours Edward dozed off. It was 10 p.m. and he still hadn't finished calibrating. The shrill sound of the phone roused him from his slumber. He gruffly answered the phone, "Solomon speaking."

"Hey Ed, John here, thought I'd give you a heads-up on tomorrow's business."

"What's up?"

"Command thought it necessary to ensure strict secrecy on tomorrow's test."

"Why's that all of a sudden? This thing has been in the pipeline for months, none of it was classified so far."

"I don't know, Ed, they must have changed their mind. Oh, before I forget, they're sending some big shot scientist over tomorrow. He's to have full access. Just so you know" "Humph, we still in charge, John?"

"Don't you worry about that, I'll be around to make sure everything goes the way it should. You just try to get some sleep, big day tomorrow!"

"You too, John, see you tomorrow" Edward hung up the phone. He hated it when the brass was interfering in his work. It seemed that tomorrow was going to be more involving than he thought. He tidied his notes and headed for the bunk bed in the corner. Time to get some sleep.

seat. A hunched figure stood covered in shadows. As the man moved from the darkness, the blade of his bodkin glinted in the light.

"You" a young, quavering voice said.

Camp Evans, January 10th, 11:30 hours Edward hadn't slept well. After his morning coffee with Fred he had another cigarette in the sparse winter sun. John's car pulled up in front of the barracks. A hard-jawed officer carrying a large briefcase emerged from the passenger's seat.

He looked like he meant business. Edward hated him already.

John came out slightly later, he looked flustered. They must have had an argument. He must have lost.

Colonel Hambleton wasn't one for pleasantries. He gave a curt nod to Edward and started towards the elevator straight away. John demurely followed in his wake. "You're not going to like this Ed," he said uneasily. The elevator ride was slow and awkward. The humming of the motor was the only sound on their descent. "OK Solomon, this is how it's going to work." The Colonel fixed Edward with a hawkish leer. "I have a new set of coordinates for you, and you'll be using this." The Colonel produced a small, strange looking device from his briefcase. It looked a bit like a telegraph with five keys labeled A to E. Despite his best intentions, Edward became interested.

"What does it do? How does it work?" he asked eagerly.

"You'll find out soon enough. Plug it into the radio." The Colonel turned to John, "What's our window, DeZwart?"

"Forty minutes, sir. Starting in ten."

"Good, all set?"

Edward had plugged in the device. He gave the C key an experimental tap. The dial displayed a short peak, followed by the usual static.

"I think so, sir."

Ten minutes later, the clock neared 11:58.

"Here is what you do, on my mark you press A C D B E E, and make sure you do it in quick succession."

Edward quickly tapped the keys. The dial displayed a corresponding series of peaks.

All eyes were trained on the dial on the receiver. For two and a half seconds, nothing happened. Then a different pattern emerged on the dial. The telegraph started churning out a series of five clicks. E C B D A A, a Perfect mirror image.

Edward was dumbfounded, "Hey, that's not supposed to happen! The series should be identical!"

The Colonel smiled surreptitiously, "Indeed it should," he said in a low voice. "Indeed it should."

RENS KRIJCSMAN

Abingdon, The morning of January 10th Thomas Tesdale was writing at his desk. With a flourish of his quill, he added his signature. He smiled in silent apprehension. His will was sealed, his patronage of the arts assured. Whatever happened now was in God's hands. A rich scent of malt and smoke penetrated his nostrils. The door slammed shut with a bang, and Tesdale sprung up from his 21

WHY MEN NEED FEMINISM CWhy does anyone need feminism now? Everyone's equal these days" Reflecting on UK society today, we might be fooled that gender equality is a given. Women have been able to vote on the same terms as men since 1928, the professions were opened to all genders in 1919, and the Divorce Reform Act of 1969 threw open the right to divorce. Feminism, merely evocative of a monochrome Amazon scorning the brassiere, might be seen as the buzzword of a bygone era. Such a view, strikingly in our society, is so often coupled with the misguided and offensive image of the Feminist as some hirsute hater of man. Feminism can be treated with indifference, or at worst, disgust.

In reality, feminism represents a broad - and by no means homogenous - set of thinkers and beliefs with one core tenet, the recognition of inequality between genders, and the desire to challenge it. Gender can be defined as categories constructed by a culture, culture itself being defined as a set of values which are shared by those living within it. We can try to make sense of gender by organising it on a spectrum between two poles, namely masculinity and femininity, and acknowledging that it is separate from biological sex (male, female, or intersex), and sexuality. Then, let's realise that there are huge, harmful flaws in our cultural system. Many feminist thinkers and activists use the word "oppressive" - and this is so key, because the categories of gender that we are brought up to believe in are fixed, limited, often binary, and self-contradictory. And our culture is fundamentally unequal, because the masculine gender, and by extension the male sex, is considered better, in many, many ways. This is called privilege.

