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With thanks to the ignoble help of the Ramsay Centre Board: Mark Latham


Tony Abbott

Elijah Abraham Liam Donohoe Janek Drevikovsky Nick Harriott Lamya Rahman Andrew Rickert Millie Roberts Zoe Stojanovic-Hill Lena Wang Alison Xiao


A. Mon

Miranda Devine

Bill Leak


Yasodara Puhule-Gamayalage Jess Zlotnick




Vincent Wang Charlotte Haunton Rebeccah Miller Alexi Cassis Sarah Cutter-Russell Chanum Torres


Andrew Bolt



Imogen Grant Mickie Quick Amanda Le May The Students’ Representative Council

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this month at usyd NOVEMBER





fri Liberty Luncheon UNI BROS 12pm

MANsoc: Therapy Dogs LAW LAWNS 12pm SASS: AGM HOLME 4pm






Catholic Society: Therapy Dogs LAW LAWNS 12pm


Evangelical Union: Therapy Dogs LAW LAWNS 12pm

Sydney Uni Liberal Club: AGM HOLME REDACTED 12pm






Lifechoice: Therapy Dogs LAW LAWNS 12pm


what would usyd be without western civilisation? YOUR MOVE WOCO, WRITES CHASE VANDERMAN

When the Ramsay Centre was first announced, the social justice warriors on campus predictably went into outrage mode. It was racist, they said. It was sexist, they cried. They pulled out all of the usual complaints. (Their utility belt of trite, overused catch cries would put Bruce Wayne to shame). What these leftie do-gooders fail to understand is that not only is the University of Sydney one of the greatest institutions in the history of Western civilisation, all their Women’s Studies lectures and African American literature tutorials are gifted to them by that very institution. Maybe it would serve these naysayers well to actually enrol in the course and gain an appreciation of the free, democratic society that permits their criticism. But how about we humour them for a minute. Let’s all imagine that they’re right—as crazy as that may be—and picture a world free of the horrid grip of Western Civilisation. I can guarantee it would look a lot different—and they would not like it! Our university was established in 1857, a good seventy years after our British ancestors came in the First Fleet. The harpies on campus would have you believe that event was one of the most egregious in the history

of Western civilisation. So would they prefer a world where it never happened? Would they prefer if none of our culture, infrastructure or scientific advances ever made it to the Great Southern Land? Where Indigenous Australians continued to use their governance and social organisation systems? Perhaps that could’ve worked. Who knows. But do you think for a second that our delayed arrival would mean that Indigenous Australians could get on with their lives unmolested by outside forces? No. It just means that a few years later the Chinese would come down and take it all anyway. Now, if the rabid left on campus thought an Australia developed in the Western tradition was a bad idea, wait until they see what a Chino-Australia would look like. The University of Sydney would be unrecognisable. In accordance with Chinese regulations regarding institutes of higher learning, their universities “must not have content that opposes or attacks other countries or peoples, or [promotes] illegal public movements.” I guess that means no more pro-Palestine demonstrations on campus.


Say goodbye to your plastic straws. And your plastic spoons and forks too. Not for any environmental reason. No, in this dark, alternate universe we’d be lumped with wooden chopsticks simply because those Shanghai Knights seem to think it makes eating easier. Let me tell you this for free: it isn’t. How utterly degrading! President Xi Jinping even said that Chinese universities “must adhere to the correct political orientation.” Maybe loony lefties wouldn’t mind that one at all. I guess it just depends on your definition of “correct”. Now, I could write thousands and thousands of words about why Western civilisations run laps around the alternatives. I could make rational, well-reasoned arguments. I could give you facts and logic. But it wouldn’t matter. The anti-Ramsay protestors wouldn’t care. Once they sink their teeth into something like this they just shake and snarl until the sane, rational people give up and walk away. So, to all the lefties on campus who would rather literally see me die than sit down for an adult conversation, I say this: gather ye rosebuds while ye may. Have fun destroying Western civilisation; you’ll miss it when it’s gone.

taylor swift is cancelled LIAM ARMSTRONG

My heavenly, velvety Aryan goddess—how could you do this to us? We’re your loyal fans, your loyal boys, who would go to the ends of the earth to sniff the lint between your toes. Fellow gentlemen callers, our vanilla empress, on her instagram, hitherto a smear of pleasurable pics, announced support for a Democratic candidate. I can no longer support her.

Ralph’s Cafe Yes, our precious caucasian queen, for whom we drank gallons of milk, hoping to grow big and strong so we’d become good enough for her to fuck then cuck then pluck her guitar strings and write a chart-topping breakup song, is a leftist. Now, Taylor please, think about what you’re doing—can’t you see that we’re the ones who understand you, been white all along, so why can’t you see? You belong with us.


St Paul’s

St John’s

Wesley St Andrew’s “...I don’t like Muslims but there might be something to this Wahhabism thing.”

FREE “...that I’m not a feminist. I’m not! I don’t want men and women to be equal because I want to be dominated. That can’t happen if we’re equal and no feminazi is taking my orgasms away from me.”

“N*****. What? Oh, you’re going to censor that? What’s this world coming to!”


The Quad Seymour Centre


Boardwalk The SRC Women’s

Eastern Avenue




the case for privatisation THE MAJORITY OF THE ROUTES EXCEPT MINE, CONTENDS A.J. RUTHERFORD Don’t get me wrong: I love public transport. I catch the 343 every morning. It goes straight from my front door to uni. I pay my fare, and I thank the driver as I get off. However, public transport is a public good. This is why we must privatise it. All of it. Except the 343. A problem faced by any public good is the ‘free rider’ effect, which, I would like to point out, is actually named after the problem of people riding for free on public transport. I see this every morning, as young men with long hair step onto the bus and make a falsetto ding as they pretend to ‘tap on’. They’re not fooling anyone, not me, not the

bus driver and not all the honest taxpayers who watch their shame. This is the cancer that spreads through all welfare programmes. Hardworkers must cover the cost of free riders. And there is no limit to the number of free riders: they breed very quickly and their morals are contagious, like their diseases. Eventually nobody will pay for the bus, except me. Only the free market can efficiently protect public transport. Privatisation of Sydney’s public transport will make it more efficient: the routes will be more


logical, the services will be more reliable, the profit margins will be higher. Except for the 343 because it is running fine already. I pay my fares and so does the old man in a tweed jacket I spoke to at my Willoughby bus stop. But privatisation of every other route, especially in the west, where nobody pays their bus fares, makes the system fairer for all. The NSW government needs to step in and privatise public transport in Sydney, except the 343.

i pay my train fares like a good boy SO THAT MOTHER WILL GIVE ME TREATS, WRITES EUGENE MOIST

As a young, respectul lad, I get my kick from following the law. The law is just and protects the average, right-minded middle Australian. That’s why I always pay my train fares. But it’s not just that perfect, obedient fourth that spurs on my taps; if mother hears of my respectfulness, she’ll be sure to reward me with treats at suppertime!

