Category: Perspective

By Cosmo Adair

I sleep better when I’ve had something to drink. Apparently, that’s impossible—at least, my brother likes to say so. Everytime I come downstairs on a Saturday morning, having had a few drinks before and after supper, and I say, ‘God, I slept well last night,’ he squints a little before telling me, ‘That’s impossible, scientifically.’ Those five forbidding, unbalanced syllables, with their maliciously rushed ‘ti-fic’ and the slick arrogance of the concluding ‘ly’, exist for the sole purpose of disproving the intimations of my own body. I hate them. 

I’m sure that scientifically, it’s true; I reckon that technically, it might even be correct. No doubt that fictional character, adored by Pollsters and Populists alike, the ‘Man on the Street’ (Who is he? Tell me!) has been rigorously monitored and tested and that was what the results said. So I’m not going to sit here, tapping away, arguing against the scientifically correct. Instead, I want to question how on earth we’ve allowed ourselves to return to some barbarically puritanical mindset in which our own personal experience of what makes us happy, what makes us tick (given that, of course, it’s in moderation: don’t do crack, etc.) means precious little. 

Until recently, the only salvation was that no matter how much said pursuers of the SCIENTIFICALLY-proven might judge your habits, they couldn’t do much about them. But then, last week, the UK’s expiring PM Rishi Sunak announced an imminent ban on smoking for those born after 2009 in what strikes me as a cynical ploy to secure a legacy beyond the immoral expulsion of immigrants to Rwanda. As David Hockney rightly said:  ‘There are too many bossy people in England … Bossy people are humourless. This is just madness to me. Why can’t Mr Sunak leave the smokers alone.’ Sunak (tee-totalist and faster) doesn’t propose to take cigarettes off everyone, only those born after 2009: imagine in 2050, then, the farce in which a forty-two year-old can smoke and a forty-one year-old can’t. It shows the hour hand is moving yet closer to midnight: that midnight being, once again, scientifically proven to occur in Derby in 2050 when the UK’s last cigarette will be smoked, according to a 2019 report. 

Obviously, smoking kills. But, as Hockney writes, ‘The National Health Service will always have to deal with birth and deaths. They are part of life: the cause of death is birth. On the cigarette packet it says “SMOKING KILLS” … well, what do I reply? “LIFE IS A KILLER.” I’m one day nearer oblivion today than I was yesterday. This applies to everybody on the planet.’ As ever, Britain’s preeminent artist (who should live in Britain, but moved to France due to our intrusive smoking laws) is onto something.

As thick and naive as I was when I smoked my first cigarette, I never doubted that it was pernicious. In fact, I reckon that’s why I did it: when you’re young, danger seems sexy and mature, if almost heroic. If smoking is, really, considered ‘cool’ then I think that’s why: because it kills you. Most cool things tend to. (Guns, Flamethrowers, Sports Cars, Alcohol, etc.) But the assumption of Rishi Sunak is that he can tell people how bad smoking is, at which point they will immediately stop and then thank him for this unprecedented enlightenment. In positioning himself against it, I daresay Rishi Sunak has made smoking more cool and more appealing to a lot of people. 

In any discussion of smoking, or of the debates between happiness and longevity, it seems right to recourse to Martin Amis’s novel The Pregnant Widow, in which he writes: ‘He thought, Yeah. Yeah, non-smokers live seven years longer. Which seven will be subtracted by that god called Time? It won’t be that convulsive, heart-busting spell between twenty-eight and thirty-five. No. It’ll be that really cool bit between eighty-six and ninety-three.’ Yes, smoking ends what non-smoking extends. But we must never let ourselves look at human lives as if they are statistics. In this Bureaucracy of Happiness, in which illegality and social pressure take away each slightly individualised form of pleasure, I feel we are all becoming like Auden’s “Unknown Citizen,” of whom the poet asks: 

“Was he free? Was he happy? The question is absurd:

Had anything been wrong, we should certainly have heard.”

