L I O N
Oscar Yuill Que Sçay-je?
Callum Friel On the ‘Post-Truth’ Meme
Henry Edwards-Xu Careers
Richard Pullin Escape to the Country
wo r d s f r o m th e e di t or
hank you, dear reader, for retrieving the second issue this academic year of The Lion magazine. In it you’ll find our usual menagerie: barflies, activists, poets; recommendations and exonerations; diarists and thinkers, saints and sinners. We hope to publish a third and, alas, final issue around late May or early June. I’d like to invite everyone reading this – students, alumni, lecturers, librarians, caterers, even visitors – to think about contributing to our final issue. It would be fitting for us to converge in one place to air what final paeans, joys and woes we harbour towards this college, our mutual home.
In the mean-time, please do enjoy the brand-spanking new edition you hold in your hands. As always, we couldn’t have done it without you. In fact, given our diminished numbers and beleaguered morale, the mere fact of our continued publication is a minor miracle (apologies to Hume). As always, thanks to Katt Johnson for the cinematic beauty of the design; to Ben Mercer, who has been on five consecutive Lion editorial teams; to our editor-at-large Dan Fair (on hiatus as he runs for office); and to all contributors, old and new.
To get involved with the next issue of this magazine, email queries, articles and comments to email@example.com or visit facebook.com/theheythroplion
Oscar Yuill Editor-in-Chief
Ben Mercer Managing Editor
Katt Johnson Format Editor
5 4 Liberal vs. Liberal 8 Ben Mercer’s Diary 13 The “Post-Truth” Meme 16 Freedom? 21 Careers 24 Que Sçay-je? 28 Escape to the Country 32 Beer-Fuelled Musings 38 Poetry
Liberal vs. Liberal Why the Tolerance of the
Left is so Hateful
“The left” is a loaded term, with odious connotations for some. Once upon a time, I saw “the left” as a friend that I was happy to associate with. Now, that friend has gone off the deep end, and I’m not sure I really want to be seen in public with him. I introduce my politics as “I’m a liberal, but not the new kind — the old kind, like Mill and stuff.” I’m worried that people will take me for a Nazi-punching, safe-space-needing ideologue who’s three words short of a triggering. Of course, these stereotypes of the left don’t really exist: it’s a collage of news stories, Tumblr posts and memes, rolled into one huge strawman for people like me to hate. But these qualities, beliefs and policies do exist in the left, in their own spaces within the spectrum, and
are no less leftist than the ERA, Roe v. Wade, or any other leftist ideal. That’s because, while the left exists on a (surprise surprise) left-to-right spectrum, these ideas within the left exist on an authoritarian-to-libertarian spectrum.
he’s wrong: authoritarianism won the culture war, as evidenced by the fact that our choice in 2020 will be between two people, one of whom wrote the Snoopers’ Charter, and one of whom didn’t even show up to vote, ensuring its passage.
In much the same way, we have this division on the right: at the top (authoritarian), we have Cameron, May, Trump and so on — thinkers like Hobbes would go here. At the bottom, we have our Nozicks, Rands and Friedmans. They all have their failings, at least in my opinion, but they relate with the leftist side in various ways, which need to be unpacked: my leftism resembles Corbyn’s leftism because of our economics, whereas Corbyn’s leftism and May’s right-wing politics resemble each other because of their belief in an authoritarian state (Snoopers’ Charter, for example). May, Cameron, et al. resemble Friedman and Nozick because of their economics. And finally I resemble Rand, Nozick and Friedman because we believe in a tiny, insignificant state and society.
Another way to look at this fight — authoritarianism v. libertarianism — is through the lens of collectivism v. individualism. This distinction means precisely the same thing as the first, only this time the question is about people instead of the state: to what extent can society legitimately exercise coercion and violence against the individual? As Mill so rightly points out in On Liberty, the state is only the executive branch of the all-powerful society, which permeates every moment of existence for those who live within it; the power of the state pales in comparison to the power of society over the individual, and yet, the latter largely goes unexamined by libertarian-leftists. When people advocate for, say, affirmative action (which in the present day refers to deliberate action taken to encourage people from minority groups into positions of power), they might appeal to the idea that a certain minority group holds less power than the majority group. When a black individual gets into a university despite having lower grades or less potential than a white individual, this theory would state that there is a social good being performed through the promotion of an underprivileged (albeit underqualified) person to a position of greater power. In reality, this goes against the idea of
Understanding politics in this way is essential, in my mind, to the study of political philosophical theory. We need to ask why it is that what separates Corbyn from May is whether or not they like the BBC, benefits and the NHS, and what it means for our political spectrum that these are our only realistic choices. Jonathan Pie, comedian and satirist, stated after God-Emperor Trump was elected that “the left won the culture war”. I think
meritocracy, and an injustice has been committed against the better-qualified person solely because of his race, which he did not get to choose. The more qualified individual is being punished for a crime he did not commit: being a white person at a time when consensus deems that black people are deserving of special treatment. The same would be true if we were in the preMLK US, where qualified black people were passed over for educational opportunities because of their skin tone. It is an injustice for anyone not to be treated as an individual, based on their own merit. As Andrea Crandall writes in her ‘The Flaws of Affirmative Action: a Feminist Perspective’ (2004),
Where real discrimination does take place, it should be dealt with in court. Discrimination should not be preempted in the workplace. An employer, like any other American, should be innocent until proven guilty and allowed to hire the best candidate for the job — irrespective of identity.
In his ‘Why getting into elite colleges is harder for women’ (2015), Jon Birger decries the fact that prestigious American universities are accepting women and men at different rates relative to their respective application pools: 11% of male applicants to 7% of female applicants at Brown, for example. Why? Because if they accepted male and female applicants at the same rates, then their Class of 2020
could be as much as 65% female; in order to preserve a 50/50 gender balance, Brown is actively discriminating against talented and able women who deserve a place at that university. People on the authoritarian-left have complained about this system, not realising that it’s the same system that the libertarian-left have been complaining about for years. I’m fine with having a 65% female Class of 2020 if that’s the natural equilibrium; I’m not fine with having talented people passed over because of their genitals. By its nature, collectivism is a classist meta-ideology: when Trump creates the classes of “American” and “Un-American”, May the classes of “Terrorist” and “Law-Abiding British Citizen”, Hitler the classes of “German” and “Untermenschen”, and Marx the classes of “Bourgeoisie” and “Proletariat”, it is done with the intention of denying one of the classes rights that would normally be afforded to everyone within a libertarian, individualist framework.
