The Pembroke Bullfrog, MT12

PEMBROKE

BULLFROG

THE

Michaelmas 2012

Artwork: Anne Brink 2

The Pembroke Bullfrog Michaelmas 2012

The Burden of Generation X 4 James Saad Asia 6 Erin Wysocki-Jones The Wood Room MCR Prize 8 Niina Tamura The Legacy of Scientific Racism 10 Emily Cannon Doing It For the Kids: Alan McGee 12 Matt Walsh and the Creation Records Story An Olympic Challenge 14 Nora Schlatte MCR Photography Prize 2012 16 Ollie Ford, Danielle Kijewski The Pembroke Art Gallery 18 Robbie Griffiths Review Section 20 Joe Nicholson, Alex Fisher Poetry 22 Claire Rammelkamp, Kiley Bense

Photography: Vivien Ngo

A Goodbye 24 Alexander Joynes

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The Burden of Generation X James Saad In 1964, Bob Dylan wrote ‘The Times They Are a-Changin’’. Today that sentiment rings truer than ever. We are living in an era characterized by the ability of individuals to transfer information freely. Data that would have been difficult or impossible to find previously is now readily and instantly available. It is The Information Age. The world is getting smaller. People are connected like never before. Technology and innovation are the driving forces behind this revolution.

Throughout history, time and space have always been the two most valuable commodities. Perhaps this is due to their proclivity to be finite. In other words, they are limited. The world is so big therefore we only have so much space; our lives are so long therefore we only have so much time. Thus, almost every significant invention, i.e. ‘The Game Changers’, has been aimed at bridging the gap between time and space.

A ‘Game Changer’ is something that comes along and revolutionizes how societies function. It shatters established norms and redefines what’s possible. It’s not a localized occurrence, but rather a global phenomenon that permeates every facet of human life. The discovery of electricity is a prime example of a ‘Game Changer’.

One of the principal benefits of electricity is lights, which make it possible to do things in the dark, thus maximizing your time since now you can also work at night. The modern automobile is another good example; cars make it possible to travel great distances in short periods of time. Likewise, planes make it possible to cross oceans in hours, rather than weeks or months, microwaves make it possible to cook your dinner in minutes rather than hours, and so on. ‘Game Changers’ almost always manage to bridge the gap between time and space in one way or another. The information age is defined by the advent of a new ‘Game Changer’ that does this digitally.

Computers, along with the Internet and the World Wide Web, have revolutionized how we live. They impact how we do everything, both personally and professionally. A small business owner who could not afford a store front can now run a virtual shop digitally and sell his/her products and/or services online to anyone anywhere in the world. The internet can be used to spread awareness or rally people to a cause. It has even been used as a tool for socioeconomic change, sparking revolutions and empowering individuals. Additionally, Information Technology (IT) is one of the fastest growing industries in the world, employing millions of people internationally and significantly affecting global economy. In the Information Age, the world is changing as rapidly as technology. Everything and everyone is affected, from the corporation to the individual. A great deal of statistics and research illustrates this, and tries to project some of these effects; but no one can predict how far it will go.

In considering how technology and the Internet are affecting industry and the world, the entertainment business, a big part of most countries’ economies, works as a prime example. In America, Nielsen ratings (developed by the Nielsen Company) determine size and composition of television audiences. The system was originally conceived in the 1930s to provide statistics on the market of radio shows. Later, in 1950, Nielsen moved to television, transferring the methods of his ratings system from radio to television. That method has since become the primary source of audience measurement information for the world’s television industry. This is important because it is directly linked with how companies advertise. Over 90% of consumers watch commercial television, with the average adult spending twenty-six hours each week watching TV. Over the first twentyeight days of advertising on TV, brands can expect roughly a 5% increase in sales.

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Since TV advertising agencies deal with ratings, they can guarantee that a certain percentage of your available target audience will see your commercial. Companies hire agencies to plan and manage campaigns with their specific target audience in mind. Commercial advertisements interrupt network programing to inform us of some new product or service, while agencies monitor ratings and track the results.

However, the advent of technology has rendered this system obsolete. The Internet has changed how we watch TV; it has, in fact, changed how people consume all media. The journalism industry in particular has been heavily impacted. All newspaper outlets now produce content both in print and on the web. E-readers and e-books are growing in popularity, with increased methods of distribution through iPads and the Amazon Kindle. In a world of portable computers, tablets, smart phones, and digital video recorders, the possibilities are endless. We not only have the freedom to choose when to consume media but also where, and how. The Nielson ratings system is not equipped to deal with these factors. There is currently no way to measure accurately audience viewership across multiple media platforms.

Ultimately, this means that the old way of doing things simply no longer works. We need new business models for the twenty-first century utilise existing technologies while planning for the future. This phenomenon is not exclusive to the entertainment industry; however, this area provides a potent example because advertising affects all businesses both big and small, which in turn affects the economy, and thus the world. In such a rapidly changing climate we must adapt in order to remain relevant.

Still, there are always those who resist change.

Last week, I got a friend request from my father on Facebook, while my own brother refuses to create an account. He isn’t alone in his boycott. I have observed that, among my circle of friends, we are divided. Some of them can’t go a day without checking their email or updating their Facebook status; they do everything online from their banking to their shopping. Most work in an IT related field, and some have even made careers as graphic artists or web designers. The other half of my friends doesn’t have Facebook accounts, and they don’t want them. They reluctantly created email accounts, most likely out of some necessity, and which they only check once a week or even monthly. They would rather get lost than use GPS, and they type with one finger. What’s more, their refusal to acknowledge new technologies comes with a sense of pride, as if their rebellious attitude makes them cool. Many are highly educated and work as doctors and lawyers; some are in finance,

while others are self-employed. Why are some people so resistant to change, while others so readily embrace it?

The one thing my friends, my brother, and I all have in common is that we are part of Generation X. The term refers to the generation after the Western post–World War II baby boom, and generally includes people born from the early 1960s through to the early 1980s. We are the generation that gave rise to the Information Age. We helped develop the infrastructure and facilitated its growth. But, like my friends, we are divided; in fact, this is the burden of Generation X. Some have to be left behind in order for the rest of us to keep moving forward. Most of us remember a time before computers and the Internet. We remember going to the library for information, using the old card catalog system, overhead projectors, and typewriters. I have observed that for older members of Generation X like my brother, it is harder to let go than for younger members like myself.

Those born in the late seventies and early eighties are much more accepting than those born in the sixties. This division is exclusive to Generation X. Generation Y (our children) have been brought up in the Information Age with computers. For the most part, they all embrace technology to the fullest extent. Conversely, much of Generation W (our parents) has left or is preparing to leave the workforce. They will be professionally unaffected by the progression of technology. Generation X members on the other hand are still building their careers, and their lives.

Change can indeed be a frightening prospect. After all, there are some good arguments to be made for the opposing side. Some of my friends argue that technology is bad if people become too dependent on it. Others are intimidated by it. Every year sees some new gadget or innovation, old out-dated models are constantly being replaced by new, improved versions. Phones, TVs, and other appliances are redesigned to be smaller and lighter, with more features. Technology is moving at a relentless pace and we’re scrambling to catch up. Fast-paced societies dominate civilization and sometimes it can all be scary. Nevertheless, it’s progress, and can’t be stopped. Whether that progress is good or bad is debatable, but the bottom line is that this train is leaving the station with or without you, you’re either on or off. So what’s the moral of the story? In the words of Bob Dylan: ‘Don’t stand in the doorway, don’t block up the hall, for he that gets hurt will be he who has stalled, there’s a battle outside ragin’. Your old road is rapidly agein’ please get out of the new one if you can’t lend your hand for the times they are a changin’.’