In arguments of this kind, I always remember a Times interview with France’s leading cancer specialist, David Khayat, who spoke in opposition to what he perceived to be the tyrannical intrusion of an Anglo-Saxon puritanism (diets, teetotalism, avoidance of red meat) on French customs: he spoke of how “The risk we face is of a life without pleasure, a life without enjoyment … And if you force that upon people, they will explode.” He goes on to say that with an immaculately healthy lifestyle, ‘you will be able to avoid old age, illness and death. But that’s wrong. We are all going to grow old, we are all going to fall ill and we are all going to die.’ Thus, we should aim for balanced lives: never the excess of an addict, nor the zeal of an ascetic. And, with Khayat’s backing, I suppose I’m correct here (scientifically).

So, I implore you to stave off the social condescension, the bossiness, and the arrogance which you might adopt in the face of those who seek a healthy balance in their life which includes a bit of pleasure and happiness as opposed to posting a double ton of miserable and waning years. And if not drinking, not smoking, not eating red meats and fatty foods, makes you happy, so be it: your happiness delights me. I do not mean to criticise or infringe upon your happiness. I merely want to shout, alongside Hockney: ‘END BOSSINESS NOW.’

By Ollie de Winton

The first of January arrives, the gym car park is rammed, social media platforms are brimming with aspirations and goals for the year to come. Not forgetting the Duolingo owl, that hounds you to keep up your best effort of a five-day streak, but as we approach the end of the month, are we still upkeeping our resolutions?

There is no doubt that January constitutes a month of change and resolution for so many. Especially being named after the Roman God Janus – a two faced god who looks forward to new opportunities and beginnings, but who also encourages reflection. Romans would embrace this moment of resolution with script readings and familial celebrations. Around 4000 years ago, the Babylonians also welcomed the possibility of change, but instead, in March, when they planted their crops for the year. Along with the planting of crops, they too accompanied the idea of change with a 12-day celebration (Akitu), packed with religious readings, prayers and hopes for the forthcoming year. The same cannot be said for today’s customs: apart from certain communities, many of us go into the new year hungover from the previous night’s antics, and bursting with immense pressure to stick to our, sometimes, unrealistic goals we hold ourselves to.

These goals can worsen the angst often felt at this time of year, especially with over 12 million people in the UK and Northern Europe struggling with ‘Seasonal affective disorder’, or SAD. Upon comparing today’s most popular resolutions to those circa 1950, this angst is unsurprising. Instead of today’s most popular resolutions of losing weight, being more organised, quitting smoking; in the 1940’s-50’s, society was more concerned about improving their disposition, living a better life or being understanding. These are more positive resolutions which are similar in nature to the aims of Janus, welcoming the possibility of positive change in the new year – rather than recent interpretations, promoting the pressure to change. Psychologists have explained that the “‘ideal resolution” is a goal, which is time bound and more importantly, realistic. These ancient resolutions are exactly this – a broader goal, within which one can compartmentalise elements of change/resolution. They are wider, reducing angst and pressure in quests such as quitting smoking, or falling in love.

It’s ironic that the real change we need is locked within the past; hence it is crucial for one to travel back in time, to change their own resolutions and relieve part of the mountain of pressure we place on ourselves at this time of year. This is particularly true in a university environment, with the summative season fully underway. Hopefully, looking to the past will help our future selves, and remind us of the core of resolution.

By Edward Bayliss

A few days ago, Sandra Bond gave us the most brilliantly awful poem in her local regional newspaper as she made her frustrations with the Elgin, or Parthenon Marbles public. The first stanza goes:

The Elgin Marbles are causing quite

a fuss

Greece now wants the return of 

them by us

The statues have been here for a 

really long time 

Do they have to be returned 

after we have looked after them for

such a long time?   

I particularly like the way that Bond rhymes ‘long time’ with…‘long time’ – it really drags out our sense of dread and vexation, both with the author and her subject. The poet, in her inadvertent wisdom and William McGonagallesque doggerel, captures entirely the sense of futility and absurdity in the marbles debate. I feel it is time, thanks to Rishi Sunak’s prompt, to defrost the already 212 year old dispute.