(cf. Falguni Sheth, “Towards a Political Philosophy of Race”; Carl Schmitt, “The Concept of the Political”.) This clearly happens on both ends of the left-right spectrum, but it is unique to authoritarian ideologies, even when they masquerade as libertarian. When Richard Spencer was assaulted by an anonymous Antifa supporter, some cheered upon seeing “a Nazi punched in the face”. The most sense I can make of this sentiment is that a Nazi is a bad person, and therefore can be denied the rights afforded to others. Here “a bad person” really means “someone I disagree with” — from an objective viewpoint, neither party has any moral value, and legally one individual is assaulting another, and is therefore committing a crime. Spencer is not a representative of all his ideological comrades, and does not deserve to be assaulted on an individual level. The idea that some social good can come from disobeying the laws of society and not allowing the free expression of ideas by another is
frankly laughable. In “Intolerant Liberals” (2017), Tucker FitzGerald states that he won’t be satisfied by one female President; instead, he states, “We’ve had 45 presidents. It’s going to take 45 women serving as president before we even have a chance to reach parity.” This viewpoint of oppression as transactional — that oppression must be paid back in some way — is deeply anti-individualist. If, seven generations ago, your family were slaves, you deserve no reparations because you yourself have never been enslaved in your life. In much the same way, a white person can be homeless; whiteness of skin does not constitute power, and a man can be homeless — genitals alone do not constitute power. Lena Dunham, awful actress and self-confessed child rapist who for some reason still has a show on HBO, put out a video on Twitter before the US Presidential Election in which her father said “I think it’s time for straight white men to
step back a little and let other people do it,” which was accompanied by an animation of a man being crushed by a high heel. This form of fascistic feminism is born of this post-Marxist collectivism, wherein “women” are oppressed as a class, and “men” are their oppressors as a class. The only way for this oppression to end of for “women” is to achieve class consciousness and seize the means of gendered power. Feminism for authoritarians can’t be about treating everyone the same, because that would destroy the dynamic of a classed society; feminism for authoritarians must therefore be about “the extinction of white men” (Dunham’s words). If you wish to understand why it is that the left flies in the face of the individualism for which it was once known, look no further than Marxism: the notion that superstructures pervade our lives, that these superstructures manufacture classes to oppress people, and that the classes can only be abolished through a radical restructuring of power. This is deeply integral to modern-day leftism, and has also greatly informed the right-wing authoritarians. That is why it’s okay to punch Nazis, discriminate against white people, deny that men may suffer mental health problems in a parliamentary meeting, or say that the rich are necessarily evil and exploitative — because the post-Marxist ideology of modern leftist politics makes enemies of these people, rather than seeing them for the individuals that they really are.
DIARY Ben Mercer
the 2 weeks allowed by the cruising license, yet I’ve never once seen its owner.
l oat i ng hom e l e s s.
I’m pretty sure the boat in front of me has been abandoned. That, or its nominal owner has died within. I should explain: I learnt very quickly that the boat you drive signifies your class. Widebeams are almost exclusively reserved for the moneyed few. 50 ft.+ means you have, or have had, money, but that you either don’t care for it or have lost it. My length, between 30-40 ft, is lower-middle-class.
And it’s now half-freed from its mooring, detached by the rear, and is floating arse-end out into the canal. I was made aware of this when the wind caused it to swing fully around and bash into the bow of my (very professionally moored) home. Tomorrow, if no one has done it before I wake up, I shall pull it back to the bank and tie it up before calling the river police (for such a body exists). We shall then find out whether its owner is careless or merely dead.
There is a specific type of boat which is in no way traditional, is made of plastic and is not by any definition a narrow- or houseboat, that I have only ever seen driven by people who are otherwise homeless. (Indeed, whilst driving mine into London I once had to stop to help a homeless man — rum in one hand and petrol in the other — b ack aboard a boat of this make. His legs were as unemployable as he was.)
(Addendum: the boat in question has, since the time of writing, disappeared. It has been replaced by a charming, traditional narrowboat. However, in hindsight, the peace and quiet afforded by the abandoned plastic monstrosity was quite pleasant. The principal contribution offered by its replacement is the sound of sexual bliss, which can be heard even whilst one is wearing headphones and running the engine. This is indecent – and one hopes it is purely accidental, for it would otherwise be unashamedly exhibitionist. Yet it is also so common that one wonders that such a thing is possible. I’m sure it cannot be healthy.)
The one in front of me is of the homeless, underclass variety. It has no certificates or insurance on display, as by law they should be, and people from the Canal and River Trust have stuck a warning sticker on it.
My most recent diary piece (published on Medium under the title “Captain’s Log”) contains reflections on George Orwell’s 1984. But life has a habit of subjecting us to ironies, for it could not have been more than five minutes after uploading the diary that I was interrupted by a small drone, which was patrolling the skies above the canal.
It ’ s b een moored up beyond
D ron e s Stri ke.