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Asia

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Erin Wysocki-Jones

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The Wood Room Prize 2012 Each year, Pembroke College’s MCR awards the Wood Room Prize, a literary competition inviting essays, prose, or poetry. The winner is chosen by a judge from the college SCR. This year, MCR members were asked to write on the subject of ‘Pembroke’s Secret History’, and the prize was won

by Niina Tamura.

Secret Diary of an Oxford Goddess: Divinity, Ducks, and Dobson On my first day at Oxford, that boarding school for the young divine, a multitude of exciting things happened previously kept secret within the walls of the said institution, that I shall report here for the first time. Perhaps I should explain a little bit about the school for those readers unfamiliar with this educational system for young gods and goddesses. Students at Oxford are born with certain talents and a general disposition to be celestial, but it nonetheless requires a significant amount of schooling for us to really know ‘how to be holy’. So, whenever our parents deem us mature and ready, we are sent to Oxford to study our chosen specialty, as well as to engage in general formation of our character. Once our name has been entered into the school’s records, we are called up by the teachers to visit the school for several days to be tested for our suitability in our chosen divine profession. For some reason or another (I am now not quite sure what), I decided to study Solidarity. For even more obscure reasons, I was accepted, and soon the day arrived when my parents dropped me off at the school’s gate with my few modest but cherished belongings.

wards the back. I followed her gratefully. ‘Hello, I’m Anne,’ she whispered. ‘I’m Pembroke,’ I replied.

Being the new god on the block is scary, but I boldly stepped into the grandiose manor. It turned out that I had arrived just in time for the first lesson of the day, which had to be attended by all gods and goddesses, irrespective of their chosen divine destination. I suppose these lessons were meant to foster our general divinity. The classroom was an imposing great hall with a painted ceiling, portraits of former students hanging from the oak-panelled walls, and a large, embroidered, yellowish clock in the middle of the wall we were facing when sitting at our desks. The room was already filled with plenty of students when I entered. I didn’t know which place to pick, but a girl walked towards me and told me to sit next to her to-

The fight over the front row had concluded – Balliol and Merton conceded temporary defeat and left Univ in the central seat. Merton picked up his pile of books and grudgingly moved them to a different desk. He was wearing very thick glasses that magnified his eyes. One of the geeks, I concluded. But then he walked over to Magdalen and she looked up at him with a most tender look in her eyes. He took her hand and kissed it and then sat down at the desk next to her. ‘Merton has the best grades in school,’ Anne whispered, ‘No one understands why, but somehow Magdalen chose him as her companion out of all the other gods.’ I watched them with great astonishment.

Their devotion for each other continued to puzzle

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I looked around me and carefully surveyed my fellow classmates. Everyone was wearing the school uniform (a long white tunic gown), but it was still obvious that some came from the more prestigious holy families than the more modestly endowed like me. I wasn’t the oldest in the room, but not the youngest either.

Once sitting down, I watched a fight between three gods over the place in the middle of the front row. ‘I was here first,’ one of them exclaimed, and tried to push the other two away. ‘That’s Univ, Balliol, and Merton,’ Anne explained, ‘they always argue about who was here first and gets the front seat.’ Behind the front row sat two more very imposing looking gods, and a stunningly beautiful goddess. All of them wore gold embellishments on their togas and in their hair.

‘Those we call the Big Three,’ Anne went on, ‘the girl is called Magdalen, and the boys are John and House.

His real name is Christ Church, but no one calls him that. I don’t know why, maybe because he is rather fat and square,’ Anne giggled.

and amaze for years to follow. They eventually built two towers to symbolize their marriage, as I read in a work of the mortal Zuleika Dobson only a few days ago. But I am digressing, and shall return to my first day. After the first lesson on Introduction to Holiness, we split up to attend lessons in our chosen field. It turned out that Anne was studying Solidarity too. To no great surprise, the Big Three all went off to learn the arts of Avarice.

We all joined forces again in the afternoon for Physical Exertion. I was a little embarrassed as, due to an unfortunate temporary shortcoming of gold in our family, I had not been able to purchase the entire collection of school robes at once; so, I had to wear a rather bright and tight-fitting pink one-piece. However, I hoped to make up for my appearance with my athletic talent. It turned out to that for reasons beyond my grasp of understanding, a large part of our lesson consisted of the sport of racing ducks across a pond. We each were told that we would be given a set of eight ducklings that we would have to raise and

train over the following weeks and months. Scandalously, I witnessed House setting two of this flock free at break time, returning with apparent desolation to our teacher to declare his unfortunate loss. A week later, I would watch him replace his missing competitors with a set of twin ducks, larger and shinier than any of ours, specially delivered from across the Great Ocean. I was outraged by such practices, but even more pleased when I beat his foreign-fuelled team in the first big race. Alas, I digress again.

At the end of my first day, I lay awake in my bed pondering my impressions and general outlook for my time to come at my new home. I knew I was neither the grandest, most beautiful, or most blessed with gold and fortune, but somehow I felt confident that I would find my rightful place among the colourful characters surrounding me, and I fell asleep with the firm thought in my holy head that there were some virtues, that, if lacking, even ducks imported from a strange land could not make up for.

RostronParry Random Hints:

“The four stages of man are infancy, childhood, adolescence and obsolescence” (Linkletter) “I think the necessity of being ready increases. Look to it” (Lincoln) “Funny how a melody sounds like a memory” (Church) “Husbands are like fires - they go out if unattended” (Gabor)

“I’m privileged to be very impertinent, being an Oxonian” (Farquhar)

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www.rostronparry.com 9

The Legacy of Scientific Racism Emily Cannon Elaine Riddick, a black American living in North Carolina, was raped by a neighbour when she was thirteen.

When she fell pregnant, a midwife analysed her mental and physical abilities and branded her ‘feeble-minded’.

Consequently, as the state wished, Elaine was sterilised after she gave birth in order to stop her ‘feeble-mindedness’ being passed on to any more children of the next generation. Such a story may remind us of the horrors of Nazi Germany, but Elaine suffered this horrific procedure in 1968: she was one of around sixty-thousand US citizens who were violated by the state in this way until 1979.

the human species were equal. When Herbert Spencer coined the phrase ‘survival of the fittest’, he argued that humans were in competition with each other in order to survive, leaving only the ‘fittest’ alive. This idea has often been associated with Charles Darwin and his Origin of Species (1859); however, Darwin’s theory of natural selection did not initiate the premise of competition and the struggle for survival. Instead, the masses of observational data Darwin accumulated in his comprehensive theory supported a pre-established conclusion that inequality existed naturally. What Darwin did add to the debate, however, was empirical evidence that some species did not naturally progress: some degenerated and died out. Because Darwin emphasised that humankind was not exempt from this revelation, it was applied to human societies; it was believed that those individuals and the groups they belonged to at the base of the racial hierarchy were doomed to extinction, and, it was feared, would drag down others given the opportunity.

It should not be forgotten that the US – and European nations like Sweden, Denmark, Germany, and Estonia – did have reasons for coercing men and women into destroying their reproductive organs and these reasons, in the state’s eyes, were legitimate. ‘Feebleminded’ people were normally members of the most vulnerable groups in society – ethnic minorities, the poor, and the disabled – and therefore, accordFear of ‘inferior’ members of western sociing to contemporaries, contributed noth- ‘Such a story may re- eties led not only to racial discrimination; ing to society. If they continued repro- mind us of the horrors it also oppressed women and the poor. All ducing, it was feared that they would take of Nazi Germany, but three groups of people were labelled as over the state, leading to its termination. this happened in 1968.’ ‘unfit’ in a physical and mental capacity.