Let’s begin by dispelling some myths peddled by belligerents from both sides:

The argument that Greece is ill-equipped to look after or maintain the statues and friezes is completely untrue. Let’s not kid ourselves, the Parthenon is no longer being used by the Turks as a gunpowder magazine; in 2009 the ‘Acropolis Museum’ opened to the public, ranking 6^th in the TripAdvisor’s Traveller’s Choice Awards for best museums in the world. I think they can manage. 

The marbles were not ‘stolen’. There was an official edict, or firman, drawn up (which exists in translation) and was ratified by a distrustful House of Commons Select Committee in 1816, part of which states that ‘should they wish to take away any pieces of stone with old inscriptions, and figures, that no opposition be made.’ This firman involved the Sultan, the civil governor of Athens, and the military commander of the Acropolis citadel. The Greek government had no part in this transaction because it didn’t exist – it was the occupying Ottoman Empire that oversaw it. Many take issue with this fact. But, the Ottomans had control of Greece from as early as the 14^th C., so it can hardly be compared to Nazi sales of Polish or Soviet works of art. 

The ‘slippery slopeists’ are wrong. No, the world will not come rapping its fists on the glass doors of the British museum to reclaim all of their artifacts should we decide to return the marbles. The floodgates will not open. The case of the Elgin Marbles, as the Greek Government itself has gone to great pains to make clear, exists independently. Your Rosetta Stones and your Greek vases are fine.

What is most important is the ethical question of where art belongs. It seems to me that an international conception of culture is the most morally responsible route – one where we aren’t seized by nationalistic urges and feelings of exceptionalism. The marbles aren’t in the British museum for selfish reasons of patriotism and self-aggrandisement. They are there so we can see them alongside other great works – there is beauty and knowledge in cultural and contextual comparison. I, for one, would be proud to see Queen Victoria’s stockings or an 1860 Shropshire postman’s coat in an Eritrean museum.    

So, Sandra, worry not. We share in your frustration – let’s stop arguing and start focusing on the art that has been so long forgotten in the fog of political rhetoric. 

By Cosmo Adair & Maggie Baring.

Bishop Auckland, November 29th — grey with a smattering of drizzle. Standing in the town square, it’s obvious that this isn’t a typical, left-regional town. In the windows of an old, listed, one-time bank, characters from paintings jest with one another, speech bubbles spilling from their mouths onto a dark, tenebrous background. That’s The Spanish Gallery, home to pictures by Murillo, Velazquez and El Greco. Then, ahead, there’s a strange, church-like building — modern, in the openness of its glass and steel, but hinting at times past in its striving Gothic upwardness. That’s Auckland Tower. 

What’s this all doing here? It’s here because Bishop Auckland is home to The Auckland Project: an ambitious regeneration project, instigated by philanthropist Jonathan Ruffer. Passing the tower, we can see him standing on the doorstep of Auckland Castle’s Gatehouse, which he has made his home, waiting for us. He wears an old v-neck jersey over a checked shirt. He greets us with an instinctive, avuncular kindness which is almost disarming. Ruffer behaves as I had once expected University professors might — prone to mental flight, all the while retaining a formidable intellectual sharpness. He seems to belong to an England of yore, one of ‘the old maids biking to Holy Communion through the mists of the autumn morning’ which Orwell so vividly described. But he is simultaneously a very modern man: his wealth comes from finance, with his firm Ruffer Investment Company listed on the FTSE 250, and The Auckland Project is not quite as quixotic as the tendency to focus on its promotion of Spanish Art would suggest. He is not some Aristocrat of yore spilling cash in the belief that what the North really needs is an exposure to Spanish Art: no, he is motivated by his belief that County Durham needs considerable investment and education in order to kickstart the local economy, create employment opportunities, and in doing so remind the region of its local identity and hopefully encourage its citizens to take more pride in that. 