This was intrusive and, as I wrote in a piece for The National Student (“We’re All Being Watched – and There’s Nothing We Can Do About It”, March 4th), distinctly Orwellian. And there is something sinister about the prospect of it becoming a common feature of life. More so when you recall that the police are beginning to use them, and
that they will, I’m sure, soon become a commonplace tool of law enforcement agencies. They’re incredibly cheap to produce and to operate. When one spies a police helicopter flying above, one can be quite sure that it’s on a serious and specified task, for the costs of flying them are too much to allow for them to be used for generalised and non-specific surveillance. This is not true of drones. Not only do they allow just anyone to spy on anyone at any time, they also allow the state to do the same. And, unlike CCTV cameras, they are quite conspicuous, both conceptually and physically. Much like Orwell’s telescreens, the fact of their existence carries with it a fear not bound to their immediate purpose. Imagine a world in which these things are ubiquitous, and you imagine a world in which the very skies remind you that you’re being watched. No stroll is private, no park bench intimate; at any moment you are liable to be interrupted by the claxon sound and disembodied eyes of a stranger; eyes which, unlike real ones, give no hint of their motive or purpose, and from which there is no obvious way of hiding. They are attuned to no specific purpose. Tasked with no limited responsibility to observe, they speak only to that sinister part of us which is voyeuristic, and terrify that sensible part of us which fears it. R a p e Cu lt u r e ? In a rather peculiar contrivance of circumstance, I recently found myself speaking at an event called Confronting Rape Culture. This had not been my intention, for I was in attendance to hear SoGol Sur (also published in this esteemed magazine) orate and not to contribute myself. Nevertheless, I ended up on the chair, attempting to recall verse. I say that the contrivance was peculiar because I am deeply sceptical of the term “rape culture”. I do not believe that all rape is equal, much less that all sexual assault is rape. Having, on two occasions, been on the receiving end of the latter, I find that my conviction on this point only becomes stronger as facts and knowledge present themselves. Besides, I have never once written a poem about rape. That said, if one subscribes to the old (and proper) view of poetry – that it must have form and obey the laws of metre – then very few of the speakers before me had written poems about rape, either. The location
afforded me an opportunity to hint at this: Housmans Radical Books h o p (aside from being one of the few places one may safely get away with calling one’s associates “comrade”) takes its name from Lawrence Housman, brother of A.E. Housman. Besides being my formative influence, A.E. Housman once delivered a lecture entitled The Name and Nature of Poetry, which is essential reading for anyone aspiring to learn about, let alone write, poetry. In it, he reaffirms a deep and sincere commitment to form, amongst other things, and is scathing of the modernist tradition. (This, in turn, was panned by the then-influential modernist critic F.R. Leavis, who said that it would take twelve years to undo the ‘harm’ done by Housman in a single hour. Given the state of modern verse, if indeed we consent to call it verse, one rather wishes the “harm” had been more severe and long-lasting.) But one should always seek to speak to the motion, whether or not one thinks its terminology valid. So I required an excuse to recite verse with no obvious connection to the topic. Happily, one quickly presented itself. Again, it was partly afforded by the venue: the poetry of A.E. Housman is defined by a certain nostalgia, one born of the period in which he wrote. Housman witnessed not only the profound and speedy social change of the late-Edwardian era, but also the First World War, and this imbues his poetry with a keen sense of, and a want to recall to mind, things loved and lost. So I had a passable cause to revisit my first attempts at poetry, which look increasingly likely to be my last attempts at the same. And what, I asked, is rape, if not the murder of innocence and the corruption of whatever things are true, beautiful and lovely? One should not fight only on annexed ground. So surely, if we are to confront “rape culture” (whatever it may be), we should devote time not only to explaining unspeakable wrongs but also to reaffirming that which is good about life. Only by this can we prevent tragedy from defining us. And with that, I think my own contribution was given some small worth. One or two of those I recited may find their way into the back of this magazine. (The event was filmed, and I’m told the video will be uploaded to the Facebook page, entitled “Confronting Rape Culture”, in the coming days.) 9
on the implicit assumptions of the
“ P O S T-T RU T H ” MEME Callum Friel
he Oxford dictionary chose the word ‘post-truth’ as ‘word of the year’ for 2016, apparently in response to the prevailing belief that political and social discourse has been degraded to such an extent that objective “facts” are no longer the prime mover in public discussions, but rather appeals to emotional narratives. It is defined as “denoting circumstances in which objective facts are less influential in shaping public opinion than appeals to emotion and personal belief”. For some, the success of Donald Trump, Brexit and the general rise of populist nationalism in Europe is symptomatic of the era of “post-truth”, with emotional, aesthetically driven appeals to the narrative of nationhood, identity, victim-hood and glorious “national rebirths” becoming more appealing than factual arguments about GDP, the global economy, or the pragmatic
efficiency of global institutions. But “post-truth” is itself based on the assumption that present demagogues are in some way outraging an idealised, non-existent past of epistemological sanctity. It itself a non-factual narrative based on emotional appeal. It makes us feel better about the failure of liberal democracies and institutions, which present themselves as based on pristine ideals of truth and objectivity, to pretend that there was once a “truth era”. But when was this era? It would have to have been one in which humans were essentially rational subjects, engaging in rational discourse towards a common good. These assumptions about the subject relate, in turn, to implicit assumptions about the nature of discourse, as something which is in no way related to pre-existing power
structures, collective intuitions, “common sense”, social imbalances, and the platform itself. In the words of the Dominican post-modernist Khalil Pineda,
Since belief is not predicated on universal truths or even on an agreed upon, rationally reached
consensus, a pressing concern becomes who has power over discourse? It’s patently false that public discourse is this marketplace of ideas, where whatever is ‘true’ wins out. Different people have different access to media and consequently to the tools of convincing, to
framing and shaping the debate, to creating narratives that feel real to people. Debate is an emergent mechanism in civil society that to an extent favors rational consensus, but public discourse is not a debate. It’s often a spectacle, one created by the market. I don’t think markets are inherently good at creating good
discourse, in fact, I think they are prone to creating
really bad discourse.
Discourse has always reflected the status quo in various ways; it
has always been a direct reflection on the implicit assumptions of a given society, and these assumptions are almost always rooted in group-think, intuition, tradition, and more often than not are given “top down” as opposed to bottom up. As such, discourse never exists in an a priori, ahistorical vacuum, in which competing ideas are presented or rejected on the basis of “truth” according to a universally agreed upon rational criteria, as opposed to the imperatives and contingencies of a given social situation. Anyone who neglects these non-rational influences that make possible the exchange of rational, a priori ideas, or empirical facts is at risk of claiming an objectivity that never existed, and through their idealization of this objectivity, they fundamentally miss the true purpose and actuality of discourse, making them unable to truly participate. Truth cannot simply be presented, it must be real to people, it must
feel real. Therefore, in an era of uneven development and globalization, rational arguments about GDP will not be convincing to an unemployed working class male in Michigan. If he is offered a narrative of redemption, victimhood and self-righteous rage that fits his personal, primordial, non-rational state, then he will accept it, rather than capitulating to the supposedly “rational” side which seems to help everyone else apart from him. This other side, which appeals to rationality, statistical models and empirical findings, in no way relates to his particular situation. It alludes only to an alien truth that must be trusted. Even the side that claims a monopoly on rational arguments cannot lament the death of rationality and debate about “post-truth” if it has completely neglected to make their truth real, believable, relevant, and meaningful. This is why nationalist narratives are so effective, and appeal to the “forgotten men and women” left behind by the era of material
progress. They directly tap into a non-rational, emotive, but entirely real feeling of grievance and rage, and as such they become truth to millions of people, despite the studies of any given think tank in Brussels or Washington. The failure of the remain campaign and Hillary Clinton were not due to the fact that people are irredeemable plebs immune to the cold, hard reality, but rather these sides simply presumed their own truth, rationality and objectivity, and thus neglected to present their truth in terms of a narrative that was appealing, real, and relevant to peoples lives, commitments, anxieties and everyday concerns. Post-truth can mean only this: a fundamental distrust of the non-rational parts of humanity, a lamenting of the death of something that never was, and a failure of the status quo to make itself meaningful.