Paranoia about how individuals in society By the end of the nineteenth century, howthreatened the wellbeing of the population ever, mental (rather than physical) ‘unfitas a whole was not new: it had intensified throughout the ness’ was becoming the main indication of the degeneranineteenth century. Intellectuals and scientists in Eu- tion of a group of people. As such, many who belonged rope at this time began to construct hierarchies of the to these categories were branded ‘feebleminded’ as their various categories of people on earth. intelligence was ‘low’ and they had a number of immoral traits, such as drunkenness. The reason why this was so From a racial perspective, it was clear to contemporaries threatening to society was because ‘unfit’ characteristics that some ethnic groups were superior to others, as civi- were believed to be hereditary and, therefore, could be lisation had evidently ‘progressed’ more in Europe than passed on to subsequent generations, leading to the overin the rest of the world. Black Africans, for instance, con- all decline of society. Darwin’s theory, after all, strongly tinued to believe in ‘primitive’ religions, and performed supported the idea that an entire species could become unusual rituals. Julien Virey, a French naturalist, com- extinct due to the reproduction of degenerate individumented in 1837 that the ‘backwardness’ of the black race als. indicated that they were ‘more fitted to be ruled, than to govern, in other words they were rather born for submis- In the past, this had not been a problem as ‘unfit’ memsion, than dominion’. The hierarchy therefore advanced bers of western society had been left to die in their own from black (the least developed) through to white (the poverty and misfortune, but, by the late nineteenth cenmost developed), with the indigenous populations of the tury, contemporaries had become much more altruistic Americas and Asia in between. to fellow citizens. This was problematic as it was becoming clear that allowing the weak and vulnerable to Such a scientific, anthropological analysis of the myriad continue reproducing could be disastrous for society as races justified the conclusion that not all members of a whole; just as every individual needed to contribute to 10

the wellbeing of the entire species in Darwin’s theory, every citizen had to play their part to ensure the nation continued to survive and progress.

But, what of the individuals who failed to recognise the importance of their individual duty to the wellbeing of society? Most did not have the means to climb out of their degenerate state and continued to produce offspring. Therefore, the state felt it had a duty to intervene. This resulted in the rise of the eugenics movement in the early twentieth century, which aimed to control the reproductive rights of all individuals in the US and some European nations. Those believed to be ‘fit’ were encouraged to breed so desirable mental and physical traits could survive into the future, whereas the ‘unfit’, or ‘feebleminded’, were educated about how their promiscuity could damage society.

However, education proved to be insufficient and more physical resolutions were needed, such as the development of a contraceptive that could be used – in the words of the British Eugenics Society in 1925 – by the ‘stupidest and therefore the most undesirable members of society.’ Then, with the coming of economic depression, such initiatives became too expensive to fund and, instead, a cheaper and more efficient method of controlling reproduction became popular: sterilisation. Denmark was the first country to legalise such extreme, irreversible action; voluntary sterilisation in 1929, and compulsory sterilisation of all mentally ‘unfit’ citizens in 1937. Other Scandinavian countries, Germany, and the US then followed, and such laws remained in place for decades.

Elaine Riddick, image from flickr.com

Elaine was sterilised in 1968. Today, many of us think of state control over an individual’s personal life as being a gross violation of human rights. However, the truth is that such destruction of a citizen’s reproductive organs still occurs for the ‘wellbeing’ of nations across the world. The reason for this may not always be racist, but it is based on the idea that scientific racism cemented and encouraged: some people are inferior to others. In China, the state continues to implement the ‘One Child’ policy, forcing anyone who has more than one child to pay a substantial fine, which has resulted in women being coerced into aborting their second child, even when they are at the later stages of pregnancy. In Sweden, on the other hand, it is still a legal requirement for any individual undergoing a gender reassignment operation to be sterilised; nations, it seems, still fear the possibility that society may degenerate and cease to exist.

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Doing it for the kids: Alan McGee and the Creation Records Story

Matt Walsh

I’ve recently become a Creationist. Contrary to the prevailing tastes of the modern world, I now adhere steadfastly to the belief that my universe has been constructed through the design of some supreme deity. Yet mine is no Abrahamic God, nor any other divine resident of the celestial realm; rather, He rises, flame-haired and leather-clad, over the monolithic grey of Glaswegian suburbia, His all-seeing eyes shielded by a pair of black wayfarers. My messiah is a man called Alan McGee, and the altar I kneel before is his music imprint, Creation Records.

Forgive me for being so decadently sensationalist. McGee is a god only in the cut-throat world of A&R, but nevertheless, I have become irrevocably besotted with his record label. For a decade and a half at the end of the last century, Creation was the definitive British independent label of its era. Some of the acts McGee signed – the Jesus and Mary Chain, Primal Scream, My Bloody Valentine – pushed back even further the boundaries set by the punk and post-punk bands of the 1970s and early 1980s. Others – most notably Oasis – penned the soundtrack for a generation. From the primordial soup of Creation, there bubbled forth a stream of pioneering, innovative musicians, the likes of which have not been seen since.

The Creation Records story is a boozefuelled, drugged-up paean to the do-ityourself music ethic, to one man’s irrepressible charisma, to a gang mentality that united a group of like-minded individuals behind the banner of a seminal independent label. It is also a story of huge excess, of the standard-bearer’s personal fall from grace, and of the label’s eventual strangulation by a more powerful corporation. It begins in 1983, when erstwhile British-Rail-employee-cum-London-club-proprietor Alan McGee decided to join forces with old bandmate Dick Green, and Joe Foster, a member of post-punkers the Television Personalities. Penitent for blowing most of the club’s profits on alcohol, the threesome decided to put out a single by a local band, The Legend.

The Legend’s track would achieve limited commercial success, and it was not until the following year that Creation would drop a hit record. Since his British Rail days, McGee had been the de facto manager of the Jesus and Mary Chain, a fourpiece hailing from his hometown of East Kilbride, a few miles outside Glasgow. The Mary Chain’s debut seven-inch, ‘Upside Down’, shifted over 35,000 copies and topped the British indie chart. The track’s feedback-drenched squall, overlaid with Jim Reid’s sludgy, drawled vocals, heralded the arrival of the British noise-pop movement, and compelled Neil Taylor of the NME to hail the Mary Chain as ‘the best band in the world.’

McGee’s magnetic charm and knack for courting the media proved instrumental in cultivating the band’s riotous early reputation – denigrated by the band themselves – which saw them dubbed ‘the new 12

Sex Pistols’ and sparked chaos at several frenetic shows.

The success of the Jesus and Mary Chain led to interest from Blanco y Negro Records, a subsidiary of Warner Brothers, and the band left Creation in early 1985. In the summer of that year, they would go on to release their debut album Psychocandy, a landmark fusion of Sixties girl-group pop, three-chord punk, and discordant guitar feedback. Sorely wounded by the band’s defection, McGee focused all his efforts on squeezing out every last penny from Warner’s proposed buyout package; the cash then went into the kitty for pressing early singles by Primal Scream, Felt, and the Weather Prophets.

Such a deal became emblematic of Creation’s financial rollercoaster ride – even during the label’s impending creative peak, it remained reliant on short-term big-money returns from successful acts to avoid bankruptcy. ‘We were fucked for years,’ McGee told the Guardian in 2010. ‘We never made a penny in the first ten years!’

Part of the issue was McGee’s inimitable style of wooing bands: ‘Usually we’d get them off their nut. They’d have such a good time they’d think: “Do we really want to sign to some boring fucker at a major or some lunatic who will put us in the charts?” Then when you end up taking whatever refreshments are available at 4 a.m. in a Jacuzzi you think: ‘I made the right decision.” As McGee’s reputation developed in the mid-1980s, his unmatched talent for investing in people, in addition to his wild joie de vivre as head of Creation, resulted in his successful courting of embryonic shoegaze acts Ride and My Bloody Valentine, as well as indie rockers The House of Love and Primal Scream. Yet the fraternal atmosphere at the Creation offices, while always remaining supportive of its artists’ musical pursuits, also meant that people’s inefficiencies, boozing, and drug habits were all on the payroll. As a business model, the Creation system was senseless, but as a record label, it was pure genius.