Ruffer was born in the Northeast of England in 1951. His father was a sea-going Royal Marine during World War II, and he met Ruffer’s mother whilst his ship was being repaired in Newcastle. They settled down just south of Middlesbrough. Ruffer would later attend Cambridge University, where he studied English Literature, despite the fact that ‘[he] didn’t ever discover where the English department was’: something I questioned, at first, given his impressive erudition. He ended up in the City where, he claims, his degree came in handy, given that ‘English is an everyman subject, and losing money in investments is an everyman subject as well.’ To call him ‘successful’ would be an understatement; he went on to become one of the country’s wealthiest men. But inspired by a ‘coup de foudre’ — related, no doubt, to his Christian faith — he decided that ‘What [he] wanted to do was to change the emphasis of [his] life, and the form that took was to be involved in regeneration somewhere in the Northeast.’ Thus followed The Auckland Project. 

Bishop Auckland was not always the inevitable location, but County Durham certainly was. Because, he remarks, whereas Northumberland and Yorkshire still possess a distinct local character, ‘County Durham has lost the sense of who it is.’ And so when the Church of England decided to sell off Auckland Castle and its famous Zurbaran pictures, he went one better: he bought the castle as well. Here was a town in County Durham, rich in history and in possession of some important but little-known Spanish Golden Age pictures — and Ruffer had for a long while been a devoted admirer of both Baroque Art and Spain. It has also ‘turned out to be, strategically, a really astute place.’ It might only have a population of 25,000, ‘but the catchment area is 125,000 and if you look at its sphere of influence, it’s about 350,000 which is bigger than Cardiff. So, in other words, if Bishop Auckland improves, then actually more than half of County Durham improves.’ 

His Christianity and his interest in Art are both important in the direction which The Auckland Project has taken. Much has been said before of the relationship between Religion and Art, but we were both quite spellbound by the acuity of how he described his understanding of it. 

He refers to himself as “Goddy” — a rather charming, if English, manner of lightly and inoffensively describing such a life-defining belief. “I do think … that for  all of us as human beings, there are things that define the nature of who we are. And one of them is power, one of them is sex, one of them is money, and one of them is faith. Now … if you look at Victorian times, what you’ll find is that nobody ever talked about sex, but if they put up a new building, the foundation stones would start with the words, ‘to the Glory of God.’ Now, today, it’s the exact inverse of that … and everybody is very happy to talk about sex. But, in fact, these are fundamental things that drive us, and it is simply that at the moment, that element is in the shadows, but it doesn’t go away.’ 

If Faith, then, is so important, what is its object? ‘It’s to encounter something bigger than yourself. And clearly, the Christian God is like looking at a burning sun without any shade. It’s agonisingly painful to do, because it’s just such a powerful and intense and concentrated thing.’ How, then, do we approach the unapproachable? For Ruffer, we approach it through art, which for him is ‘not the light of the sun, but the light of the moon. The moon isn’t overpowering; moonlight is caressing. It woos you and settles you. But what we know from physics is that moonlight is actually the same as sunlight; they both come from the same place. So I don’t feel, at all, that when I’m talking about art or when I’m talking about the Christian God, that I’m really talking about different things at all.” 

There’s one acquisition which he’s especially focussed on: that’s St. Paul’s Burning of the Hebrew Books, a tapestry by Pieter Coecke van Aelst. It ought to be in the UK because of how well it conforms to the Waverley Criteria, the process by which an object might be deemed a ‘national treasure.’ These are: Is it closely connected with our history and national life? Is it of outstanding aesthetic importance? Is it of outstanding significance for the study of some particular branch of art, learning or history? To Ruffer, the tapestry ticks all three boxes. In fact, he believes that only the coronation spoon is of equivalent importance. 