Ben Mercer M a n a g i n g E d i t or
t is obviously true to say that, geographically, Scotland forms the head of the United Kingdom. Yet one can experiment with the anthropomorphic and find that the resulting analogy carries more than a hint of truth about it, too; Scotland often functions as the brain of the national body. It is hard to think of any nation, equivalent in size or circumstance, which has so consistently exercised such profound and out-sized influence. The list of its inventions is well-known to be a long one (and it is certainly too long to reproduce here), but Scotland has also given the Union some of its better monarchs and many of its most capable ministers of state. Its philosophers, as we know, remain pre-eminent in the English-speaking world. And its economists pioneered what is now considered orthodox. Is it possible to over-estimate the impact and influence of Adam Smith? (I might go one more: is it possible
to fully appreciate the irony of it? That Margaret Thatcher, so hated north of The Wall, took as her economic philosophy the works of Friedrich Hayek and Milton Friedman, who were themselves building upon the writings of Smith? How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is...) If we take the analogy just one step further, we might say that this apparent peak of secessionist fervour is motivated by that same frustration that must exist in ageing genius. Why must the brain be shackled to such a squalid, decrepit body? Well, if the “Project Fear” of 2014 is any guide then this will not make it beyond the pages of The Lion. But it does seem to me that, if there is any truth at all to what I’ve written, any defence of the Union must involve a defence of the body. It cannot merely content itself with scaring the brain into submission, or complacently tell it that this is the body it’s stuck with and that’s that. It must, in short, include a defence of the English. Yet again, we encounter a list – this time of wrongs - that’s too long to print. But if one wants a general rule, it is this: the way the British political system is structured allows governments – especially Conservative governments – to secure working majorities without earning a single vote in Scotland. They are then able to govern as
though Scotland doesn’t matter to them, and the unfortunate truth is that they are right to think so. The SNP are correct to point this out, and independence would certainly redress the problem. But it is a mistake to think that independence is the only solution to it, for there are others, not least electoral reform. And it is a mistake, as I shall shortly explain, to think that independence is even the most desirable solution. Yet this is not a universal opinion even in England. I feel a distinct lack of support, most particularly to my Left. My friend Josh White (with whom seasoned readers of the Lion will be familiar) is, as ever, a decent representative of that strand of thought. His recent piece in Souciant (“The UK is Dead”, March 15th) is somewhat more than lukewarm about the prospect of the UK’s demise. There is a certain glee, felt by some on the Left of politics, at the prospect of rubbing the Right’s face in the dirt. Left support for Scottish independence, which is careless about Scotland’s future and masochistic about England’s, has two motivating beliefs. The first: England is a right-wing mess
that continues to drape itself in relic-shrouds of imperialism and masquerades bourgeois hauteur. The second is nihilistic: this is the way England is, the way it always has been, the way it always will be, and good luck to anyone who wants to escape it. I cannot share these views. I do not regard England as hopeless, nor a terminal cancer for those nations saddled with its membership of the United Kingdom. Much of it is worth preserving, and much else can be improved; and the continuation of Scotland’s membership of the same United Kingdom is vital to maintaining these faint hopes. Yet the benefits of Union do not lie solely in the Kingdom’s rump. Healthy body, healthy mind, no? Scotland gains considerably, even under the current arrangement. And it would have much to lose if left, and much more still if it allowed itself to be transplanted, and its brain left on shelf in a Brussels abattoir. For a third and final time, I must borrow only one or two items from a list too long to print. But let us, in closing, sketch out the “healthy body, healthy mind” paradigm.
First, the SNP plans to break from a Westminster government inclined to give powers to Holyrood and join instead a Brussels kleptocracy which wants only to take powers away. As an “independent” EU country – oxymoronic though that formulation may be – Scotland would be bound to sign and ratify EU treaties which impose, as a constitutional law, the kind of austerity policies for which the SNP upbraids Westminster. An independent Scotland would sacrifice those powers it has gained through devolution, and many more besides. This would be disastrous for the Scottish economy and be nothing short of a plague on Scottish society. As a part of the UK, Scotland is permitted to operate a budget deficit vastly in excess of the 3% required by the Maastricht Treaty, and adopt a spending programme forbidden by the Fiscal Compact. Scotland’s budget deficit currently stands at 9.5%, or roughly £15bn. At a time when its public sector institutions, from education to infrastructure, are under significant stress, and with their levels of performance dropping, it is economically insane to suggest that joining
the EU is in any way desirable. The Greeks, with a deficit of 7.5%, have been bankrupted by EU austerity measures. Scotland’s deficit is higher even than that, and meeting its treaty obligations would require it to cut spending by more than the combined budgets of education (£2.6bn) and health (£12.2bn). As part of the independence campaign in 2014, the SNP promised oil revenues of £7.9bn this year, which would mitigate the level of austerity it would have to endure. In fact, oil has brought in just £0.9bn this year. Scotland is currently spending the equivalent of £12,800 per head, £1,200 more than the UK average. This is permitted if Scotland is in the UK, but prohibited – and impossible in any case – if it leaves and joins the EU. Given the response of Wolfgang Schauble to the election of Syriza in Greece – “we do not allow elections to change policy” – the chances of a special deal for Scotland are slight. (Whether Scotland is able to rejoin the EU at all is a question with no clear answer; it could be that the Scots’ homage to Catalonia is a bitter one indeed.) Meanwhile, our departure from
the European Union frees us from the unaccountable brutality of EU economic rules and directives. It restores to the Westminster government sovereignty over vast areas of law and policy and, under the terms of the existing arrangement, those which fall within the purview of devolution will be duly devolved. Scotland stands to gain powers as part of the UK which it would lose if it joined the EU. Furthermore, elections matter again. It is now possible – as it wasn’t before – for the next government to fundamentally alter, or even scrap, the policies of its predecessor. Corbyn might be unelectable, but imagine an equivalent policy platform winning at the next election – one which promises to renationalise the railways, save the NHS, spend properly on social care, and do many of the things the SNP affects to care about. An independent UK government is able to do this; an “independent” EU state is not. The case for true Scottish independence is better than the false prospectus offered by the SNP. Life may well be turbulent outside of the EU, but the chance of prosperity is very real, both now and in the future. A national govern-
ment, even a devolved assembly, gains power and influence outside the EU but loses it by membership. Scottish businesses will be able to forge their own trade arrangements outside the EU – including with the Single Market – but sacrifices those powers if it remains a member. The Scottish people have the power to elect a national and a UK government and, if outside the EU, have their votes matter. Inside the EU, their votes are irrelevant. Power to the people lies outside, not in, yet the supposedly pro-independence parties in Scotland would sacrifice their democratic power on the altar of EU membership. The UK isn’t perfect, but it can be reformed. The European Union cannot. Listen not to those glib fools who say that it is impossible to defend one union having just left another; the two are entirely different. I suspect we’ll need something rather better than the tepid slogans used in 2014, but the sentiment at least is true: we are Better Together. We would all – Left and Right, Scottish and English – do well to remember it.
