Icon of the Week: Ruskin Artistic Football Club
‘Our legs are paintbrushes, the pitch is the canvas.’ This is a fitting motto for the RAFC, Oxford’s (and probably the world’s) only Artistic Football Club. But standing in the watch pitch at the team’s match in Uni Parks, it’s not the team’s visuals that are str
Bad Yuppies: A review of Closer
As the old adage goes: a dermatologist, an obituary writer, a photographer, and a stripper walk into a bar…Now substitute ‘bar’ for nineties Yuppie London, and you have Patrick Marber’s Closer, now adapted by Labyrinth Productions. What ensues is perhaps best described as a slow-burn
CRITICAL NOTICES: The Tempest, Bull, Suddenly Last Summer, Troilus and Cressida
The Tempest (Magdalen President’s Garden, 20th-24th May) The Tempest lends itself particularly well to a natural setting, and the walled garden at Magdalen provided an apt location for a production fascinated by control. When I took my seat, the glowing loops of LEDs and wiry ba
Blame neoliberalism for the rise of the far right—and everything else
On a particularly memorable occasion, caught between reading Atlas Shrugged and going to the pub, I found myself instead scrolling through Instagram. The algorithm—god bless it—directed me to the distant world of late bourgeois society, a generic meme account with a penchant for po
Behind the scenes of Closer
‘Whether you half arse it or give it everything, student drama will take up a lot of your time, so you might as well do a good job’. At this point in a theatrical career hurtling to the top, it is intriguing to pause and dissect Rosie Morgan-Males’ master plan. She is coursin
Icon of the Week: NightSchool
‘Here, it’s like fucking water in a desert.’ Oxford’s nightlife as well as the DJs who comprise it are, to put it politely, dry. For that reason, when faced with the prospect of something new, it is worth paying attention. NightSchool’s launch was something of a flop.
The Slav Defence
There are no windows in the Carlton conference hall, only chandeliers sagging heavy with diamonds and leaking a grim fluorescence. The carpet is an Escheresque swirl of browns and tans, and the chairs and crown moldings are slathered in gold. Outside it’s cold—4 degrees to be exact. Insid
A defence of my nationalism
Scottish identity is usually represented somewhere on an axis between Trainspotting and Braveheart. We’re depicted either as honourable freedom fighters carved from the icy crags of the Highlands, or as made beautifully succinct in Ewan McGregor’s famous monologue, ‘the most miserable,
The Isis goes to the Oxford Fashion Gala (It was fine)
The second Wednesday in May—fashion’s most iconic, elusive, glamorous night. Or, at least, that’s the level of notoriety that this year’s Oxford Fashion Gala aspires to, according to their Marketing Co-Director, Grace Hillier. I entered the Town Hall’s doors with low expectations, h