Mother isn’t the only one who gives me treats. Some thank their bus driver. Some thank the train staff. I like to thank the brave and noble transport officers who patrol the network every day. Some of them recognise me: I tell them about the troublesome knaves who are passing through the gates invalidly. They let me dip into the Favourites box and take three of my best.

Unlike those Stalinist troublemakers in the unions I don’t think the rules need changing. Perhaps the workers need to be incentivised with suppertime treats. There’s certainly nothing I won’t do for treats.

The saddest part of my day is when I go on a trip and I do not come across any transport officers. Sometimes I’ll ride the trains until I find one to thank. One time, while waiting for a transport officer to thank, I ended up taking the train all the way to the scary, scary part of town my parents had warned of.

One time, I found out my dear sister Lucy had been riding the trains without a ticket! As soon as I learnt of this I reported her to the authorities. She was sent to the bad place for a long, long time. As she was being taken away, I looked her in the eye and explained “it’s for the best, I love you.” And it’s true—I do. We needed to stamp out these anarchist proclivities. I don’t care if children under three ride for free, the rules should apply to everyone. After that, Mother fed me turkish delight. It was very tasty.

When mommy came to pick me up from Bankstown station she brought a Toblerone. Now I’m part of a Facebook group “Giving a hand to transport officers”. I use it to know the location of transport officers, in search of them and their treats.


CAN’T BE TAMED RAM SAT DOWN WITH FRANCIS TAMER, THE MEL GIBSON OF THE CAMPUS RIGHT, TO DISCUSS HIS RECENT ELECTION TO USYD’S SENATE RAM: Why don’t you tell us a bit about yourself? FT: Well, as a devout Maronite Catholic, my faith has been instilled into me since birth. I was named after all the great Francises: Sinatra, the Saint of Assisi, and President Underwood. My close friends call me Papa Francesco though. It’s the Pope’s nickname. I’m a man of logic. But I’m also a leader. In my 22 years, I’ve been school captain, college dux and distinguished achiever in three extension maths units. The brothers who ran my single-sex high school, St Dominic’s, personally ensured I went from boy to man. So as a devout Maronite Catholic, it was only natural to become heavily involved in SUCS (Sydney Uni Catholic Society) to build my name. RAM: What’s it like being a man of integrity and champion of freedom at the most left-wing university in Australia? FT: Well, God tests us for a reason, you know. It’s like I’m Jesus, wandering for 40 days in the wilderness, with the devil everywhere. Except the wilderness is campus and the devil is the Queer Collective. Conservatives are a minority on campus—it’s a struggle. Buy, you know, the history books are lined with people who had new ideas and the courage to defend them. All I’m saying is, why don’t we just stick with those new ideas instead of having to think up new

new ones all the time? RAM: You’ve made headlines for your Senate win—how does it feel to be the holy voice of USyd’s undergrads? FT: I think my win proves that the satan-worshippers haven’t won. [Laughs] Look, 1,800 upright, god-fearing students voted for me. It was a whitewash. But I’m not surprised: like I said on the Bolt Report, it’s always been cool to be a conservative. RAM: This wasn’t the first time you ran for Senate—in fact, you were robbed of victory back in 2016. What was that like, and what was different this time? FT: Well back in 2016, God wasn’t as deep inside of me yet. So I lost to Colin [Whitchurch]. But I learnt my lessons, and this time, I used Colin’s methods. RAM: Could you describe those methods for us? FT: It’s a bit like missionary work. You show them the path to truth. You point it out on the laptop screen, just like you’d point out the right passage in the Bible. RAM: You were a noble footsoldier of the Lord during the same-sex marriage equality plebiscite. Why did you get involved? FT: I’m a devout Maronite Catholic, so for me, the ‘No’ campaign was a no-brainer. It’s not that I hate gays,


or think they should have fewer rights than normal people. That’s not it at all. Nobody has ever heard me say I hate the gays. RAM: You were assaulted by a ‘Yes’ campaigner on USyd’s Eastern Avenue. Can you tell us about that, if it’s not too difficult? FT: It’s sad, isn’t it? Never before in history have we seen one group of people, convinced they have truth on their side, so ready to use violence to oppress and silence their opposition. They threw hummus at me. I can’t even look at hummus anymore. RAM: And a fun fact about you people might not know? FT: I analyse data. RAM: What’s in store for the future, Francis? FT: My three appearances on the Bolt Report these last two years have been really great exposure. People may not realise, but I’m a Devout Maronite Catholic, so it only makes sense to pursue stardom, just like Mika. I just got my headshots done for my IMDb profile and my agent keeps asking me to emphasise I’m 6’4. There’s some really promising independent short films being offered to me at the moment: The Virgin Mary, The Immaculate Conception and The Second Coming of Christ: On The Third Day He Rose. My email is public (undergraduatesenate@gmail. com) and I will accept emails from any and all fans regarding their concerns or thoughts. Whether they love me or hate me, I will make an effort to read everything.



aujs should annex the src OP-ED / TYSON SCHOFIELD The land currently being occupied by the SRC is an extension of the homeland and we must end it. Now that the terrorist Left has used the machinery of the SRC to vilify us, the time has come: AUJS must annex the SRC.

As a proud Zionist, I’m not afraid to say that the Australian Union of Jewish Students at this university is a shame to the great state of Israel. “AUJS subscribes to Zionist ideals,” our mission statement says, but what have we achieved this year?

Doing so would quash the greatest threat to AUJS’ security: the collectives.

How many of you voted for Adriana because we failed to run an ethnonationalist candidate? How many of you stood aside and let International Revue colonise Jew Revue, when we could have taken it for ourselves? How many of you were learning how to make matzah when you could have been learning Krav Maga chokeholds?

Realistically, we have three options. Following the example of Ben-Gurion, we could storm the bunker, pushing the inhabitants into Hermann’s to neutralise the demographic threat. Or we could stage a blockade, as in Gaza, and seize the land after the inhabitants have perished. However, both of these options are risky with USyd’s management watching from across the road. So I propose the following: we take the SRC, one office at a time, beginning with admin and closing in on the President’s office, until we have created Greater AUJS.