As the turn of the decade loomed, a burgeoning scene would come to have a critical effect on Creation and help to usher in the label’s golden age. Inspired by the maturation of ecstasy-fuelled acid house, primarily around Manchester’s Haçienda Club, McGee moved north in 1989 in an attempt to tap into a rapidly mushrooming new form of youth culture. His own experiences, as well as those of Creation’s performers and management he brought up with him, resulted in the signings of several house acts. But more importantly, it spawned a crossover movement that married the agitated, technology-driven beats of dance with the song structure and lyrical focus of indie.

On no record was this marriage more harmonious than on Primal Scream’s Screamadelica.

Before its 1991 release, the Scream had been a talented alt-rock outfit in search of a true direction. Screamadelica proved to be a triumphantly experimental excursion into previously unmapped territory.

The leading single, ‘Loaded,’ pilfered the melody from ‘I’m Losing More Than I’ll Ever Have’ (a track on the band’s eponymous second LP), remixed it with samples from the Peter Fonda film Wild Angels, and overlaid it with Edie Brickell’s ‘What I Am’ and Robert Johnson’s ‘Terraplane Blues.’ Other memorable cuts, such as ‘Movin’ On Up’ and ‘Come Together,’ blended dance with lead singer Bobby Gillespie’s love for soul and gospel music. As the bastard child of Factory Records-inspired house acts and the jingle-jangle of late ’80s indie rock, Screamadelica proved to be the artistic embodiment of an entire generation’s euphoric trip into the ‘Madchester’ scene.

In fact, the autumn of 1991 would be the moment when the label’s creative output would reach its peak. In addition to Screamadelica, Creation put out Teenage Fanclub’s Bandwagonesque, a record which to this day has remained an understated alt-rock classic, famously keeping Nirvana’s Nevermind from occupying American magazine Spin’s end-of-year awards list. Hot on its heels came My Bloody Valentine’s Loveless, a groundbreaking, era-defining slice of British shoegaze. Drowning out occasional oases of melodic beauty with Kevin Shields’ searing, screaming guitar sound, the album was critically adored, but its release cost Creation over a quarter of a million pounds. (Ever the eccentric, McGee eventually took to feigning a nervous breakdown in order to coerce Shields into finishing the album.) Loveless’ poor sales figures left Creation effectively bankrupt, and the following year McGee was forced to do the unthinkable: he sold half the company to Sony Records.

McGee would later assert that the label lost much of its character in the years following the takeover. His view is corroborated by a multitude of erstwhile acts and employees. Many of McGee’s signings fondly remember the saturnalian chaos which had always pervaded the day-today running of the label. ‘You’d go in for a meeting Friday night and come out again on Monday morning!’ Laughs Ride guitarist Mark Gardener, ‘It was like, what happened there, that was one hell of a weekend!’ McGee himself recalls a late night with Primal Scream’s Paul Mulraney, which climaxed with the two friends ‘getting on an E’ and dancing to Frankie Knuckles on a concrete podium as the first commuter trains of the day rolled past: ‘It was seven in the morning. That’s how insane Creation was then. And then at half past eight we’d be like, ‘phone up Rough Trade and find out the sales figures!” Yet the Sony deal broke the convivial esprit de corps around the place. In the words of Laurence Verfaille, onetime head of press: ‘When Sony got involved with Creation, some people arrived and completely changed the vibe and some drugs arrived which completely changed the vibe as well.’

Creation’s most lasting gift to the world, however, was yet to come.

Respect for the label had grown so much in its short lifetime that by 1993, McGee could break his next big act and be confident that the public would be ready to buy into it. However, not even the most Panglossian of optimists could have expected that band to release

the fastest-selling debut album in British music history, play live to three-hundred thousand people at Knebworth Park, and inspire a public love affair which rivalled Beatlemania in its intensity. That band, of course, was Oasis, signed by McGee after he saw a promising live show in Glasgow in May 1993. Their first two albums, Definitely Maybe and (What’s The Story) Morning Glory?, fathered a host of chart hits, and became landmark recordings of the Britpop movement. Oasis’s success was unprecedented for an act on an independent label.

In spite of Oasis’s achievements, McGee would hardly be around to share in the band’s success. The previous decade had seen his star rise high over the music industry; simultaneously, the turmoil of running a barely-buoyant company by day and indulging in drugged-up hedonism by night had addled McGee’s brain and exhausted his body: ‘I actually thought I was possibly up there with Beethoven and Shakespeare, that I was creating metaphysical history by running Creation Records. I was absolutely delusional.’ Faced with the growing pressures of fame, McGee found himself struggling to deal with the demands of the public persona he had created for himself: ‘It was like, you’re supposed to ‘be Alan McGee.’ You’re supposed to be this insane person. There’d always be twenty people waiting to take me out, because I was like a professional good time.’ The crash, when it came, was a big one: McGee was bedridden for several months, unable to take part in the label’s day-to-day management. Creation was left in the capable hands of Dick Green, whose affable but quiet demeanour was more suited to his role as Creation’s behind-the-scenes executive. Lacking the label’s intractable cynosure, Green was forced to democratise the company in a bid to prevent it from going under. Keen to shore up the perilous business course navigated by a McGee-headed Creation, Sony infiltrated the boardroom with more level-headed, less charismatic executives. By the time McGee returned, it seemed to him – and to other mainstays of the Creation offices – that the magic had gone. In 1999, the label collapsed under its own weight, and McGee sold off the rest of the company to Sony.

From the Jesus and Mary Chain at the North London Polytechnic, to Oasis at Knebworth, Creation Records takes credit for discovering some of the most inspired – and inspirational – music of the Eighties and Nineties. Its story is one of the great untold rock-‘n’roll legends, lurching crazily between ecstasy and agony (before being topped up with some more ecstasy). The man at its helm, Alan McGee – vivacious, wacky, erratic, rambunctious, neurotic – deserves to be considered one of the finest contributors to popular music in the last thirty years. Ultimately, though, the Creation Records story plays out as a synecdoche for the death of the largescale indie label as a concept. For in the absence of McGee and his many incarnations – as entrepreneur, as pacemaker, as party ringleader – we see the insidious tendrils of the corporate major worming further into the indie’s idiosyncratic modus operandi, asphyxiating its creative process. It is this all-too-familiar story which brought about the demise of Creation, the last – and, in my opinion, the best – of the great indie labels.

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An Olympic Challenge Nora Schlatte The London Olympics this summer were fantastic. It was a massive breath of fresh air in terms of the way we see women and their achievements depicted in the media. For once, we saw lots of extremely powerful and driven women with incredible, healthy, and strong bodies achieving amazing goals. We need to see more of this all year round. In many ways, the 2012 Olympics were a milestone for women. With the introduction of women’s boxing for the first time this year, the only sport that now remains in which women to not compete is Greco-roman wrestling. On the other hand, men do not compete in synchronised swimming. Furthermore, this was the first year that, under pressure from the IOC, Qatar, Brunei, and Saudi Arabia sent female athletes to the Olympics.

However, we should not overlook the various injustices that women continued to face throughout the games. It is important that we bring these issues to light, and not let them get brushed aside and ignored. The increased media coverage of women’s sport during the Olympics has highlighted some of the problems with the treatment of female athletes.