I CAN’T THINK OF A PUN ON CAREERS DINNER
Henry Edwards-Xu HSU Pr es ident
Hello everyone! This is your president, Henry, writing to you through the medium of The Lion newspaper about an event the union ran earlier this term in collaboration with the college’s careers department. I can’t remember the last time a member of the HSU exec wrote something like this in the Lion but here we are. In particular, as you can tell from my amazingly witty headline, I’d like to write about the Careers Dinner. Firstly, I hope all of you that at-
tended had a wonderful time, and a constructive evening. It’s something that the union, Heythrop careers team and staff, and even members of the governing body have been working on since last year, so seeing it all come together has been a hugely rewarding experience for all of us. For the last year of Heythrop College, we wanted to put together an extra special event for the students here and I hope we succeeded in our delivery. The event took place on the February 1st in the Drapers’ Hall, over in the heart of Central London’s financial district. Students were treated to a prosecco reception
and three-course meals amongst employees in multiple industries, ranging from journalism, business, education, marketing and many more. For those uncertain about their future, Heythrop’s very own two careers advisors, Andy and Morag, were also available throughout the night. Unfortunately, like with most events, there was a limited capacity and so not everyone who wanted to attend could. While I’m grateful for your interest, it is regrettable that we couldn’t have even more people there. But the Careers Dinner isn’t our only source of career focused work here. Here at the
HSU, we recognise that a large part of our student population are now looking at finishing their degrees and will be looking towards the future. For that reason, allow me to remind you all of whatâ€™s coming up in terms of careers provision from the HSU and the college. Through TOPSE funding, the college now has not one but two careers advisors eagerly awaiting your questions, concerns and hopes for the future. In particular, Andy Walsh is now qualified to provide a skills profile tailored for you as an individual. This skills profile is an assessment of your past experience, skills and qualifications for
the purpose of finding a career best suited to you. A service like this externally could cost a small fortune but for you, as a Heythrop student, we have opted to price it at ÂŁ0. The Careers Working lunches continue into this term as well, and have proven to be a valuable source of information for various careers related areas. Our volunteering, internship and employability training grants will also be continuing into this Summer as well, so please do make use of this opportunity to expand your CV as you look towards the future. Leaflets and booklets with information can be found around the basement
area of the college, including the HSU Advice Centre and the Common Room, or feel free to inquire about them more by popping into the HSU office or emailing hsu@ heythrop.ac.uk.
Oscar Yuill Edi tor-in-Chief
uch as the novel can be attributed to Cervantes, the essay, too, has a singular origin in the unlikely figure of a 16th century French nobleman and wine-grower. His name was Michel Eyquem de Montaigne, and one could be forgiven for thinking he was as prudish as the format we have come to loathe as we are forced each year, under timed conditions, to regurgitate the scattered fragments of our learning. Born in 1533, he was severed from his family at the Chateaux de Montaigne and raised in a small cottage under the auspices of a hired tutor with the express purpose of installing Latin as his first language. His father’s pedagogical plan (which seems later to have influenced John Stuart Mill’s father) succeeded. Michel’s Latin was as natural and as fluent as Cicero’s, and he regularly out-Latined his tutors at the Collège de Guyenne.
He then enters a career in law; befriends a man called Etienne de La Boétie; inherits his family’s estate; is re-elected mayor of Bordeaux; hosts Henri de Navarre; is imprisoned in the Bastille while on a secret mission in Paris; joins the court of Henri III; and, after a brief but illustrious career, dies of quinsy—from kidney stone complications—in 1592. These details suggest a model social climber, no different from other noblemen of the day in maintaining small handbooks (a sort of proto-diary) in which to immortalize diplomatic, social, and political achievements. If that were that, I’d also consider ignoring him. But I’ve been lying to you. Michel de Montaigne and I are rather well-acquainted. In fact, he is one of my best friends. I’d like you to meet him—if you haven’t already, that is. For during that same, short, ostensibly shallow lifetime, his friendship with La Boétie soared as close to the Forms as did Alexander and Hephaestion’s, Wilde and Bosie’s; he accompanied Charles IX to Rouen and met Tupinambá Brazilians; he traveled to Germany, Switzerland, and Italy; and, in 1571, made one of the most significant decisions a human being has ever made. As he put it himself, inscribed above the circular bookcase in his tower: “In the year of Christ 1571, at the age of t hi r t y-eight, on the last day of February, his birthday, Michel de Montaigne, long weary of the servitude of the court and of public employments, while still entire, retired to the bosom of the learned virgins, where in calm and freedom from all cares he will spend what little remains of his
life, now more than half run out. If the fates permit, he will complete this abode, this sweet ancestral retreat; and he has consecrated it to his freedom, tranquillity, and leisure.” What Montaigne then proceeded to achieve, the project he embarked upon, in that tower would influence the course of philosophy, psychology, and literature in a unique and remarkable way. He has inspired countless thinkers and artists: Pascal, Hume, Hazlitt, Emerson, Whitman, Nietzsche, Flaubert, Dali, Woolf, Zweig—the list is vast. Bernard Levin once wrote, “I defy any reader of Mo nt a i g ne not to put down the book at some point and say with i n c r e du l it y : ‘How did he know all that a b o u t me?’”