It was made for Henry VIII during the Reformation. It depicts St. Paul to symbolically represent a break from Rome, where St. Peter and the Petrine liturgy were dominant. But, historically, the liturgy in England had been Pauline, and so Henry’s ‘effectively saying the Pope is the head of the One Church, but I’m the head of the other church. And so the rest of the depiction which is the burning of the heathen books is a quotation of what St. Paul did in Ephesus in Acts. And what Henry was doing was saying, ‘I’ve done that, I’ve burned all the Tyndale bibles, killed a few of them too.’ Here, again, Ruffer excels: he explains church history and a complicated artistic work in a way that’s both rigorous and accessible. 

The problem is, however, that this tapestry is in Spain. It had been missing since 1770 when it disappeared from Hampton Court Palace until it turned up with a dealer who ‘worked out that this was the thing which had gone missing in 1770, whereupon the Spanish Minister of Culture slapped on an export ban. And so that’s what [he’s] fighting.’ So far, his campaign’s going well. ‘We’ve got both archbishops, the top four bishops: Canterbury, York, London and Durham. And we’ve got Prime Ministers behind us, and we’ve got Wayzgoose behind us,’ he jokes. 

Naively, we ask whether he has any Spanish connections who could help him out. ‘Yes, yes, I mean I’m a trustee of the Prado. And I must say one of the things I’m quite allergic to is titles, you know, people who go around … saying ‘I’ve got an OBE.’ But … one of the things which did randomly come my way is I’m a Spanish Knight, I’m an Encomienda of the Order of Isabel the Catholic, Isabella la Cattolic, who is Catherine of Aragon’s mum, so I play that one for all it’s worth. But I’m about as Spanish as an English mousetrap.’ Given his connections, and given what he has managed to acquire so far, I have a feeling that the Encomienda Ruffer will acquire the tapestry eventually. And much like the Greeks awaiting the return of the Elgin Marbles, he has set up The Faith Museum, which awaits the return of the tapestry. ‘Its temperature and humidity are controlled, which costs some millions to do, with nothing in it … we’ve got what those historical old palaces and the V&A haven’t got, [which is] somewhere suitable to put it. 

Our discussion drew to an end. Initially, we had been booked in for a half-an-hour chat but he kept us for an hour and fifteen minutes in a thrilling, wide-ranging discussion. Coming away, one thing struck both of us about him: it was the sheer thrill and interest he took in other people. Throughout our session, he asked about us, about the magazine, about university, and about where we both grew up. This was not some elaborate diversion tactic, but a reflection of his natural curiosity. He treated us with a seriousness that made it feel — at least for us — as if he did not differentiate between The Times, The Telegraph, and Wayzgoose Magazine. He is so passionate about his project that he would take hours to proselytise anyone — from the Prime Minister to a Student Journalist — about the importance of what The Auckland Project is getting up to. 

But this welcoming curiosity of his extends beyond mere journos. Later, chatting to one of the gallery attendants about Jonathan, we said how impressed we’d been by this aspect of him. To which, she simply replied: ‘That’s Jonathan for you.’ Which, I think, it really is. 

By Emilia Brookfield-Pertusini 

The world of Wes Anderson’s The Grand Budapest Hotel contains the nostalgia of a time we never saw. A time when tourism was more than Instagram destinations and drinking cheaper booze. As the symmetrically perfect landscape of The Grand Hotel flickers between the hotel’s height and its slow descent to obsolete grandeur, we must ask what happened. Where did all these buildings go? The truth is, they didn’t go anywhere, we simply moved on without them, trapping them in a Haversham-like web of past and decay, with no room for the future to whisper some resurrecting hopes through. L’Hotel Grande Bretagne haunts the promenade of Bellagio, as oblivious Americans snap and sip in the shade of its glory. 

In my almost 20 years of life, my Italian homeland has changed. Gone are the days of people not knowing where Lake Como was; I have met people now who not only know where the place that has defined my summers is, they have swum on the shores of my village, walked the same cobbled staircases as me, jumped off the same bridge as thousands of Italians, Romans, and Lombardian people did before. People want that Italian summer. It’s a rather enviable summer and one I have taken for granted for a long time. There are certain times of the day when sitting on the porch back in Nesso the whole lake goes quiet. The lake glitters as the sun arches over the mountains just right, stardust dancing from the watery depths below, the boats retire, and even from my perch up in the heavens of the village, you can hear the gentle sighs of the lake, yawning as it nuzzles against that familiar shore. This should be enough. This was enough. But it isn’t anymore. 