During the Olympics, both male and female bodies are constantly scrutinised. The Olympics is largely about marvelling at these people’s amazing bodies and the amount of energy, hard work, and dedication that has gone into building them. However, what we are really interested in when we watch athletes perform is what their bodies can do. Their bodies are viewed as instruments, not objects. And frankly, this was one of the most refreshing things about watching the Olympics. Women’s bodies were celebrated as incredible instruments for achieving amazing things, alongside those of men.

And yet we still saw female athletes, much more than male ones, abused for their appearances. It stems from the ingrained belief of some men that women exist to look attractive for them and their subsequent inability to view a female body as an instrument and instead reducing it to an object. I will reiterate that this is a case of some men, but this does not mean it should be ignored. Ignoring comments such as these does not stop people talking that way. It is important to loudly object to the fact that Rebecca Adlington received the message ‘you shark fin nosed d*******, you belong in that pool you f****** whale’ and that the weightlifter Zoe Smith was called a ‘lesbian’ and a ‘bloke’. Even Jessica Ennis, GB poster girl of the Olympics, has been called ‘fat’.

Quite aside from the issue that apparently being a lesbian or fat is the worst possible thing a woman could be, how are we ever going to ‘inspire a generation’ of young women to push themselves in sport, or any other competitive field for that matter, if we let this kind of abuse continue? The fact remains that a highly successful male athlete who looks like a real human being will not be forced to leave twitter on account of the abuse he faces for his appearance.

It is unfortunate that even during the Olympics women are still subjected to absurd ideals of beauty and of how to be a ‘good’ woman, despite their achievements. Nowhere is this more evident than in advertising. In a particularly ridiculous Pantene Pro V advert which begins with the question ‘How do you turn an Olympian into a Pantene goddess?’, American swimmer Natalie Coughlin reads the tagline, ‘I want to win as an athlete and shine as a woman.’ The implication of this is that as a member of the female sex, it is still not enough to be an Olympian; you have to succeed as a woman as well, and separately. One particularly painful line of Coughlin’s is: ‘My hair feels so smooth and nice and I don’t want to get it wet.’ This dumbs Coughlin down, and reduces her to what is still considered to be a ‘proper woman’, just a pretty girl who cares chiefly about how she looks to men and doesn’t think too much.

She is no doubt an extremely strong, determined person; she would have to be to become an Olympian, and her presentation as a bimbo is depressing.

Another fiasco involved sixteen-year-old Gabby Douglas, who became the first 14

woman to win an all-round gold medal in gymnastics, and yet much of the media’s reaction to this was the state of her hair.

I don’t know how often I’ve heard men say that women’s sport is less interesting to watch than men’s. I do not contest the fact that this is some people’s honest opinion. As a woman, I find women’s sport more interesting to watch, so I can see why men would feel similarly. But media coverage still sides with the man’s opinion. It is a great shame that outside the Olympics only 5% of media sports coverage in the UK is of women. Surely girls would be a lot more interested in sport if they saw female athletes on TV more than once in four years. Sport is still not sold to women, because it remains ‘unfeminine’ to excel in sport, and women and girls are still constantly told that all they should care about is being feminine, as in the Pantene advert.

It seems that the only way in which is acceptable to sell women’s sport is through sex, and to men. Nowhere is this more shamefully obvious than in beach volleyball. For some reason, this sport is seen as an excuse for us all blatantly to objectify female athletes . This habit led to the internet parody ‘what if every sport was photographed like beach volleyball’, which is essentially a selection of photographs of athletes’ buttocks. Why is it that despite all the progress of various feminist movements, both in sport and more widely, we are still bombarded with the message that all women have to offer us is sex and beauty?

The fact that women’s sport is still viewed as inferior to men’s was poignantly highlighted for me in the fact that the men’s marathon winners received their medals during the closing ceremony, as per tradition, but the women did not and never have. If this truly was the ‘women’s Olympics’, surely a step away from this outdated tradition was in order.

After two weeks of Olympic joy came the closing ceremony. It was a beautiful celebration of the athletes and of British music. There was a short few minutes in the middle that were supposed to be a celebration of British fashion. We went from a wonderful celebration of athletic and musical talent to watching Naomi Campbell and Kate Moss strut around the arena. The entrance of these heroine-chic models was completely off-key with the rest of the (wonderful) ceremony and I just hope that it was not a sign that we are all going to go back to having no-one but supermodels and fashionistas in magazines as ‘role models’ for girls as soon as the Olympics are over. The Olympics gave girls and women a plethora of inspirational women to look up to, not least because those unfortunate enough to receive abuse did not take it lying down and retaliated loudly, as in the now famous case of Zoe Smith.

I must reiterate that, overall, the Olympics were wonderful for women’s sport. But we must ride that wave of positivity and we cannot let these incidents of sexism slide. It is important to talk about them and learn from them. It is an essential part of our slow journey towards a world in which a female athlete is valued for the same reasons as her male counterpart: for her contribution to the sport and nothing else.

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MCR Photography Prize 2012: Ollie Ford (winner) and Danielle Kijewski (runner-up)

Altarnun Cottage Contact details for booking are:

Mr. & Mrs. Dunkley Rose Cottage Tanhay Lane

Golan Near Fowey, Cornwall PL23 1LD

or telephone 01726 832807

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The Pembroke Art Fund Robbie Griffiths

There have been many changes at Pembroke over the summer of 2012. Next to the new rooms and café, a small space under development next to the theatre may go overlooked. However, it is arguably the Emery Art Gallery which best represents the expansion of our college – mixing prestigious historical continuity with ambitious (if slightly laboured) new steps. Much of this new room will be home of the JCR Art Collection, a set of art works that has been integral to Pembroke’s character for many years (this very magazine is named after an Art Collection sculpture by Lynn Chadwick), and whose future looks very exciting indeed. It seems vital that students know about this collection, since they actually own it!

The Collection’s story began when Anthony Emery became a Pembroke History student. This was a little later than expected due to the uninvited interruption of the Second World War. His passion for engaging people with art is said to have been sparked when imprisoned in a German prisonerof-war camp called Oflag 79, near Braunschweig. Allowed to stage a ‘review’ sketch for his fellow captives’ amusement, Anthony tried to entertain them by impersonating Salvador Dali, who in his lecture to begin the London International Surrealist Exhibition in 1938 had worn a full diving suit.

The problem with Emery’s rendition of this spectacle was that nobody laughed. Assuming that his fellow soldiers didn’t get the reference (and not that he wasn’t funny), Anthony pledged to educate his generation about modern art.

In either circumstance, Pembroke College has been the great benefactor of this badly-taken joke.

On arriving at Pembroke, Emery was quickly successful in persuading his fellow JCR members to 18

join the new art campaign. One explanation for this is that in the post-war period, many saw culture (particularly if that culture was contemporary and British) as somehow morally vital in combating the preceding inhumanity of war. And so, though a £1 battels charge was dear for the times, it came to pass that the Pembroke Art Collection began. Its first major aims were to provide ‘the Junior Common Room with good modern pictures, as well as a measure of patronage for modern painters of promise who have yet to achieve fame’; thus from the very beginning matching high-brow artistic aims with the direct involvement of students, both of which we keep as direct mantra today.

It might seem that this was a nice but inconsequential student scheme. However, the Collection quickly became much more. Perhaps the driving force in this was the refined taste of Sir Kenneth Clark, the former Director of the National Gallery, who Emery persuaded to serve as the JCR’s ‘Eminent Voluntary Buyer’ soon after he arrived as a professor in Oxford.

Between 1947 and 1950 Clark helped acquire works by artists such as John Piper, Duncan Grant, John Minton and Prunella Clough, a role-call of names that have become synonymous with the best in British art. Also bought in that period and in the years that followed was art by Victor Pasmore, Mary Feddon, and Paul Nash – all still viewable in our Collection.