For too long, we have been fucking around at interfaith events, while the Students’ Representative Council has been infiltrated by pro-Palestinian forces. Since time immemorial, AUJS has had a cultural and religious claim to Level 1 of the Wentworth Building, which will henceforth be known as the historic land of AUJS.

Next time you’re on Eastern Avenue, playing our classic OWeek game ‘who’s your favourite Jew?’, ask yourself: what can I occupy across the road?


my club does not need quotas WE JUST NEED MORE FEMALE MEMBERS, SUBMITS DON McDOMALD The left-wing echo chambers have been reverberating of late. You may well have heard their cavernous roar. But despite what the small acoustician choir might have sung, rest assured, MANSOC does not need to take affirmative action to increase the number of females on our exec. “There has never been a female exec,” they chorus. “Your entire semester’s C&S funding was spent on Brazzers subscriptions”, the sleuths among them warble. “You are misogynistic fuckwits,” they chant. I haven’t heard such a reverberant falsehood since rival schools lauded their 1st XV’s prowess at the footy. The Marist Alumni Network Society resents the accusation that we are exclusionary, excessively-fraternal, or otherwise misogynistic. In fact, we’d like to have more women around, particularly positions atop us, in roles of authority. But, on pain of discording with the resonant overtones of social justice, the performative moaning for quotas betrays a premature climax. The first reason that quotas are inappropriate for MANSOC is because we are firmly committed

to merit. It would violate such commitments to abide by the presence of executives ill-equipped to handle the rigours of the post. At present there is simply not enough talent among our six female members for such a Bolshevist approach to maintaining these standards. Though we do not rule out the possibility an optimal female might come along to earn her spot— we are, obviously, not sexist—that honour will only be bestowed should they leave enough of an impression on the MANSOC membership.

could forget our landmark Pornhub scholarship. Hardly the initiatives of a misogynistic organisation, I croon to the chorale. And yet, despite our very best efforts, despite putting on our Sunday best and even asking our mothers’ for advice, females just don’t seem to be interested in us.

Ultimately, at MANSOC’s latest AGM, the majority agreed that while it was natural to wonder when it’d happen, eventually a woman would come along that was right for us, and that for now we’d just have to cast our net wide and be ready for when it comes. Organic change.

Why is it that there are so few freedom festishistic femmes afoot? Where is our Lauren Southern? We know you are out there; the internet has promised it. We are willing to make whatever changes you want, not just to our organisation, but to ourselves. We have communal gym sessions. We have rich sociological theories concerning the real injustices and inequalities in society. We are poets, sportsmen, and film buffs.

To that end, MANSOC believes that before we can get females above us, we must first stiffen our interactions with them. After all, greater numbers should mean more access to the crests of the bell curve; the crème de la crème, the 8+s/10. That’s why we introduced the Arndt Cup public speaking competition. That’s why we provide free Tinder DP photography sessions. And who

The question of quotas in MANSOC is ultimately a moot one. The only barrier women face to success is the one they erect between us and them; the one they hide behind when we see them on the train after class, the one they retreat to when they active zone us another night, the one they drift to when we discuss Tarantino. We’ve done our best—it’s high time they returned the call.




Oohhh damn, that’s one fine fetus. Its cerebral hemisphere prominence is just dripping with personhood.

With skin as bouncy as this you wouldn’t know she’s 33 weeks old. Beauty doesn’t age.



Our strongest contender in the swimsuit section—and with embryonic tail for days, who’s surprised?

She would have been our winner… if her mother wasn’t a murderer.


HOW TO: TURN YOUR FORMAL DRESS INTO A WEDDING DRESS Words by Jackie Grace 1. Learn to Tie Your Laces You won’t find lace on many formal dresses, but you’ll need some if you want to create your elegant wedding couture! A little trick that I developed is to steal a few doilies from the cake table after mass. After a few weeks your collection will be big enough to start taping onto your dress. Yes, stealing is a little bit sinful—but God has been known to look the other way in the name of marriage. 2. The Long and Short of It I get it. When you’re young, you think the most important thing is to get men to look at you. That’s why many young women end up with hems so high they occasionally breach the knee. When it comes to

making a bridal gown, you may need to find some sheets to attach to your formal dress for extra length. Every good wife knows their body is to be seen by two men and two men only: their husband and the big man upstairs (their father).

perhaps cutting some eye holes into the spare sheets you used earlier. Be careful with this one though: you don’t want to give off the impression that you are a spooky ghost!

3. Veil as Old as Time

Cream, ivory, eggshell. They’re not just the three main ingredients in a scone, they’re also different names for white! Now, you really should have picked a white formal dress because white indicates purity—and if you’re not pure at your formal you certainly won’t be pure at your wedding. But if you were silly and made a mistake, the simple solution is to just pour bleach on your dress. It’ll be a bright, shining white in no time! Unfortunately you can’t pour bleach on your impure life, but a wedding is the next best thing.

The tradition of the veil at a wedding dates back to the English days of yore. Daughters would be wrapped and presented as a gift to wealthy suitors, who would unwrap them before a priest and decide whether to take their hand in marriage. Today, we honour that tradition by wearing a little bit of sheer fabric over our face. If you cannot afford a veil on the hospitality wages of a twenty-yearold, consider pilfering a colander or


4. Your Pearly Whites


There are many, in these dark days, who would “sow discord among brothers” (Proverbs 6:19). But we, the vanguard of civilisation, are not so different from the identity politicians after all. They want ‘safe spaces’ on our campuses. And to them we say: “Yes! God is our safe space and our strength, a help in the troubles that come heavily on us” (Psalms 46:1). That’s right, we’ve had safe spaces for years. They’re called churches. So we’re not really sure why the Left think they’re so special. They convert storerooms, put a sign on the door banning white men and call it a ‘safe space’. We build literal, brick and mortar fortresses.

zombie shelter. Safety indeed, I say—safety indeed. Churches are full of God’s love. Compare that to the ‘safe’ spaces in our universities. They are bitter places. One type of sinner flocks together with his own kind, in the unspeakable glow of perversion. Of perverted posters. I have seen these posters with my own eyes. Lascivious tendrils of sin, an embrace of flesh and bodies, coils of lust and heavy breath. But devil begone! For in the church, all are welcomed with outstretched arms. The man who commits adultery, who steals, who rapes and murders—he will be forgiven.

As Jesus says: “And I say to you that thou art Peter, and upon this rock I will build my church; and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it” (Matthew 16:18).

And he will be shielded. Shielded from the sodomite, the swarthy Canaanite, the woman. For they have no place in the kingdom of God.