"I'm pro gender equality, but I wouldn't call myself a feminist" Quite simply, the idea that feminism seeks to advance women to a superior role in society fails to take into account the overwhelming bias of society towards men. A specific focus on the disadvantages that women face is crucial in the push for gender equality. Feminism is concerned with privilege, and offers men both the opportunity to challenge the constraints of masculinity as well as to realise how their own privilege might affect others.

This privilege manifests itself in countless ways. There are many fundamental inequalities that men will not be able to experience, even if aware of them (for the purposes of this article, 'men' refers to cis-gendered men, in other words men whose gender culturally aligned with the biological sex of their birth). These could be related to safety, for instance the fear of walking alone at night. This is all the more acute for many women, who are even commonly laden with the responsibility for any harm that might befall them. This problem was addressed - controversially - by the SlutWalk campaign and its challenging of a victim-blaming mentality.

Privilege manifests itself in a cultural focus on a woman's body and physical appearance above any other attribute.

Two years ago, The Guardian ran a story about Theresa May, with the headline "Home Secretary's wardrobe had made a

24

statement that she is going to come out fighting in the border agency row". No male politician would ever be the subject of an article on his clothing. Perceptions of femininity as twinned with beauty limit the possibilities that individual women may have. We are furthermore still living with the hangover of the strict demarcation of occupations, with an overwhelming cultural bias towards male freedom in careers and public life. The 'pale and male' stereotype of judges is alive and kicking, with a paltry 8% of the Court of Appeal judges women. Other roles, traditionally gendered as masculine, remain so. Only 200 of the 500,000 mechanics in the UK are female. The assignment of women to domestic roles still prevails: the OED, for example, registers the culture's bias by defining the noun 'childminder' as a woman. To cap it all, the pay gap is very much a live problem. Recent studies show that, despite legislation rendering salary discrimination illegal, men in management roles take home 25% more, on average, each year.

"What has feminism got to do with men, anyway?

Men are privileged, but feminism interrogates the categories of gender that cause men harm, too. Just as the cultural script of femininity restricts women, so that of masculinity exerts a formative pressure on boys, teenagers, and men.

Femininity contains the diverse imperatives of beauty, the necessity of childbirth, motherhood and the domestic space.

It is maintained, in part, from the relentless sexualisation of women in the media, paradoxically symbiotic with social demands for sexual propriety, and a dominant socialisation of women to aspire to be less than men. Equally, feminism challenges the masculine stereotypes that cause people pain when ideals are not reached. These include the expectations of the male body with an insistent focus on strength, virility and prowess in physical activities. Traditional masculinity entails being the provider in a family, and confident adequacy in financial, career or sexual matters.

Testosterone becomes a definitive measure of a man, reducing the complexities of an individual's behaviour to a guess at hormonal concentration in the blood. An imagery of strength, exemplified in phrases like "man up" and "grow a pair", is highly damaging as well as patronising, bluntly assigning weakness to women and denying the capacity of emotional expression to men. This socialisation is worryingly registered in the statistics of mental health diagnosis: women are vastly more likely to be treated for a mental illness than men. Expectations of heterosexuality are tied up with notions of ideal masculinities, and homophobia is linked to perceptions of the ideal man (think pejorative accusations of femininity like `fairy'). Feminism challenges these aspects of our culture.

"Men can't be' feminists" A minority of radical feminist thinkers may bar men from the cause, but the vast majority see this opinion as woefully narrow and out of date. One could argue that feminists who dehumanise men go against the fundamental principles of gender equality. It's clear that, in order to challenge social inequality, the more individuals working to do so, the better.

However, the notion of the "man-hating" feminist is a convenient fiction for the privileged party. It is rather easy to condemn one who speaks out against power imbalance as vitriolic and hateful when you benefit from the bias. Men, with their overwhelming cultural hegemony, have a responsibility to use this influence to press for change. This will entail challenging seemingly commonsensical attitudes at times, and it may be painful. But if men care for women - mothers, sisters, friends, humans - then this is incentive enough to discuss issues of gender equality and our culture's restriction on femininities and masculinities.

Of course, feminism can and should be considered in tandem with other forms of oppression, such as, but not limited to, racism, homophobia, classism and discrimination on the basis of ability. Men must not derail or shut down women's accounts of experiences that they will never live in the same way. Various forms of oppression, for instance degrading images of women or unattainable standards of beauty in the media, or cultural limitations on a woman's life choices and capabilities, are more limiting than the constraints of masculinity on men.

Men are oppressed by patriarchal society, but there is a need to maintain a focus on the problems that women will exclusively face. Indeed, many men participate in misogyny, the social and cultural bias against women, whether unconsciously or not. Of course, so do many women: members of all genders can shame a woman for being a 'slut', curtailing her sexual freedom in a way never experienced by men.