Whole chunks of Shakespeare, even, (especially The Tempest) seem to have been lifted nearly wholesale from Montaigne’s Essais (“attempts”), first published in 1580 with a suitably representative preface from the author: “This book was written in good faith, reader. It warns you from the outset that in it I have set myself no goal but a domestic and private one. I have had no thought of serving either you or my own glory. My powers are inadequate for such a purpose. I have dedicated it to the private convenience of my relatives and friends, so that when they have lost me (as soon they must), they may recover here some features of my habits and temperament, and by this means keep the knowledge they have had of me more complete and alive. If I had written to seek the world’s favour, I should have bedecked myself better, and should present myself in a studied posture. I want to b e
seen here in my simple, natural, ordinary fashion, without straining or artifice; for it is myself that I portray. My defects will here be read to the life, and also my natural form, as far as respect for the public has allowed. Had I been placed among those nations which are said to live still in the sweet freedom of nature’s first laws, I assure you I should very gladly have portrayed myself here entire and wholly naked. Thus, reader, I am myself the matter of my book; you would be unreasonable to spend your leisure on so frivolous and vain a subject. So, farewell. Montaigne, this first day of March, fifteen hundred and eighty.” If only social media profiles were prefaced quite so modestly, for Montaigne is in many respects the first “blogger”. The reason behind Levin’s amazement is that, in revealing himself, Montaigne reveals us. Indeed, many journalists nowadays commonly make two related observations: firstly that we are all so different from one another, and secondly, that everywhere you go people are more or less the same. “Even on the highest throne in the world, we are still sitting on our ass,” he writes in “Of Experience”. And there is no shortage of personal details. He never misses a chance to talk about defecation (and related movements), penises, vaginas, farting, erectile dysfu nctio n, and other such delights. He tells us of a friend who can fart the alphabet. He describes his right honourable member as an armoured soldier charging into battle. He gets rather steamy in “Of Smells” when he reminisces “the close kisses of youth, savoury, greedy, and
sticky”. In “A Custom of the Island of Cea”—an essay which might equally be called “The Benefits of Suicide”—he second guesses the modern psychological concept of diffusion of responsibility, writing, “What persuasion would not do in each man singly, it does in all, the ardour of association stealing away the individual judgment.” Indeed, his psychological acumen had a profound effect on Nietzsche (who in turn influenced Freud). Before Nietzsche contracted syphilis and became the loneliest man on earth, he often read the Essays to his friends in the Bay of Naples. While there is much of Montaigne that Nietzsche would have detested—not least his Christianity— there is much of the Ubermensch in the Frenchman: “A spirited mind never stops within itself; it is always aspiring and going beyond its strength; it has impulses beyond its powers of achievement. If it does not advance and press forward and stand at bay and clash, it is only half alive. Its pursuits are boundless and without form; its food is wonder, the chase, ambiguity” (“Of Experience”). Philosophically, Montaigne would have been at home reclining on a couch in a wine-fuelled Socratic Symposium; leaning on the Stoa in the marketplace; pottering about Epicurus’ walled Garden community; and tottering towards a cliff arm in arm with Pyrrho. He borrowed from all these schools (apart from in “An Apology to Raymond Sebond”, his Christianity was notably absent). This explains the fashions that have grown up and around him over the centuries. Analogous to the Bible’s employment by various camps, the Essays have been used to justify both Catholicism and a scepticism every bit as thorough-going as Hume’s; stoicism and romanticism; existentialism, post-modernism, and a host of other –isms. Montaigne would have relished the ambivalence: if 25
any one principle ties all 107 essays together, it is temperance, moderation, lightness—the ephemeral. In seeking to chart not the steady Being or constancy of his mind but its innate uncertainty, he embodies the lifestyle he was living concomitantly with the essays. This, for me, (for everyone may take something of special value from the Essays), remains potently therapeutic. Long reticent, I feel capable enough to reveal to the reader that I suffer from Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, about which those classic hand-washing jokes do little to illumine the mind’s ravaging. I find in Montaigne a steady
source of calm, composure, and joviality—a Gay Scientist (another allusion of Nietzsche’s, perhaps?). Unlike Proust’s infamous cynicism towards the social, Montaigne thought conversation—not high-minded, per se, but merely the witty interplay of knowing looks and sanguine repartee—the highest of all human activities. Amidst the pathos, and the quotations from Ovid, Lucretius, Plato, Seneca, and Virgil, Montaigne is never far from the corollary, bathos, throwing his arms up in the air and asking, “Que scay-je?” What do I know? According to him, we are no better than goats,
pigs, and cats, whom—unless they find themselves in one of our loveliest inventions, the abattoir or fur farm—can regularly be observed enjoying far happier lives than we. In Montaigne’s arms, all philosophers are “cabbage-heads”; there is much more wisdom in the average farmer. As Flaubert said, “Don’t read him as children do, for amusement, nor as the ambitious do, to be instructed. No, read him in order to live.” Run along now. You have a friend to make.
It is a thorny undertaking, and more so than it seems, to follow a movement so wandering as that of our mind, to penetrate the opaque depths of its innermost folds, to pick out and immobilise the innumerable flutterings that agitate it
Escape to the Country
lot of the people I’ve met at Heythrop have grown up in or around London. For them, the journey home can be made in little more than an hour. Understandably enough, most people still decided to live in Halls in first year, to get the full Uni experience. However, a lot of people from Heythrop hail from much further afield. I’ve met people from Dorset, Scotland, Wales, Lancashire, Gloucestershire — and from all over the world. Having, myself, never lived closer to London than 111 miles, it has been a novel experience for me to live in the Smoke, as it has for others. Where I grew up, the countryside is particularly lovely, and it’s always a trial to return to London after being on holiday in my native patch. So, I offer the following tip: if you plan to stay in London only for a few years after Uni, beware of becoming stuck here. I’ve met people 29
in their 60s who’d wanted to settle down in a more rural community when they were still young — but they never did. But there are some great places to live elsewhere. Over the Christmas holidays me and my family had a great walk on the Malvern Hills — a family favourite. Being over 1000 feet, most of the hills are actually mountains and offer stunning views in all directions. We chose a good day; the sky was a perfect blue, and the sun (which by 1pm was already very low) gave the most wonderful golden glow. There was a slight mist in the air — enough to add a dramatic, wispy edge to the sights of the neighbouring peaks, but not so much as to obscure the surrounding views below. And what views! The radiant golden glow of the sun illuminated every object in sight — every building, field, village and city for miles and miles and miles. In the East we could see the city of Worcester, with its majestic river, cathedral, and spires all lit up in the golden glow. I could see the tower of St. John-in-Bedwardine where I was christened and where my brother got married last year; it was no closer than eight miles away, and yet there it was in full view. On a clear day, you can see as far south-west as the Bristol Channel, glistening on the horizon. We were on the North Hill (about 1350 feet) on the extreme end of the hills, and we walked right round the edge. From there we saw even more rural views of the remote and lovely Suckley Hills (which are so low down, it is hard to distinguish them from ordinary fields), with