Lord Byron spews hundreds of tourists off its deck. Manzoni lingers, puffing and panting, zigzagging across the lake not far behind, carrying the same load of hungry eyes and cameras. Out onto the promenade of Bellagio, they flounder, wondering where next to sit and sip. The Grande Bretagne looks on, paralyzed. Birthed as a response to Lord Byron, the Grande Bretagne served to house these future poets of the English upper class. This pilgrimage to the ‘pearl of the lake’ was one to see a place of wildness, of mystery as the mist rises on a silent morning, of inspiration, all under the shelter of the endless mountains, water and sky. Before meeting his end, Percy and Mary Shelley took shelter by the lake, hiding from the endless troubles flung at them during their marriage. A refuge. A stop away from the rest of the world. To find inspiration and keep beating on against the current. A sanctuary like no other. The Shelleys, Byrons, Flauberts of a new age, a belle-epoch, were to be sheltered by The Gran Bretagne. She provided all they needed. The grand mistress of the lake, providing international schooling and scandal in her grounds. Home comforts next to Italian ruins. Panoramic views of infinite sublimity. A search for Italy. Elegentiza from all over Europe flocked to her arms, longing for that Romantic experience. To bathe oneself entirely in all the lake had to offer to them. And yet, to remain hungry. 

From there she rose. The Gran Bretagne. Named in honour of those poets who came before her, she reached out to those around her after being wrongfully christened L’Hotel Grande Italia. Tourists crept back in after il Duce was caught along her shoreline, and with them crept old fashions, roast beef, and a surprise visit from an unelected Churchill. Whilst cigars, watercolours, and oysters flowed, locals learned how to become professional mixologists, oyster shuckers, and linen pressers. It was here my Nonno learned to cook; having never been afforded such continental delicacies at home, this job gave him more than a culinary education. The peach wedding cake on the lake was feasted on by all. 

However, the Italy the tourists were searching for wasn’t one that was pleasant to those who had always known her. Coffee cups clinked on the terraces outside, whilst inside people dreamed dreams unlike those of the Romantics; escape, revolution, to be better. She was like no other. She saw it all, and her arms heavy, mustered a response. People came to her for a better life, even if only for a night.

Sunrise. An orange lake. An old man pushes out a batell further into the abyss. The battering of a carpet, the hum of a lawn mower. Through the green, the snakes draw open their eyes to the uninterrupted, mice playing in her skeleton. Something happened. A shift. And now she lies alone, unable to keep up. No more Romantic poets. No more escape. 

Since Succession, James Bond, Clooney, and Star Wars arrived, she has been forgotten. They are the future, the ideal portrait of wealth, class, and taste. She can’t fit in. Her ballrooms, marble stairs, palm trees, and muraled ceilings mean nothing to the insatiable crowd of today. The iconic cobbled saliti of Bellagio is nothing more than a backdrop. Scenes of happiness, wealth, and a supposed Italian summer play out on her stage, the real Bellagio cowering off stage, hiding behind the alleyways, pushed far from the actions. Boats recklessly drive towards the shore, smiling for the camera as locals close their shutters. The towns swell under the mass of footsteps, yet no footfall is to be seen by the locals, as tourists flock to industry-approved havens, found from one of the endless flock constantly bleating about a perfect Lake Como itinerary, away from the alberghi, alimentari, and agriturismi. Mountains peep out from gapes between bars where Aperol constantly flows and boutiques where the silk industry has departed in favour of Armani and Gucci, the mountains that beckoned people all those centuries ago stand hidden from the spotlight, a minor role in this melodrama. Scripts written in English, costumes loaned from theatres from far afield, is this really Italian, or just an American fetish? 