Hewn from rock, an effective

A church is place of improvement. 17

Where we may be guided by the preacher’s words, from the black of despair, and through the strait gate. Where Christ may lead us towards the White City. Would you rather wallow in a ‘safe’ space? Lonely, separated from the brotherhood of man? Openly defying God? Only good may come from a church. Innocence and purity, where our children live in God’s image. We must build more churches. At this very university, many hands have been stained by usury, so that they might build tall towers of sin. The new administration building. The Abercrombie Business School. Tear them down, I say. For every man on campus, a church. For every single sinner, let him have his place of refuge. And then—like devout St Hildegard—we must build a wall. Brick over the entrance; leave no way in. Then we shall be safe.


i’m dating a socialist “She’s always talking about how men and women should do equal work, which is great because she goes on top half the time during sex.”

My family and friends are normally pretty accepting people. They were supportive when I first told them I was joining the Liberal party. Sure, dad was a bit put out when I campaigned for Malcolm instead of Pauline at the 2016 election. But we bonded again when Peter made his bid for PM. Dad and I had a good yell at the TV when the lefties stopped our boy from taking the job that’s rightfully his. But I’ve been struggling to explain the most recent development in my life to dad. I’ve been struggling to explain it to myself. I’ve started dating a socialist. On September 15 2018, I was on Eastern Avenue when I saw a poster for the ‘SOCIALISM’ conference. Being opposed to socialism and all the violent oppression of free speech it has led to, I started pulling down the posters. But suddenly a hand grabbed me around the wrist. A beautiful, slender hand, with the letters ‘U’, ‘S’, ‘S’ and ‘R’ tattooed on its knuckles. I stared up, and locked eyes with a beautiful face. I always thought I wanted an Ayn Rand. 18

But I’d found my Svetlana instead. She showed me her petition, and asked me to fill it out with my name and number. I wrote it all down. We’ve been inseparable ever since. I feel a bit dirty when I’m with her, like I’m doing something taboo. When we go out, she always pays half the bill, which I’m ethically opposed to, but now I find it turns me on. She’s always talking about how we should tax the rich, so I transfer her part of my dad’s allowance. She goes on about how men and women should do equal work, which is great because she goes on top half the time during sex. But when I go to conservative club meetings, I’m gripped by a terrifying guilt. What would they think of me? We make jokes about the poor like normal, but I feel hollow inside. And sometimes they laugh about Socialist Alternative and this rage bubbles up inside me, as red as the hammer and sickle. Oh god what have I become? Will my family ever talk to me again? Is there such a thing as socialist conversion therapy?

agony arndt by bettina

Bettina Arndt is a sex therapist and author of The First Sex and Some Poon for One’s Bone. In this column, she solves all the hanky panky hiccups that could befall a man and his woman. No question too saucy!

Greg, M, 23

Christine, F, 26

“Dear Agony Arndt,

“Dear Agony Arndt,

I’m having … problems with premature ejaculation. I try everything—using two condoms, reciting baseball averages in my head, even nasal spray and rectal incense—but most of the time, I can’t last even 15 seconds. My girlfriend is getting fed up. Please help me.”

My boyfriend calls me dirty names in bed, and it’s making me uncomfortable. I’m all for dirty talk, but when he tells me I’m a “slut”, I just feel degraded. How do I get him to stop?” Christine, how dare you attempt to silence your man. His right to free speech is absolute. He can use any word he likes, whenever he likes. That is called living in the free West, you vituperative shrew.

Greg, have you noticed it’s always the same people complaining about premature ejaculation? That’s right. Women. We must not kowtow to them, Greg. Premature ejaculation does not exist. It is a myth, designed to convince you that your peepee is diseased. They want you to feel shame, Greg. So ashamed that you give up on your masculine urges.

Do you know where we would be without free speech? Probably in Lesotho or one of those awful countries. You would prefer that to being called a slut? And another thing: maybe you simply enjoy being degraded. Have you thought about that? Perhaps you are ashamed because your feminist coven have told you inequality is a thoughtcrime. But it is natural for a woman to be controlled. Weak needs strong just like apples need bananas, or like Jacinda Ardern needs a nose job.

Let me tell you, Greg. A man’s pleasure lasts just as long as he wants it to. Anything else is just a woman’s fantasy. Natasha, F, 21 “Dear Agony Arndt, I think my boyfriend is a sex addict. I have a healthy libido, but he wants it all the time. In the morning before work, in the middle of the night, when we’re out and about in public, even when we’re at his grandparents’ house for family dinners. It’s embarrassing me and frankly, I just don’t want to have sex that often. How can I tell him to slow down?”

Mark, M, 22 “Dear Agony Arndt, My boyfriend and I come from very traditional backgrounds, and this is the first time either of us has been in a relationship since coming out. It’s new for both of us but even though we’re pretty inexperienced, things are really hot in bed. Now we want to take it to the next level, but people say anal sex can be painful. Any tips?”

Natasha, here’s what I think: just do it. That’s right. Just. Do. It. You’re clearly suffering from a defective libido. But you must open yourself up. Let it happen. You will enjoy making your man happy, even if you do not enjoy the sex itself.

Mark, you must stick to vaginal sex. The back passage is for one thing and one thing only—and young impressionable men shouldn’t poke around down there!

Right now, your boyfriend is clearly suffering. Like all men, he has effluent that he needs to release. It’s your job to help him.

So just follow your instincts and do what’s natural like the rest of us!

Do what’s right. Just do it. 19

“(inaudible muffling)” — a free speech advocate protests the latest threat to free speech: kawaii face masks 20

Missed Connection To the petite beauty I saw at Taste Cafe at 1600 hours on Tuesday. Your jet black hair hasn’t left my mind since our chance encounter. Should I say chance? No. It was fate. Destiny, is what I think your people would say. Since that day, I’ve searched far and wide. I’ve looked in Cabramatta, Hurstville, Eastwood to no avail. Where are you? My Wechat ID is lkng4azn192092562. Hit me up onegaishimau. Keith Miller, Bachelor of Arts (Asian Studies)

love Sound of Music You were playing the piano on the top level of Manning. I’m something of a pianist myself. I love Yiruma—‘River Flows in You’ is a classic piece of piano, do you know it? You probably do. Your soft fingers pushed the keys so delicately. Perhaps you can teach me how to use chopsticks over some pho? My Wechat ID is mklspnc193937471. Todd Archibald, Bachelor of Arts (Japanese Cinema)

letters Let me be your saviour My oriental beauty, I can protect you from all the perils of this world. Having been honed in the art of languages from a young age, you won’t need subtitles from me. “Woah ai ni” I’ll whisper to you—I promise, babygirl. No more fighting. We’ll put an end to the confllict. Let our love be the bridge over the South China Sea. WeChat: istudiedtheblade192301890. Chad Murray Michael, Bachelor of Arts (Korean)/Bachelor of Laws