the churches of Suckley and Storridge marking the landscape, surrounded by unending green fields and farmland, with the tiny little white specks of sheep. Again, it was all illuminated by the glorious golden rays, tinted ever so slightly by the wispy mist. It was a wonderful day, and one which I will not forget any time soon. The following day I had to leave it all behind, with proverbial tears in my eyes, and return to the big city. When I was small we had lots of holidays in Cornwall. Many lovely memories, but the traffic in summer time was usually purgatory. Year after year we would visit Dobwalls Adventure Park, and Colliford Lake Park, both of which (I think) are now sadly closed. Believe me, these places were the epitome of a child’s paradise. There was a play area with ball-pools, etc, but on an absolutely massive scale, several stories high, with an infinite maze of rooms, passageways, and slides. Us kids would play there for hours, yet it was only a tiny fraction of the whole complex. There was an assault course in the woods, motor boats in a lake, great halls of big, old agricultural machines to look at (including a working toboggan ride that would have made a health and safety inspector foam at the mouth), a golf course, target practice, racing cars, zip wires, drop slides — you name it, Colliford Lake Park had it. A visit there was a full day’s commitment. We returned there to look round in 2010 when I was 16, and it was a sorry sight; almost like seeing the dying husk of my child-
hood fading before my eyes. There were hardly any other people there, and most of the activities were derelict or closed down. But hey, kids these days can just play on their smartphones— who needs to go outside nowadays? Dobwalls used to be good too. There were open air trains there which you had to perch on to. The extent of the track was truly astonishing, and it seemed to go on for miles — even the adults must have been taken aback. Unfortunately Mr Blobby used to loiter around Dobwalls, and we used to be scared of him. On one occasion he was sitting on the train, coming towards our train from the opposite direction. There was no escape, and I was so scared I had to close my eyes and wait for him to disappear. Another time he popped out behind our car and waved at me while my Mum was trying to privately change my nappy; very embarrassing for all concerned. Other days were spent at Downderry Beach, with geocentric views of the Whitsand Bay. To the right you can see the pretty town of Looe, which is eight miles away but looks much nearer from the coast, and to the left is the iconic peninsula of Rame Head, crowned by its ruined stone chapel. Stunning as it is, this pocket of East Cornwall is often missed my tourists who head further west to Penzance and Land’s End. True, the sand may be more golden over there, the views more striking, the sea bluer, and the litter scarcer, but I would opt for Downderry Beach every time. Some of my happiest
childhood moments were spent there — it was our beach, one of our spiritual homes. When I was 13 and 15 we went over the border into Devon, which is itself divine (with apologies to Tom Dempsey.) Dartmouth is the quintessential Devonian town. By day it has a healthy hustle and bustle of noise and activity in the streets and on the boat float; by night it is so quiet and peaceful (but not dangerous.) There are seemingly unending little alleyways which connect different parts of the town together. These alleyways often lead upwards, offering wonderful views of the town below, the harbour, and the surrounding fields. Across the harbour is the pretty town of Kingswear, which, strangely, is an entirely separate place, despite its proximity to Dartmouth. People often sleep extremely well in Dartmouth and have very vivid dreams because of the salt in the air. That may sound like an old wives’ tale, but, trust me, it’s true. London is a great place to be, especially during you’re 20s. All the buzz, excitement, iconic views and buildings, shops, bars, nightlife, and so on. The sight of St. Paul’s floodlit at night is awe-inspiring. But there are other great places too. There are so many beautiful and tranquil places in this country, and abroad. When it’s time to get a career, raise some kids, and escape from all the noise and combustion fumes, those places will still be there, just waiting for you.
leave it all d behind
BEER FUELLED MUSINGS
hat makes a good pub? When I was last asked this, I had no idea how to answer. Still don’t, really. Yet I make the judgement frequently. “Ooh, that looks interesting!” “No, don’t fancy that.” “Really? The word ‘pub’ in pink neon?” “That looks good... Oh, inside’s a bit dull.” Yes, I really do talk like that and, yes, that does make me a prat: but that’s not the point. The point is, how do I judge a pub? And can I tell anyone else how to? The first and most obvious criterion is that a pub should have exactly one similarity to a club: that it serves alcohol. It should not serve the same type, or in the same atmosphere; not to people with the same intention for the night, and nor should it
be as overpriced. Of course, it will be overpriced (pubs are not magical gateways which take us out of London), but not as overpriced, and a pub must never charge for entry. Which is not to say I hate clubs – that is by the by – but they have their place. And wherever that place is, it is not where I want to drink my pint. Which brings me on to what a good pub should serve. Beers and ciders. Sure, it may have a limited selection of spirits, a half decent whiskey, a few bottles of wine, and should probably mix a G&T that isn’t toxic; but many pubs do this too well. They become bars. This is the first step to becoming one of three things, all of them bad and distinctly not-pub: unbearably pretentious, a club, or the-place where-
15-year-olds-go-to-get-drunk. Anyone who promises to take me to a pub but takes me to a bar that thinks it’s a pub is instantly dead to me. So, beers and ciders. (Donkey club members look away now.) Lager is, whatever the snobs say, entirely acceptable – except at a real ale society. The problem with lager is that it lacks the variety and care of real ale, or even cider. About 30% of real ale served in pubs is the ho-hum Greene King IPA, or the unexciting London Pride, or sometimes the perfectly respectable Timmy Tailors Landlord Bitter. This is uninteresting enough, and that’s always on pump. Cider tends to be on tap, and most people are on Aspall’s, Thatchers’ or the fruit flavoured ones (I neither know nor care what they’re called) rather than the huge variety that’s available which very few people seem to be interested in. Lager, however, is almost entirely imported, sweetened kack. Pilsner Urquell I can respect as the inventors of the concept (they were, look it up). But our Czech friends, and even the
brewery itself, don’t understand why anyone drinks their exported stuff. There are more small breweries dedicated to lager than you can possible imagine, in Britain alone. Twice that number in the Czech Republic. Three times that again in Germany. I now challenge you to name two that aren’t Pilsner Urquell, Heineken, Foster’s, Budweiser, Carling, Stella Artois, Kronenbourg, Peroni, Becks, or Corona. Does eliminating that many seem unfair? Just think, these are universally available. Imagine the variety that could replace these slots. You’re guaranteed at least two of these at any pub, and most of them in any corner shop or tiny supermarket. There isn’t a list of real ales that fits that criteria, however long you make it. The drink which is most acceptable and various: real ale. It matters who brewed your beer, simply because beer matters more to some breweries than others. Most obviously, Greene King are greedily empire building. They aren’t anymore a brewery that owns pubs; they’re a chain of pubs that owns a
brewery. A chain gives you the financial stability to ensure the pubs aren’t endangered, but it creates a lot of very similar, very boring pubs. This applies mostly to London. Outside the capital they tend still to have tenant landlords with their own ideas, many of whom keep an unusually good pint of IPA, along with other options. The worst sort of pub is an ex-Taylor Walker. Taylor Walker did very much the same thing as Greene King are doing now, except that they only really owned pubs in London. This meant they could micro-manage, serve the best valued pub food in London (yes, better value than ‘Spoons, and I’m quite fond of their only good beer (1730). Greene King bought the whole company for a sum of money that’s immoral even to imagine (remember it constitutes buying about half of all the pubs in central London) and those pubs have gone downhill ever since. I cite in particular 1) the Prince of Wales, which used to be my favourite pub but which now I refuse to enter (except to show someone else how shit it’s become); and 2) The Greyhound, of 33
which I was never fond but which is now horribly pretentious. The only reason to go to an ex-Taylor Walker is to see if they’re serving 1730. I do concede that ordinary Greene King pubs are usually alright. There are two tell-tale signs that a Greene King pub used to be Taylor Walker: many of them still have Taylor Walker logos on things like the glass of outdoor lanterns (see the Goat), but, failing that, almost all of them have gold leaves drawn around the name of the pub written above the door; again, see the Goat for a prime example (yes, I know the Greyhound doesn’t, but it’s the only one I know). This has been ever so negative so far, let’s have a look at good breweries who own enough pubs in London to be prominent. It’ll be boring, but more useful than anything else I’ve said.