Before long Pembroke had some of the finest contemporary art in the country, and this has continued to grow up to the present day.

The painting that perhaps came best to define the Collection was added in 1953, discovered by keen students as they scoured London in search of the Next Big Thing. Peter Triffett, then Chairman of the Art

From top: Barbara Delaney (copywright Barbara Delaney); Angela Palmer (copywright Angela Palmer); John Minton (copywright Royal College of Art).

With thanks to the Emery Gallery .

Tom Phillips (All rights reserved, DACS 2009)

As often as possible, the opportunity of a vote is given to the JCR, particularly on the buying of works by new painters. With this, the collection is not just about spending money. As they are ‘our’ paintings, we have a say in where they are hung and how they are shown, an opportunity particularly prescient given the imminent opening of a new gallery.

Committee, later explained that he and his fellow cultural impresarios were ‘on the verge of exhaustion’ after an unsuccessful day’s sourcing when they climbed down into the Beaux Arts Gallery in a basement off Bond Street. Inside, a man called Francis Bacon had a small one man show. That afternoon, either with brilliant foresight or in a tired delirium, they decided to spend the whole year’s funds (we estimate £150) on a painting called Man in a Chair.

That year the JCR censured the Art Committee for ‘wasting’ its funds, with one critic questioning the aesthetics of the slightly ghoulish piece with the eloquent ‘who on earth would want that sort of painting in their rooms!’ Luckily for Pembroke, art is subjective, and the bulk of people paid to have opinions on such issues felt differently. Bacon became one of Britain’s foremost painters, and the value of Man in a Chair grew higher and higher. Through years of (relative) College poverty, one imagines that many supported auctioning the work, and finally, in 1997, partly due to fears about security (the work was once hung on a single nail in the open JCR), the undergraduate body sold the painting for approximately £400,000.

Encumbered with such a substantial amount of money, the JCR decided not to simply blow it, but to set up a Charity – the Pembroke College JCR Art Collection Fund, whose yearly interest on its savings is split between grants for students (either hardship or travel grants can be applied for by all students) and on the Collection itself – acquiring new works of art, and maintaining the existing Collection. In Trinity 2012 alone, this fund gave out eight travel grants, whose variety is illustrated by the fact that one student created a cookbook of fried foods in the southern States of America with their money, while another did micro-finance in Africa. In the past few years we have bought works by Angela Palmer and Evelyn Williams, Alan Davie and Tom Phillips, and in the last term, Patrick Heron, this new acquisition going with a work by the same painter bought many years ago.

Money allocation is for the most part decided by the Committee, made up largely of ex- and current JCR committee members, as well as senior staff (Lynne Henderson deserves particular praise for leading the group for the past decade), always with the knowledge that we are beholden to a larger body of students.

Great stories continue to come out of Pembroke Art. A good friend of the collection, the eminent natural photographer and painter Andrew Lawson, came back last term to judge the yearly art prize at his old College. Before revealing the winners, Andrew told his audience of his time as an errant medical student in Oxford (he much preferred drawing and photography to human innards). In 1963, University art, Andrew sent a letter to the then up-and-coming David Hockney, requesting that he come to talk at the Union. Amazingly, Hockney replied positively, and before long appeared in the city of dreaming spires, wearing daring lime-green socks, and accompanied by his friend Patrick Procktor – Andrew being their chaperone. If those at the talk doubted the almost too-perfect tale they were hearing, Andrew was able to provide them with proof, as he produced two beautifully framed records of that day: in one a set of photographs showing the group’s antics (including mandatory punting trip), and in the other a pair of reciprocal portraits done in Andrew’s room at the top of staircase 14. Fantastically, Mr. Lawon then presented these to the JCR, and we promised that they would be given pride of place in our new development.

The continuation of the prestigious art tradition depends on students, which is both a great opportunity and something of an important responsibility: we hope Pembroke people continue to be interested in the fortunes of their collection, and make use of the many new possibilities related to the gallery and art collection in the future. A long while ago, a man named John Hale once quipped (in a Spectator article of 1959) that an ‘Oxford undergraduate is 30 times more likely to become the subject of a painting himself than he is ever to look seriously at a work of art’ (with painting perhaps replaced in the early 21st century by ‘unexpected and surprisingly well-lit Facebook photo from Camera nightclub’). Here at Pembroke we believe that this doesn’t have to be a fact: please visit the gallery (temporarily still in its old home in the attic of the almshouses) and get involved in Pembroke art.

John Minton (copywright Royal College of Art)

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Review: Julius Caesar Joe Nicholson

The RSC’s recent Julius Caesar at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre, Stratfordupon-Avon, was widely met with critical acclaim, and was completely deserving of this praise. Gregory Doran, newly appointed artistic director of the RSC, directs the play in the context of post-colonial Africa, a decision which made for immensely engaging theatre, imbuing the tensions and political themes of the play with fascinating contemporary relevance.

Michael Vale’s design contributes a great deal to the union between the Elizabethan script and present-day African context. The well-known narrative of Caesar’s triumph and assassination at the hands of Brutus and other conspiring senators is made easily superimposable onto many nations on the continent, and indeed elsewhere: one particularly effective element of staging is the placement of a statue of Caesar facing away from the audience at the rear. Through this, Vale evokes ideas of dictatorial rule, introducing resonances of Stalin and Saddam Hussein, awarenesses forcing the audience to judge the characters of the script accordingly. Costume, too, is used evocatively throughout, both through the blending of Roman and contemporary wealthy African clothing for Caesar and Calpurnia and the senators, and in the closing act with the equipage and camouflage of militia soldiers resonating with ideas of horrific bloodshed and civil war. Akintayo Akinbode’s music, (provided by the wittily named Vibes of March) again contributed to the praiseworthy shifting of setting, the play’s celebratory opening unmistakably African yet enhancing the political narrative with unnerving undertones of propaganda.

Doran’s adaptation works well in the development of the play’s supernatural undercurrents, creating foreboding through the presentation of the soothsayer as a shamanic figure, frighteningly portrayed by Theo Ogundipe. Vince Herbert’s contrastive use of lighting to show the dangerous instability underneath Caesar’s celebrated rule extends the tension begun with Ogundipe’s menacing stares and prophetic dancing from the opening, an intense mood extended well in the convincing fears of Ann Ogbomo’s Calpurnia later.

Nevertheless, Doran’s direction fails to avoid the anticlimactic nature of the play’s conclusion. The suicides of Cassius and Brutus feel too sudden: in this production, perhaps an inevitable feature of the script, the building pressure of the first acts breaks at the moment of Caesar’s murder, and is never fully recaptured. However, this pivotal moment is staged well: stark colour symbolism of black-robed conspirators against a white-clad Caesar underlines the scene as chilling, combining with Jeffrey Kissoon’s skilful presentation of the Emperor as dominant yet physically frail.

The only resounding negative of the production was the lack of interval: at two and a quarter hours, the unceasing length of the play allows the audience’s attention to stray, and thus the impression of such an innovative performance to suffer, a regrettable decision on Doran’s part. It is, however, a testament to the immensely high quality of the cast that boredom was for the most part avoided: in a play ostentatiously dealing with the political force of words, the rhetoric of Shakespeare’s lines is not let down in delivery. Most memorable was the speech of Ray Fearon’s Mark Anthony, his report of Caesar’s death to the crowds after his life is spared at the assassination forming a fascination revelation of the representative force that words hold. Throughout, the audience is lead to debate how this slippery notion of truth works within the themes of tyrannical rule and revolt evoked by the African setting. Doran’s venture is successful: his reworking of the play’s setting supported by nearly flawless acting and commendable costume and staging reinvigorates Shakespeare’s Roman tale, manipulating contemporary political resonances to bring the audience into a closer engagement with the violent themes within.