INCEL PAGES These pages are written by the SRC Incel Collective, and are not modified in any way by the editors of RAM.

joseph of nazareth: the first cuck IT TAKES A REAL MAN TO LET GOD FUCK HIS GIRLFRIEND, WRITES DWAYNE “THE CUCK” JOHNSON Yesterday, my girlfriend’s boyfriend called me a cuck while he was fucking her. I’m sure you’re shocked, so was I. But I would hazard a guess—you and I are shocked about different things. See, unlike the big strong man who was thrusting his meat into my loved one: I don’t think cuck is that bad a word. One need not look further than the greatest story ever told to see that ‘cuck’ is not so taboo after all. Consider St Joseph of Nazareth: the original cuck. Now there’s a man who got it rough on all sides and still held his head

high. His wife had a baby put in her by the literal embodiment of everything that is good in this Universe. She was beefed in the beaver by three men at once: the father, the son and the Holy Ghost. I’ve seen some Chads in my time, but none of them compare to our almighty saviour’s ability to come twice.

was cucked by the same man who was now growing inside his wife, but he decided to stand by his hot wife and raise the very bull that bucked him into cuckdom. Imagine raising your bull. Getting pissed on while you change his diaper. Joseph was a cuck, but in raising his bull, Lord Jesus Christ, he proved that cucks can be real men.

At the point of immaculate conception, Joseph was already cucked. He was the biggest cuck in town. What’s staggering is what he did next. He stayed by Mary’s side and, despite the craziest fucking explanation as to how she got up the duff, never insisted that the child was his. He knew very well that he

That’s why when my girlfriend is getting rinsed by a man twice my height and three times my girth, I don’t care that he calls me a cuck. I’d rather have greatness thrust upon me like Joseph, than thrust greatness into someone else any day of the week.


INCEL PAGES These pages are written by the SRC Incel Collective, and are not modified in any way by the editors of RAM.

review: the 2018 blue ball THE SOCIAL EVENT OF THE YEAR, REVIEWED BY PETER TAPIR Last week the USyd Incel Collective held our fifth annual Blue Ball. It was a night of revelry and camraderie, as the collective celebrated another year of activism for Incel representation on campus and beyond. Sadly no women joined us, however the night was enjoyed by all regardless. All proceeds from the event went to Fathers for Family Court Representation, as has become custom at the Blue Balls.


TO SOOTHE A SAVAGE BEAST Music, I believe, is where our culture reaches its climax. It has an architecture, soaring to a steepled point of transcendence. We must cherish the greats: those men who celebrate the beautiful, and make us whole. I offer my thoughts on the latest additions here, in the hope you too will be ennobled.

André Rieu: The Blue Danube Waltz, But Every Time it Gets Slower

André Rieu: New Year’s Concert Bumper Edition DVD

Marshall Bruce ‘Eminem’ Mathers III: Kamikaze

Ah, the ‘Blue Danube’. Richard Strauss was a man ahead of his time. They say the Danube really does look blue, when the moon shines just right. It is not hard to imagine, when you hear this piece played by the world’s greatest violinist and his orchestra. I can picture André’s leonine mane, his sly Dutch fingers, the ruffles of his shirt front. He moves with a slow romance, and does not speed through the honey of life. He is what all young men should aspire to be.

Oh to see the top hats and coattails! Oh to glimpse opera glasses and gowns! This is an evening of magic, my own pumpkin carriage right there on digital versatile disc. I quake as André strides into view, beaming with a masculine power. But those dancing girls, the screeching sopranos who throw themselves at him, they are not good enough for him! I have seen how they look at him. I watch them each evening, every time I replay this masterful concert. They will not have him.

Mather’s latest release is a defiant contrapunto to the emerging hip-hop establishment. Like the sparkling sculptures of antiquity, something ineffable sets Mathers above the other tinkerers in the so-called ‘rap’ genre. Perhaps it is a clarity of enunciation, that leaves his timbre less muddied. Or perhaps it is the control with which he alludes violence: somehow less crass, less threatening. Whatever the reason, Shady masterfully models a contained rebellion, a virtuous civil pact that resonates with middle Australia.


michael spence: my day on a plate Every week, our dietician chats with a different standard-bearer of culture about what they eat in a day. This week, we caught up with USyd Vice-Chancellor Dr Michael Spence BA (Hons.) LLB D.Phil (Oxon) P.Dip Theology, to find out what fuels the fight for Western civilisation.

6.00 am I’m an early riser—which helps with my busy schedule. To start the day, a triple shot ristretto, a naughty habit I picked up when I lived in Piedmont. I only drink kopi luwak, the world’s most refined single origin. The beans are gathered from the excrement of the Vietnamese weasel, which sniffs out and eats the ripe fruit. 8.00 am I arrive in the Inner West, where I’m booked in for a working breakfast at the Boathouse on Blackwattle Bay. It’s an unassuming spot, with the bustle of the fish markets a few hundred metres away. But I thrive among these simple dockland people, and their hearty food: I order a Coromandel yellowbelly flounder roasted on the bone with tuscan cabbage, pinenuts, currants. 12.00 pm

OUR DIETICIAN, DR CINDY BROSKO, SAYS: Top marks for…. Making the best out of what you’ve got. We don’t all have time to cook, or go grocery shopping. Some of us have to get by on a corporate credit card and $1.4 million salary. If you keep eating like this you’ll…. Have the energy to roundhouse kick student protestors all the way back to the USSR. Why don’t you try… Eating a lamington or a meat pie, so Ray Hadley won’t accuse you of betraying Australia for the international students.

The driver whisks me into the city for a quick lunch break at Quay, one of my regular haunts. The harbour sparkles, like my bottle of Krug. I take a light meal of southern swimmer crab, smoked pig jowl and crystalised oloroso caramel. Peter Gilmore can’t be faulted, now that he’s taken that demotic snow egg off the menu. 5.00 pm My driver decides to take me home through the Cross City Tunnel, which is a traffic nightmare. I box him about the ears and reach for the caviar in the onboard fridge. Ariel Sharon never travelled without caviar and champagne. 8.00 pm A quiet dinner at Hubert, a little subterranean fin de siècle joint on Bligh St. My wife loves the dainty little escargots here, but I prefer the lobster platter myself. We both ardore Hubert—it is a charming canteen for us when the cook has a night off. 11.30 pm A sneaky Macca’s run on the way home. I order a Grand Angus burger and a diet fanta.



food of the kings: western cuisine Now, we all know that the University of Sydney is proximate to a number of small businesses serving exotic delicacies from the Thai region. The Inner West is renowned for its many restaurants emblazoned with amusing puns on the word. Even on our exceedingly tolerant campus, we have branched out to serve “sushi” and “poke” at Fisher coffee cart. Some say these options are a delight, but the high-minded conservatives among us disagree. We must not let these exotic foods invade our campus outlets. Spice is not the spice of life. Free speech is the spice of life. And, on this campus, man is not free to eat lard on toast. Bring back the bland!