Further, when harassment or violence against women occurs, men who participate must be held to account - it is not just a `women's issue'. We all need to challenge our own assumptions about gender and sex, if we are not to reproduce harmful and restrictive ideas about what is 'normal' and 'right' for the next generation. Ignorance and inactivity maintains inequality and privilege. If you don't question, you're complicit. However, debate, wider awareness and efforts to secure attitudinal change needs the backing of all in society - not least those who have the greatest power to bring about this change.

JOE NICHOLSON

25

LUGUBRIOUS RUMINATIONS

Am I not like the vomitous ungulate who further masticates that retrieved from his first stomach in an exagerated way?

No, although such a zoological simile as this is not too far amiss.

Rather I am a stupid and oblong Ape, a fact not intended to deceive, my Descent confirmed by Darwin's.

True then, that is what I am Stupidus oblongus a putrid plume, a ruminant legume.

BAI-IATI MILLER

SIASET

Oh, you cannot know, you cannot know How cold my memories grow1 try to keep them warm but they evade me, Drifting off in vapours Like heat into the night, Like haze into the desert sky Bleeding tints of apricot and cream into the blue And beneath them there is you; A shadow like the silhouette of hills All solid and rough-cut But strangely feature free.

I know now there are bigger things than meThere are hills and there are words And between them is the sky.

Oh how are they so often swallowed d-I?

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JOURNEY

Come by sometime, come by!

Tell me of the seas I want to sail, Of the oceans far away.

The peak of the mountain, On the top of the world, Paint me a picture of the view.

Let's sing the songs of forlorn Queens, Of hearts unbroken, strings attached And a weeping mermaid's sin.

The lullaby of souls awander Is the certainty of more to come, Of everlasting fresh alignments, Perpetual bewilderment.

Run after scents, run after scenes.

Climb the old man's trail!

Wash out to sea and gaze at stars, Feel how small you really are ANONYMOUS

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A HAIKU

Uguisu no / kumo ga gorogoro / houhokekyo Nightingale's cloud roaring ho-o-ho-kekyo CHARALAMPOS-PHILIP

AN OAK TREE

Crashing echoes of the sea in your parched brushing of leaves, curled and furled in tides of warm air.

Breaths whisper thither along horned ridges of bark, against your taut mast.

Sponges, lichen and moss rig and root, cling to each branch: weathered planks of a ship, now fathom-deep, and lost.

You are cast up, from arid loam, salt-stained grey, your voyage is done.

JOE NICHOLSON

28

er

A GREEN BALLOON

Leaving a restaurant months ago, we took one each: a thing they gave away as freely as receipts or mints or treats to remind us why we went there — why we go.

I think we dueled with our balloons, walking The High, home.

I don't recall it well; one of those nights you need not act in order to remember, need not try to remember your act.

To find one still here — survivor — in the corner of your room months wide from that particular night still serves as a surprise: Whatever life once breathed in remains, despite consuming pressures of days, despite our hands which still from time to time grasp it — unbelieving — and laugh at its unyielding...

It is for now a balloon, so long as there's air to declare itself so — or perhaps so long as we both know where it came from, why we went there — why we go to such lengths to cherish a green balloon we once brought home.

REBECCA MOORE. 11 A ,USTRATION: DYEDRA JUST

29

INEVITABILITY

I wonder where He is Now? That man whose whole happening is preparatory to me, whose history I shall own one day as though I owned it then, as though I own it now: part of his everyday reaching for the paper, reaching for a pen, reaching for my own self slightly off in the distance, beautifully blurred, transparent; and waiting to be coloured in.

REBECCA MOORE

ILLUSTRATION: NATALIE HARNEY

NORTON ROSE FULBRIGHT

I knew where I wanted to go.

They made sure I got there. `Norton Rose Fulbright's strategy is opening doors all round the world. So when I decided that dispute resolution was where my future lay, the opportunities to pursue my goal were almost limitless.

This really came to life when I had to choose my international seat: I had so many locations to pick from.

I knew I wanted to gain some hands-on court experience of disputes, and colleagues had told me that Dubai was the place to go. They were right. Working on construction disputes, I took on a huge range of work and gained lots of court and client exposure.

Soon I'll be qualifying into Disputes. When I do, the practical experience I have already gained in our offices and on client secondment will prove absolutely priceless.'

Lola Akinpelu, Trainee, Dispute resolution and litigation

To see how you could define your own path within our global legal practice, visit: nortonrosefulbrightgraduates.com

Progress with purpose

:. • HOLOCAUST MEMORIAL SITES 5

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

ILLUSTRATION: SAMA AL-SHARIF

Where is your favourite place to eat in Oxford?

Noodle Nation. Because it has noodles and it's cheap and cheerful.

Who would be your ideal dinner companion?