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Review: Batman Alex Fisher

Summer 2012 did well for blockbuster superhero movies, with both The Dark Knight Rises and The Amazing Spiderman hitting the big screens. Purely by chance, these two films balance each other superbly in numerous ways.

Spiderman originated in Marvel, whilst Batman emerged from DC; Spiderman gains his powers from being bitten by a radioactive spider whereas Batman (admittedly with a large bank account behind him) has no supernatural powers, but is just an ordinary citizen; but perhaps most importantly, one is the start of a new franchise whereas the other has come to its conclusion. From this, we may note that these two films highlight a very interesting paradox – the end lies in the beginning, and vice versa.

In The Dark Knight Rises, eight years have passed since the unstoppable force of Gotham’s caped crusader took to the streets to defeat The Joker. All is seemingly peaceful in the city, but Jim Gordon (Gary Oldman) still acts as though it’s wartime. And rightly so, for something is rotten in the city of Gotham, just beneath the surface - quite literally. Bruce Wayne (Christian Bale) is almost crippled as a result of his former nocturnal sojourns and has consigned himself to exile in Wayne Manor, tended only by father-figure and faithful servant Alfred Pennyworth (Michael Caine). Throw in a nuclear energy source, a few more gizmos from Mr. Lucius Fox (Morgan Freeman), and an attack on a Stock Exchange and you have the bones of an excellent piece of cinema.

The film comes in at just under three hours, making it considerably longer than Spiderman, but its duration is hardly noticeable. Not once do you feel the need to squint at your watch in the darkened cinema, or surreptitiously remove the silenced mobile from your pocket. It is worth bearing in mind however, that the film covers a period of at least five months, so be prepared to suspend your disbelief in certain places – especially towards the end. Whilst the opening sequence is James Bond-esque in terms of action, the first half of the film is given over to dialogue. Christopher Nolan has taken a risk here and, for me, it paid off. It sets the scene, defines the limits (only for them to be broken later in the film) and, contrary to so many superhero movies, allows the actors to do what their title suggests – act.

Once into the second part however, the action is non-stop and the plot twists more times than in your standard game of Pontoon. The fight scenes are nothing short of relentless, the loose ends are tied up (some strong links to Batman Begins here), and the return of a recognisable villain (also from the first film). On the subject of villains, Tom Hardy’s performance as Bane is marvellous. Unlike The Joker who seemingly has a motiveless drive for mayhem, Bane’s tyranny has a purpose but not one you would expect. He is both comedic and tragic (to a point), terrific and terrifying. For those who thought no one could out-do Heath Ledger’s performance, Tom Hardy is most certainly on par (despite parts of his speech muffled by his metal mask). This is frankly a must-see and a fitting end to the trilogy with a little bit at the end to tease those Dark Knight fans with the possibility of a completely separate franchise.

On the other hand, The Amazing Spiderman re-kindles the spark of this superhero after the wooden Tobey Maguire and Kirsten Dunst extinguished it in the previous franchise. It begins in analepsis with a game of hide-and-seek – the young Peter Parker trying to find his parents in their suburban house. After somebody breaks into the property, Peter is taken to Uncle Ben (Martin Sheen) and Aunt May (Sally Field) where his mother and father leave him, promising to return. The film returns to the present to show us Peter as an outcast high-schooler and, like any good teenager, he’s trying to find out who he is. After the discovery of a briefcase that was owned by his father, the quest to find out what happened to his parents leads Parker straight to Oscorp and the laboratory of Dr. Curt Connors (Rhys Ifans). But Connors soon changes dramatically as he becomes The Lizard, and is exceptionally similar to Magneto in X-Men 1. Thus, the plots of these two films converge, but this is presumably what constitutes the ‘bad mutant’ story line.

The film is surprisingly funny in places and this distances it further from the Maguire-Dunst collaboration. Yet, it is clear that the earlier trilogy still holds the rights to certain things. For example, the phrase ‘with great power comes great responsibility’ is the integral moral of the story and comes directly from the comic book (which the most recent franchise follows more closely), but was used throughout the first three Spiderman films. In The Amazing Spiderman, Uncle Ben utters this maxim in a peculiarly roundabout fashion, failing really to drive the point home. Furthermore, we may infer that the lack of reference to the Daily Bugle (the newspaper Parker works for which inspires his love of photography) is another name under copyright.

However, nature abhors a vacuum and as photography falls into the background, science comes to the forefront. Rhys Ifans plays Dr. Curt Connors convincingly: a man passionate about his subject but emotionally unstable, flitting between hope and despair as he strives to repair himself through his work. Peter’s father worked closely with Connors before disappearing and the teaser at the very end of the film sets up the possibility of a sequel nicely. Thus, both films provide their audiences with a little bit more at the end and I’m sure that Hollywood will agree to their continuation – these two superheroes, in the hands of good writers, are too good to be left alone.

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Dry Eyes I wanted to be God as well If that meant I could understand The hollowed pools of glazed stone And fresh-faced fury Masked in a measure, placid Pale Fire. Distracts me from my cause If cause indeed it be To balm the breath around him With a whisper, too cliche. Tired, dry Eyes which do not press, do not pierce, Only glass and glaze without the elemental

passion of the kilnJust the cool hard crust - glossy, glossy Fringed with camel-lashes; Why does the moth-mouth never move Save at the corner, twitching like a Puppet-line, pulled too taught and Alabaster smooth, save a wrinkle Wrought by worries Greater than their etching shows But how do I know?

Is it blanket-snow and sun That shields a deeper pit from people Not from him, from people Not the puppet Not the placid lake but is it Murky? Deeper tremors, tremblings Bubbled up beforeWhat else is down there, lurking lurking Rippling spinal segments like a song Too low for mortal feet And washed by flood-muck, not The Lord. I wish I could fill with Cream the silly cracks that superficial Hairlines hide. All sheared away now Like a lamb Like a lamb of God Ready to be roasted

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When will he erupt? Burst like The fat on the crackled haunches I want so much to stroke To stoke the belly-fire.

It’s quiet as a storms eye Cat’s eye, camel’s eye, cow’s eye Moth’s eye. Dusted through un-touch, Not age though age would help When dust is blown away And prodding makes his soul supple, Slippy, bruised and crumpledWhy cause pain to little lambs?

And pain at that which will not rub away Or fade, Or fail To pool into the hollows which we made By trustful paring at the brain To know that all the silence is in vain And only this will last Forever and Ever Ah, Men.

Claire Rammelkamp

Breaking bread to share, passed hand over hand, stories in the wheat; a wisdom given in glasses, poured for others, for yourself, A wisdom that came first, which tied us once into society, renewed each day, the comfort of filling the void, of giving, sharing, a knowledge that made our happiness, but captures the poignancy of those who must cook, and eat: silent, alone.

Poetry

Joe Nicholson

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Charybdis Fig Tree For Anna and Augusta

There’s a song playing in the orchard-The lingering hum of the falling pink sky, the notes settling silent in a whirlpool of blue dusk light.

In the tangled trees the melody becomes obscured, lodging itself within limbs made of water.

We wander the rows in pursuit of hollow roots, walking past the clay head balanced on the wooden gatepost, the female effigy guarding the wild fruit from the moon’s light.

Halfway up the rocky path, the blue harmonizes, the notes become one clear line-A hand pulls back the leaves-There is a child who won’t stop laughing beneath the fig tree.

Huddled inside the wool blanket, he bends forward to gather the fallen figs, cradling them in his palms like newborns.

We watch as he peels back the green skins, amazed fingers examining the fresh blood, flesh of growth that sustains us in the dark.