What glorious offspring from the mildest and whitest of all condiments! Carslaw Kitchen would be much improved by the serving of this creative concoction. Imagine chewing this creamy, slightly rubbery delight, as it melts on your tongue. Simply delicious!

This lime and prawn jello will make the ethnics green with envy! You will marvel at the bursts of tomato flavour puncturing the sour lime, before biting into the prawns, mashing the strings of flesh together with the congealed gelatin. A sweet and salty treat!

Teach a man to fish, and he will never be hungry again in his life. But this dish, made of fish, and shaped like it too, is the pinnacle of Western innovation. Share a slippery sliver with friends, and relish this paste as it slides across your tongue, coating it in a film.



noodles are just sino-tibetan pasta IT’S NOT SO HAND-CUT AND DRY, CLAIMS MICHAEL GROSSE PHD

Every year, the City of Sydney holds a month-long celebration of the staple Asian food: noodles. This year, the Sydney Night Noodle Markets ran from October 4 to October 21 in Hyde Park and swathes of people came from all across the Greater Sydney region to attend this celebration of Asian cuisine. Yet these attendees, mostly white millennials, may I add, paid no attention to the fact that they were paying through the nose for dressed up peasant-meals. I don’t think my generation would ever spend $30 on a bread and butter pudding and in the next breath, decry the housing market. These cashed-up perpetual students and wannabe food blog influencers also seemed to care very little that these noodle markets were held just metres away from one of Sydney’s most sacred sites: the ANZAC Memorial. I wonder what our diggers—who died on the fields of war defending this country and its Western ideals—would think of this ludicrous display. I expect that they, and I also hold this opinion myself, would much prefer to see a different celebration held in its place. A celebration put on by the City of Sydney that doesn’t capitulate to the SJWs and ne’er-do-wells that have left the door ajar for this century’s Asian Invasion. No, next year the City of Sydney should cease bankrolling this affront

to Australian values and should instead set up a festival under a new banner: Sydney Celebrates Pasta. It would occupy the same space in Hyde Park and the same space in October (a month that should be noted is named after the Latin word “octō” meaning eight. I’m sure if our forebears wanted our eighth month to be dedicated to chowing down on chow mein they would have called it Hachitober). The change has a cultural precedent. Noodles are just pasta, the recipe for which I can only assume somehow found its way from the Mediterranean, across the Himalayas and into the Orient. Now, history books may try and convince you that noodles pre-date pasta by a number of centuries but that is merely a misrepresentation of the facts by ‘progressive’ media. I’ll admit it. Out of noodles and pasta, the one with the earliest mention in recorded text may be noodles. However, back in the day we didn’t need to photograph or write an essay about every meal we had and share it with the world. We didn’t do that in the seventies and I’m sure we also didn’t do it in 25-220 AD. Maybe everyone was too busy eating the delicious pasta to stop and write a haiku about it. I understand my idea may spark some hesitation. People may not agree that a pasta festival represents the kind of multicultural Australia


we should be striving for. But to that I say, you must update your worldviews. Italians are as much a part of the thread of Australia as our convict ancestors and I will not sit idly by as their good name is tarnished. Yes, they made some foolish decisions in the past two World Wars regarding their allegiances and yes, their arrival in Australia ushered in the broadening of our immigration policy that has led us to the mess we’re in today. But must I remind you that these hardworking, olive-skinned individuals come from the birthplace of democracy, value the contest of ideas and have proven incredibly able and willing to assimilate into our robust Australian society. After seventy years of valued service to our nation, a festival of pasta would be a reward. A celebration of the food we have to accept as one of our own staples. A Noodle Festival, full of dishes that I cannot and will not pronounce correctly, is an affront to these noble members of our society: honest immigrants who came here from a wartorn country roughly forty to sixty years ago. Kind, generous people who set up small restaurants and shared their cuisine with us. Mothers and fathers who sacrificed everything so that their children might have a chance in Australia. And yes, it occurs to me now that I am also describing the plight of the Vietnamese. But that situation is very different because of reasons I hardly have to explain.



When I was a child, my family would spend summer in Provence. I mean, of course, the European summer. We would leave Australia as soon as the first winter squall touched Point Piper: there was nothing to keep us, for this southern land lacks all hibernal charm—no yuletide balls and no snow worth skiing on. So we boarded the jet and took off: first to Paris, then to Marseille and then, by limo, to a little château. The Château Rivau-le-Vicomte Mansart. Each year, as we drove through into the countryside, I would sigh with a pregnancy beyond my years. Here were fields, verdant as the hills. And here were wheat crops, humming with the movement of a Sisley or a Renoir. Later, if the summer had been hot, the farm hands might begin an early harvest. They would cut long swathes through the wheat, their scythes a rhythm of work and all that is good. I always longed to join them, just as Tolstoy’s Levin works with the peasants, reaping the fruit of the land with the sweat of his brow. In those moments, I feel sure I understood Anna Karenina. Before long, the Royce was winding up our long gravel drive. And there it was, set against a copse of old maples. A sweeping cream façade—counter-reformation, with the undular beat of Borromini’s San Carlino on the Quirinale. Above—a pitched roof, cresting into four, tiled turrets.


In summer, the days passed like an endless golden shower. At the breakfast table, maman and I would practise our Français. Eggs became oeufs, bacon became jamon, a piece of toast un toast. Later, we would walk in the French garden. Why of course it is French, I would exclaim to maman, we are in France! She, sage woman, would smile, as she explained the geometrical order of the jardin. Only later did I visit English gardens. They are cruel things, with their terrible overgrowth. We would take dinner at midday, and I would then pass the afternoon with Gaston, the vintner. Our cellar was an arsenal of refinement. Sometimes, if I had shined my shoes especially bright, he would give me a taste of the Rothschild ‘56, or the Dom Perignon ‘69. I fancied myself a country lad, flush with the pleasures of his first feast, like the splendid wedding banquet in Madam Bovary. Often, I think back on moments like these, and pity my contemporaries. They will never understand the world that made Flaubert into Flaubert, or Dumas into Dumas. They will never know what it is to conjugate one’s verbs under the summer sun. Or to beat local boys with a stick when they come to poach one’s pheasants. I have known these things.