That chap who played Marius in Les Miserables. He is beautiful and also I reckon he'd have pretty good chat.

What is the last film you saw? (or book you read) Les Miserables. This could explain why my previous response is what it is.

And a little quotation: "The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven."

John Milton, Paradise Lost Pravina Rudra

34

Where is your favourite place to eat in Oxford?

Sofi France in The Covered Market Who would be your ideal dinner companion?

Kurt Elling- The man is a god What is the last film you saw? (or book you read) The Song Before it is Sung- Justin Cartwright And a little quotation: "Remember that you are an Englishman, and have consequently won first prize in the lottery of life."

Cecil Rhodes Magnus Rowbotham

THE PEMBROKE BULLFROG

Where is your favourite place to eat in Oxford?

La Cucina Who would be your ideal dinner companion?

Barack Obama What is the last film you saw? (or book you read) Captain CoreIli's Mandolin

Elspeth Hoskins Madeleine Hartley Jack Ramsden

Treasurer:

Charlie Roberts

Designer:

Prerna Aswani

Advertising: 600 Pembroke students receive a copy -of The Pembroke Bullfrog, and over 4500 alumini an "electronic version. If you would like to advertise with us, please email bullfrog@pmb.ox.ac.uk

And a little quotation: "Patience arid Fortitude conquer all things."

Emerson Erin Wysocki Jones

Editor: Sub-editors:

ii-

Subscriptions: The Pembroke Bullfrog offers a subscription service to alumini and parents. Please contact bullfrog@pmb.ox.ac.uk for more information and details of our subscription package.

'Front Cover by Claire Rammelkamp

Where is your favourite place to eat in Oxford?

Falafel House on Gloucester Green Who would be your ideal dinner companion?

Gandalf (or, failing that, Sir Ian McKellen) What is the last film you saw? (or book you read) Pacific Rim, which is not nearly as raunchy as the title would suggest And a little quotation: "Beneath this mask there is more than flesh. Beneath this mask there is an idea, Mr. Creedy, and ideas are bulletproof" Alan Moore, V for Vendetta Millie O'Driscoll

Disclaimer: The views presented in this publications are the opinions of the named writers and do not represent the views of the college, CR or MCR.

35

Not an ordinary BOOKSHOP since 1872 . .

Although there's no knocking Blackwell's off its perch as Oxford's most iconic bookseller, we would like to think of ourselves shop closest to the heart of the university.

Much of our publicity material begins with the phrase 'we are no ordinary bookshop', and whilst this is true in regards to being a publisher's shop alone, the OUP bookshop, since the passing of Thornton's of Broad Street to become a webonly business, is now the longest established bookseller in Oxford. Our sister shop in Cambridge celebrated its twentieth anniversary in 2012, a milestone we reached the year Walt Whitman died, and Mary Pickford was born.

schemes, these will provide an increasing percentage of our reach and output as a publisher as the century progresses, and to what extent they will overtake, at some stage, our printed product, we do not yet know.

We're a close knit team of professional booksellers who share many of the same agonies and anxieties as our fellows on Broad Street, on the Charring Cross Road, and in other large-scale independents globally. We need to encourage footfall, shift product, and increase discretionary spending within our mission of 'facilitating the dissemination of learning'.

We thus offer discounts both within and beyond the university community including 15% off for all current University of Oxford students and alumni.

We don't have to struggle to define a USP as many businesses do today (and fail to do, and become casualties of the current global downturn) because the retailing and showcasing of the publishing of Oxford University Press, the world's largest, is our mission, and our reason to be.

There are other showrooms across our global business, but none other is based on a site which first saw Oxford University printing in about 1586, when it was the shop of Joseph Barnes, first printer to the university. The bookshop as it is today was founded in half of the current store in 1872, and we enlarged to take in 117 High Street in 1996.

Selling academic books can sometimes be a dry job, this is why when we find books with crossover appeal we try to make them as fun as possible. Our sockpuppet windows are not always approved of by the great and the good in our organization but we know that they're popular with both our core customer base and the hundreds of tourists we see photographing them in the summer.

Staying power is far from everything, however. In 2011, the shop had a re-fit in order to install a new digital showroom to allow our booksellers to showcase the Press's digital content. From high-profile resources like the OED and Oxford Dictionary of National Biography online, to apps which tie in with our English Language Teaching reading

Of course, the main advantage we offer to the University is that we are part of it, and give a proportion of our profits back yearly. Spending money with us is money spent on improving the University, offering scholarships, funding building programmes and generally helping out. So, help us to help you, and make us, and our sockpuppets, happy.

FIND US AT 116-117 High St, Oxford oxi. 4sz TELEPHONE 01865 242913 EMAIL bookshop.uk@oup.com

Join us on Facebook and remember that all University of Oxford students, staff, alumni and congregation members receive a

15% discount on all full-price books