If only time herself were capable of sustaining, of laughing in a sweet still-frame.

Instead, we place her counterparts in our pockets for nourishment on the journey home, our song across the water.

Anne Brink

i was a constellation of cautions i said to my mother i’m not trying to—i only tripped and facing flagstones, found half a crucifix in my hands, on sundays, for hiding: prayer-ready. why don’t basements, where the tiles you kneel. marshaled armies of dust why don’t you wear and the light was an absence, your white dress, the one a bright hole in the center. that was cut in half by a a heart that beat wrong. wine-stain, echoes of spill on a lace pond. girls don’t fit in pews don’t slump or replace hymns with lungs full of mumbles.

Kiley Bense

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A Goodbye Alexander Joynes

As I write, I have two days left in Oxford. By the time this piece is published, my name will be absent from its pigeonhole, my room newly inhabited, my library books back on the shelves in their rightful places. It will be as if I was never here. This was an odd feeling that came to me in the middle of our Leavers’ Dinner: that which is so personal and profound to us is just as quickly taken up by a new cohort of students, who imbue new meaning to and derive a different significance from Pembroke. I wonder which television personalities people will notice striking similarities to in the portraits in Hall? And which past Master’s name will provoke the biggest laughs? I can imagine who, but I will let you discover it for yourself. Walking past the GAB Common Room, where for months people have fretted and panicked over exams, is now a rather odd experience: pens and papers are sprawled across the tables, books are covered with notes, but no one is there. One is reminded of the incredibly moving poem by Philip Larkin, ‘The School in August’, which details the sombre mood which befalls a place when it is empty: a sense of transience and impermanence, the ebb and flow of life.

The Oxford terms are such that a year consists of just twenty-four weeks, and a full three-year degree comprises of nothing more than nine sets of eight-week terms. On a late Sunday in the depths of fourth week, this seems like eternity, but sitting here now it has come around so quickly.

I think that it’s a sign of growing older to begin obsessing over time, but the last few weeks have taught me just how fleeting it has all been. And so it is essential to make the most of however long any of us has here: to my mind, one of the great frustrations of Oxford life is the myths perpetuated by the students themselves. The greatest of these is the notion of an ‘essay crisis.’ I understand as much as anybody else the sheer terror and panic that a seemingly impossible piece of work can create, but life goes on. One of the great comforts during my finals was to take walks and encounter people. It’s when one sees a child riding a bike or an old couple arguing that it suddenly becomes clear what it is that really matters. Looking out for one another is essential but all too easy to forget in such frantic times.

I think that this is one of the greatest lessons that I have learned during my time in Oxford: the importance of people. I have had many interesting tutorials, and have been lucky enough to study material which really inspired me on many levels. But the conversations that I remember most vividly are the off-the-cuff, even rambling, discussions about anything and everything: 2 a.m. philosophising, heated exchanges over TOWIE vs. Made in Chelsea are at the forefront of my mind. I can’t think of another environment where we are able to indulge in this quite as much. The essence of any college is in its community: the central hub at its epicentre, which comprises of everybody who makes it what it is. It’s remarkable to think in that every college across Oxford exists as a separate entity, a world in and of itself, with its own symbolism and language. Each is wholly unique, the quirks of our neighbours appearing alien, even ludicrous to us: at Queen’s, for instance, bread is served on the table itself. The very thought of it seems as odd to us as any casual observer yet to be initiated into the ways of the Mac. 24

So unique is the Oxford universe that I felt almost in possession of a dual identity, one for here and one for home.

My life is still ordered around Oxford weeks, which struck me as so bizarre before coming here yet which I now adhere to without thinking. How odd to think that soon I will revert back to the frankly much duller Gregorian calendar. In a few months time I could well become mightily offended at the rather intimate question of whether I have a tute. It’s one of Oxford’s many quirks that it commands a whole new order. Perhaps it is a sign of arrogance, but I happen to think it is yet another element of the strong sense of community and belonging that it engenders.

I think that it’s the Oxford beyond the university that I shall miss the most. The Covered Market is brimming with character and charm, and I could quite happily spend the afternoon pottering around its numerous shops and many fabulous cafes. Indeed, this was always my port of call as a refuge from the Rad Cam, where the familiarity of it all was so much more appealing than the often hostile, imposing interior of the Bod. One can always count on an often bizarre conversation in the barbers (anything from self-flagellating Buddhist monks to thoughts on reincarnation), the heavenly aroma from Ben’s Cookies, and a lone school child separated from the rest of their party due to the spectacular displays of the cake shop. To see the same faces

everyday was a great comfort, and sometimes terribly upsetting. Zoe, the artist who painstakingly painted the trees of Christ Church Meadow every day, was a regular sight for me. Her absence worried me, and I later discovered she had indeed died a few months previous. The kindly, lonely man who feeds the ducks in this same place is still there, three years on. Everything changes, yet somehow stays the same.

One of the very greatest things about education lies in its security, its reliability. I found it tremendously reassuring to know that I would be here for three years, and that in these years I wouldn’t have to panic, or worry about the future.

This is one of the greatest luxuries of youth. For the last few months, amidst the usual Finals’ panic, a great worry has been The Future, that vast and unknown place of uncertainty and doubt. I have feared not the acquisition of new worry, but the loss of all that has been so precious to me here: the value of friendship. Those who are normally just a few staircases away will soon be on the other side of the world.

What was once a unity will be divided. I can only thank Pembroke and its people for the many things it has taught me, and it is these abiding lessons that reassure me that the past may not be so difficult after all. As a dear friend here has often said: it’s the people that matter. And in this regard, Pembroke will live on in each of us for a long while yet.

Photography: Madeleine Stottor

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BIRMINGHAM INTERNATIONAL: a eurosceptic and a know-it-all A book said the Thames woos the Medway – Glad it can’t work its charms on the Seine: There’s a whole sea of salty water

Stop being so pretentious

Separating us lot from them.

Listen to what I’m saying, if you can.

We don’t have to listen to their laws

...But you know that a river’s just water

Now the Euro’s going down the pan.

that fell down from above as rain?

Up in the cloudy skyline

...Wouldn’t separate our laws and cash much –

the H2O’s all the same.

Sterling too has gone to the dogs, and in the European Parliament

The point’s in a national distinction:

we have seventy-two twits like the frogs.

I believe in being true to my wife, We’d never give in to the Nazis,

Went to Birmingham International

And you know that they did that twice.

Which has no trains leaving Albion’s shores; To use your convoluted jargon,

...Really Britain was better positioned,

For me that’s an ideal metaphor.

we were saved by the Yanks and the sea; and it wasn’t the fascists the first time

...Really that’s a vague little image;

Franz Ferdinand was involved, I believe.

a bad name shouldn’t change one’s thoughts.

Besides you can ride a tram line

Churchill knew that Britain is different – What Frenchy would understand this: A pint and a punch, a ploughman’s lunch, Take me out to the bog for a piss. ...Well in fact sir, the English language has a history that is very diverse.

‘Pisser’ is Gallic for ‘to urinate’, and Chaucer wrote in francophone verse.

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from the train lines to the airport.

Robbie Griffiths

Editor Madeleine Stottor Sub-Editors Joe Nicholson Andris Ruditzis

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.

Front and back cover: ‘My Sky’, Dyedra Just Artwork this page by Ruby Carrington.

Advertising 600 Pembroke students receive a copy of the Bullfrog, and over 4,500 alumni an electronic version. If you would like to advertise with us, please email bullfrog@pmb.ox.ac.uk Subscriptions The Bullfrog offers a subscription service to alumni and parents. please contact bullfrog@pmb.ox.ac.uk for more information and details of our subscription package.

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

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