Across 2 Warm beverage so central to British culture that they practically invented it (3) 6 An odious group of bleeding hearts, far-left extremists and cultural Marxists (3) 9 This American agency has done great work imposing democracy on other lesser nations (3) 10 A type of creature from English author J. R. R. Tolkien’s seminal fantasy series (3) 11 A quintessential symbol of Aussie car culture (3) 12 Recognised with praise (7) 13 This fine art form was born when Thespis first braved the Athenian stage in times of old. It was perfected,

from Tolkien’s fantasy epic (3) 22 First name of the Boy from Bowral, the greatest Aussie cricketer of all time (3) 23 This man laid the very foundations of Western philosophy and science (5) 24 This leader, this hero, is the definition of English statesmanship (9) 28 First name of the Canadian singer-songwriter, poet and novelist who sang Hallelujah (7) 29 The biblical patriarch who passed down the JudeoChristian values we hold dear (7) 31 This grain is the main ingredient of the flavoursome breakfast dish, porridge (3) 32 Be the owner of (3) 33 Since the late 19th Century, our boys in the baggy green have contended against the poms for this wee trophy (3) 34 What goes down in the West (3) 35 James Watson and Francis Crick were the first to model this molecule (3)


of course, by the likes of none other than the Bard of Stratford-upon-Avon (7) 14 Italian conductor who directed orchestras such as La Scala and the New York Philharmonic (9) 16 It was one of the greatest tragedies in human history when these troglodytes took Constantinople. But our lads showed ‘em a thing or two at Gallipoli! (5) 17 The founding of this public service was without doubt the greatest post-war social reform Britain ever made (3) 19 Postal agency established by His Majesty Charles II in 1660 (3) 21 Another type of creature

Down 1 In the days before drivel such as jazz, reggae, and ‘hip hop’ polluted our ears, this Austrian prodigy made music with true artistry (6) 2 A race of deities in Greek mythology (6) 3 35-Across, say (4) 4 This ratbag wouldn’t know Western Civilisation if it occupied his country for 90 years (6) 5 This formidable French writer and philosopher was

TARGET Minimum 4 letters per word 10 words: primitive 15 words: rudimentary 20 words: refined 30 words: cultivated


a major figure in the Age of Enlightenment (8) 6 A type of method developed by the great minds of the west (10) 7 Cultivated, refined, learned (8) 8 You won’t find a more rational or articulate advocate of classical liberal values than this Canadian professor! (8) 15 A member of the great race who inhabited Great Britain in the 5th Century and went on to conquer the globe—nowadays, though, our own parliament thinks it’s not OK to be one! (5-5) 17 Remarkable military commander who built the magnificent French Empire (8) 18 Places such as Shanghai, Aden, Kolkata, and the Cape of Good Hope, were all under our control when Britannia ruled the wave (8) 20 The collective of nations that invented democracy, the rule of law, Christian values, philosophy, science, mathematics, technology and medicine (8) 25 This celestial body was discovered in 1781 by Frederick William Herschel, KH, FRS (6) 26 The fatherland of Odysseus, hero of Homer’s masterful epic, The Odyssey (6) 27 Mathematical concept essential to calculus (6) 30 One of the greatest philosophers of the 20th Century, originator of Objectivism and author of Atlas Shrugged (4)

defund honi soit I know what you’re thinking. Honi Soit has always been a provocative rag. A peddler of counterculture and progressive resistance. Very well. But actions have consequences. The past year has been one disaster after another; one disgraceful editorial decision collapsing into the next. The students of Sydney University deserve more.

power to account. And your money pays for all of it!

Now I’m all for free speech. But free speech exists so people can say things like “we’re being taxed too much”, or “Manus Island isn’t actually that bad”.

The Honi team are a bunch of nogoodniks untroubled by the law. Criminal acts were described and endorsed. Our friends at The Daily Telegraph rightly wondered why students pay for this immoral tripe.

And it’s these same freedom-hating Juche fetishists who spit chips when the real truthtellers on campus hold

Conservatives on campus face enough problems getting votes and clout, suffering as they do by unprepossessing countenances. They do not need the added obstacle of leftist triggered snowflakes with a student-funded platform.

This claptrap has been going on for far too long, volke. All Honi teams

are just as disposed to madness as this one. But at least previous iterations had some good content to offset their transgressions. The same cannot be said of this supercilious, self-aggrandising, attention-seeking rabble. The call, therefore, is an easy one to make: Scott Morrison, end this scam now... stop directing compulsory student payments towards a publication that is so unabashedly polemical, so unthinkingly provocative and so unashamedly anti-student. Still disagree with me? Compare two lists: below, the grandeur of the right’s finest; and opposite, every degenerate sub-life invoved in Honi Soit. I hope you are disgusted.

ramsay centre dean’s list The Bianca Farmakis Award for Losing an Honi Election Twice Harry Licence The Josh Wooller Award for Backseat Editing Broken Things in PNR Memes for Engineering Teens The Grimes x Elon Musk award for Most Conspicuous Couple Manning Jeffrey and Sarah CutterRussell The Harold Holt Award for Disappearing Without a Trace Jason Chan The Elizabeth Broderick Award for Secretly Loving the Colleges Adriana Malavisi The Peter “I’ve Definitely Got the Numbers” Dutton Award Jacob Masina The Cardi B & Nicki Minaj Award for Juiciest Beef Jacky He & Alex Yang

The Tsingtao-Hermann’s Bar Award for Most Disappointing Rebrand Pulp Media The Nick Cummins Award for Weakest Resolve The USU on The Ramsay Centre

The Rebel Wilson Award for Most Litigious Jasper Brewer [Redacted] - student at St Paul’s College Amway Georgette’s Dad Luigi - Academia Vivarium Novum

The Zayn Malik Award for Desertion Cameron Gooley and Bianca Davino

The Jew Revue Award for Disappearing from Revue Season Grace Franki

The Third Member of Destiny’s Child Award for Forgettability Alisha Aitken-Radburn

The Nick Bonyhady Award for Fucking Off for Three Months Yuxuan Yang

The Meghan Markle Award for Marrying into Power Lachlan Stricker-Phelps-Finch

The Heat for Honi Award for Walking It In Spice for Honi

The ‘You Didn’t Think You Could Top Putting a Suicide Bomber on the Cover’ Award for Journalistic Integrity Jay Tharappel

The Hillary Clinton Award for Losing to a Joke Honey Soy

The 2015 Young Walkley Award Not Derrick Krusche 30

The Sam Chu Award for Flipping to This Section To Look For Their Name Haydn Hickson