Fullers pubs are reliably good: lovely buildings, well-kept beer, decent range of their own always available. I’m especially fond of ESB, although if drunk unwarily it will get you very drunk, very quickly. Fullers pubs always serve good food and are recognised for it. This makes it difficult to get a table, and expensive if you manage it.
Nocholson’s pubs are the best for beer tasting: huge variety, well-kept, and have no particular fixation with their own beers. Nicholson’s Pale Ale is available at all of them, and makes a good default, but they usually stock something better, and play that wonderfully nasty trick of having a different selection further down the bar. I would suggest that it’s not worth eating there: they do beer excellently, gin very well, food averagely.
Shepherd Neame make a good pub that’s a pub. Mostly keep their own beers, which are pretty good. They’re usually a bit out of the way, but worth finding. They allow their landlords a lot of freedom, making for greater variety and an invariably interesting experience. Young’s pubs are fantastic. A good mix of their own, Young’s Bitter and Young’s Special featuring prominently, and other people’s brews. They tend a little to the posher end of the spectrum, but this is not reflected in the price of a pint. It is reflected in the fact that they serve some of the best food I’ve ever eaten.
Last, but anything but least, Sam Smiths. They own some of the oldest and most historic buildings in London – see especially Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese and Ye Cittie of Yorke – and serve an excellent but limited beer. You’ll be drinking the Old Brewery Bitter, but its quality is above average. One could live with that quite happily to drink in the sorts of buildings they keep, but at £3.10 a pint you’ll never complain.
Think on those halcyon days when we Would giddy traipse in drunken glee; And wander aimless distance free, Between the mountains and the sea. Remember heady scents of springtime flowers, And sneaking out after bedtime hours, To walk the roads made muddy by showers; Those days when you would play with me. Weâ€™d shed those needless warming scarves, And dance for warmth beneath the stars, To lilting ballads of sweet skylarks, Between the mountains and the sea. Through summer months into the fall; Those fleeting years when we were small, And longing ever to grow tall; Those days when you would play with me; Are gone and shall not come again, For time has run away like rain; And what will now remain the same Between the mountains and the sea? Perhaps itself; oh fickle time, That fed us that eternal lie; Eternity, that lovely crime; For you come no more to play with me, Between the mountains and the sea.
Speechless Halcyon //AnonDays (to music)//Ben Mercer
Tell my Asian angel to take off her black dress and wear her coral kimono: I’m taking her hunting. Tell her to wipe off her gothic make up, wear her golden eyeshadow, cherry lipstick. I’m taking her to the forest. Winter has wept enough, he should stay away - like all expired lovers there was a time when he could excite me. Legs long and slender, cheekbones, the finest knives tears sweet ice in my mouth, kisses freezing my skin. My angel is seducing me, singing in my ears eyes greener than the sea, sunlit nights and lustful morning. Winter smelled like lengthy essays about politics, but then I was a strayed cat myself content inside my burning car Asian angel, choke me in your arms and tell me why I was once in love with winter and stray cats under sweaty cars. Caress my cheeks some more and let me shoot those birds who admire you with their screams. They’re disturbing our peace.
Speechless A //Anon Fairy Took me in Sexspring//SoGol Sur
your pretentiousness is garbage your words plucked from a hat assonance and resonance deperately reaching for metaphors clutching nothing but listless prose weak and flimsy it fails to stand unsupported by your weird specific life encounters meaningful to you nothing to anyone else hey i made a vase shape
Speechless An//Anon Important Poem//Not a Poet thatâ€™s for sure
artificial intelligence Mar 21 - Apr 19
Apr 20 - May 20
May 21 - Jun 20
Why is a cow like a kitchen table?
The essence of the godhead is the diffusion of the Ultimate.
“There are some defeats more triumphant than victories” - remember that next time your rugby team juuuust misses a Grand Slam.
Go directly to jail. Do not pass GO. Do not collect £200 Make America great again.
the outcast Aug 23 - Sep 22
Sep 23 - Oct 22
Oct 23 - Nov 21
Sometimes your opinions don’t warrant a 1000+ word article, and maybe you should just take a nap instead.
Meet me at (51.499718°N, 0.190905°W) to shed your mortal coil and join me amongst the stars.
Go back three spaces.
Jul 23 - Aug 22
the future criminal Nov 22 - Dec 21 In a bid for power that no one could have foreseen, George Osborne is now the editor of The Lion.
Dec 22 - Jan 19 You will meet an old lady who swallows a fly. You won’t know why.
Jan 20 - Feb 18 You, like TRAPPIST-1, are ultra cool, but, also like TRAPPIST-1, you’re not very bright.
Jun 21 - Jul 22
Feb 19 - Mar 20 Close your bank and social media accounts, grow a beard, and roam the Mongolian Steppes in a pair of sandals.
g crosswords puzzles etc
Volume 7, Issue 2