Serena Adamedes, Jumana Al Sudani, Juliette Amies, Marcus Andersson, Natalie Ang, Jade Antcliffe, Raz Badiyan, Alex Bateman, Lorenzo Benitez, Nick Bonyhady, Alisha Brown, Dominic Bui Viet, Rhea Cai, Jenny Cao, Garnet Chan, Jocelin Chan, Yihe Chen, Simone Cheuanghane, Natassia Chrysanthos, Rebecca Chu, Samuel Chu, Tom Clarke, Nell Cohen, Harriet Cronley, Amber Cuneen, Vivienne Davies, Max Davy, Laura de Feyter, Theo Delaney, Nina Dillon-Britton, Ann Ding, Bruno Dubosarky, Romaan Dulloo, Robin Eames, Deaundre Espejo, Sylvia Eugene Dit Rochesson, Felix Faber, Pola Fanous, Cynthia Feng, Matthew Fisher, Megan Fitzgerald, Nick Forbutt, Ira Friedburg, Aviva Green, Jacinta Gregory, Justin Handisurya, Emma Harbridge, Madison Harriott, Baopu He, Edward Henderson, Ben Hines, Shon Ho, Nicholas Horgan, Wilson Huang, Nicholas Hulme, Kurt Iveson, Emmanuel Jacob, Jack Jacobs, Pranay Jha, Grace Johnson, Armadillo Jones, Zachary Jones, Erin Jordan, Risako Katsumata, Jacinta Keast, Jeffrey Khoo, Alexandra Kovacs, Tasia Kuznichenko, Lily Langman, Marcus Lee, Victor Lee, Nancy Li, Zi Hui Lie, Charlotte Lim, Kida Lin, Suyu Liu, Manan Luthra, Karishma Luthria, Gabbie Lynch, Alexander MacIntyre, Kedar Maddali, Aiden Magro, Vaidehi Mahapatra, Jahan Mand, Jack Mansell, Rebekah Mazzacato, Sasha McCarthy, Amelia Mertha, Momoko Metham, Shauna Moloney, A. Mon, James Monaro, Theo Murray, Sameer Murthy, Eloise Myatt, James Newbold, Katherine O’Chee, Nell O’Grady, Brendan O’Shea, Natasha Op’t Land, Nitrous Oxides, Stephanie Paglia, Jenny Pang, Connor Parissis, Eden Payne, Mathew Philip, Adam Philpot, Isabella Pindar, Madhuraa Prakash, Nicolette PT, Yasodara Puhule-Gamayalage, Anastasia Radievska, Bella Reda, Dan Reede, Ruby Reid, Mala Rigby, Perri Roach, Charlotte Robotham, Tanushri Saha, Brigitte Samaha, Swapnik Sanagavarapu, Shivani Sankaran, poseidon scaramouche, Jenna Schroder, Kirstin Sercombe, Tim Seguna, James Sherriff, Soo-Min Shim, Himath Siriniwasa, Lara Sonnenschein, Jessica Syed, Georgia Tan, Ranuka Tandan, William Tandany, Dunja Tatic, Jay Tharappel, Katie Thorburn, Liam Thorne, Mikaela Tilse, Sasha Veber, Joe Verity, Tom Waddell, Chuyi Wang, Ivy Wang, Maddy Ward, Mary Ward, Jossie Warnant, Emelie Watkins, Jamie Weiss, Carrie Wen, Prudence Wilkins-Wheat, Ellie Wilson, Daniel Wise, Sylvie Woods, Katharine Xu, Vallerie Xu, Bowen Yan, Victor Ye, Chantelle Yeung, Victoria Zerbst, Iris Zeng, Annie Zhang, Kelli Zhao, Alan Zheng, Victor Zhou, Jess Zlotnick

banned from ram


FRANCIS TAMER Words by Alison Xiao

Art by Lamya Rahman

First Man fixes itself right there. At that human level of Neil Armstrong and Janet Armstrong and the rest of the pilots and engineers who turned, in eight years, the ungrounded proclamation of a voluble president into the achievement of the second half of the American Century. But for all the film’s effective glimpses of domestic life—around dinner tables, around swimming pools, around the potluck at a test pilot’s wake—this is a movie that will be known for the scenes inside the cockpits of spacecraft, for making us experience the visceral trauma and terror of riding untested rockets into the vacuum of space, or guiding a tin can to the lunar surface.

in a claustrophobic cockpit atop a veritable bomb, and makes us feel every inch of what it was like to not know that landing on the moon would someday seem inevitable. First Man fixes itself right there. At that human level of Neil Armstrong and Janet Armstrong and the rest of the pilots and engineers who turned, in eight years, the ungrounded proclamation of a voluble president into the achievement of the second half of the American Century. But for all the film’s effective glimpses of domestic life—around dinner tables, around swimming pools, around the potluck at a test pilot’s wake—this is a movie that will be known for the scenes inside the cockpits of spacecraft, for making us experience the visceral trauma and terror of riding untested rockets into the vacuum of space, or guiding a tin can to the lunar surface.

To shoot something so fortified in the public imagination with fresh eyes, to strip the veneer off, as Chazelle says, might ordinarily threaten to diminish a historical achievement. Not so in the case of the moon landing. Because when you strip the veneer off those Gemini and Apollo missions, you actually see how much more difficult, how much more incredible, how much more daring and unnecessary and inadvisable the whole escapade was. This movie straps us there,

To shoot something so fortified in the public imagination with fresh eyes, to strip the veneer off, as Chazelle says, might ordinarily threaten to diminish a historical achievement. Not so in the case of the moon landing. Because when you strip the veneer off those Gemini and Apollo missions, you actually 32

see how much more difficult, how much more incredible, how much more daring and unnecessary and inadvisable the whole escapade was. This movie straps us there, in a claustrophobic cockpit atop a veritable bomb, and makes us feel every inch of what it was like to not know that landing on the moon would someday seem inevitable. chievement of the second half of the American Century. But for all the film’s effective glimpses of domestic life—around dinner tables, around swimming pools, around the potluck at a test pilot’s wake—this is a movie that will be known for the scenes inside the cockpits of spacecraft, for making us experience the visceral trauma and terror of riding untested rockets into the vacuum of space, or guiding a tin can to the lunar surface. To shoot something so fortified in the public imagination with fresh eyes, to strip the veneer off, as Chazelle says, might ordinarily how much more daring and might ordinarily how much more daring and might ordinarily how much more daring an d


The ramsay centre journal


The ramsay centre journal