Locked away in plain sight. Waiting ever patiently for this Renaissance of the Lake to reach her. Her, covered in cobwebs. Her, who’s marble staircase lies destroyed, stolen in some other house. Her, surrounded by a grail of thorns. Holding on to whatever of her she has left; using the cobwebs to feign a wedding dress, trying to keep the new rodent house guests happy. Like the rest of the lake’s features, she can’t come out, as she doesn’t align with them. Unlike The Grand Budapest Hotel, the love stories of The Grande Bretagne remain hidden, decaying with the timbers. There is no interest, no eventual demolition, only rot. 

This is the history of a building that no one wants anymore. Yet, we still need her. She carries a lot with her, representing what we could have been as travellers. People who slip into the scenery, do not make the scenery a prop. Lake Como is a place that is stubborn to move forward, and maybe you will think me stubborn and jealous too, yet this stubbornness is born of protection. There is only so much it can endure, and it is being exploited by too many, searching for the wrong Italy. When travel advice is so easy to encounter and when travel has become so quick, easy, and convenient, have we forgotten why we do it? We all want beauty, we all want the sublime, we want what those past travellers of The Grand Tour wanted, but we want it fast, on demand. By being too quick, and being too blind-sighted about where, and why, we travel, we miss out on where we are all together. We miss out on the immersion. We come to these places to pretend the beauty is ours, part of our existence, but how can we if we stay for so little time? The Lake is known by many, yet a stranger to most.

The Grand Bretagne is the cost of our travel. The lives, the history, and the buildings we affect by changing the way we travel. If we want beauty, we must be patient. We must push past the thorns, separate from the crowd, and bask in what once was, and what can still be. The beauty hasn’t gone away, we have just ignored it. 

By Maggie Baring

Around 2% of children in the UK experience the neurodevelopmental condition of attention deficit hyperactivity disorder, more commonly known as ADHD. The male to female ratio of diagnosis is 3:1, despite studies showing that ADHD is just as common in females as males. Women tend to be diagnosed at a later stage of adolescence, unlike men who are often diagnosed in childhood. I asked Ellen, a member of the exec of ADHShe (a Durham-based charity and society working with the neurodivergent community), why this was the case. 

Ellen was diagnosed with ADHD aged fifteen which, she says, is a pretty common diagnosis age for girls. She tells me that female symptoms are more internal: for example, inattention, disorganisation and emotional regulation difficulties. These are symptoms which girls become adept at masking, whilst hyperactivity and impulsivity are more common in men. ADHShe, which was set up last year and has been taken up by Ellen and her team, was created in response to the university’s frustrating lack of support for the neurodivergent student community. Their focus is to help support the female ADHD community in particular. Ellen herself tells of the ‘alienating’ experience of being a woman with ADHD, especially when studying at university; often feeling overwhelmed by work, struggling to keep a consistent routine, or worrying about seeming lazy. 

The society, since its creation, has formed a community and introduced a programme to help its members which Ellen is incredibly proud of, and rightly so. This includes study sessions in the Library every Monday using the technique of “body doubling” (a partnered learning process that aids productivity and concentration in a positive reinforcement cycle). They are also holding an eclectic variety of socials, and are planning the introduction of an ADHD audio-therapy software programme created by the company, Stimuli. The society continues to seek out collaborations with feminist societies to increase its outreach, with a partnership scheduled with Women in Business in the upcoming term. 

In other cases, this love for the creative fields can be taken further than simple relaxation purposes. Asha is a member of ADHShe who has recently been made Music Director of the 2024 DUCFS fashion show. Her love for music began from a very young age, growing up around her father’s taste for 80s pop, including ‘ABBA’ and ‘Wheatus’. She began DJing around 16; listening to ‘GirlsDon’tSync’ (one of the members, G33, she met at a workshop a year later) and ‘Jungle’ and being encouraged by her friends who saw that she had a gift in her musical taste. Asha was diagnosed with ADHD only five months ago, despite having a father who is a psychiatrist, such was her ability to mask her symptoms. She has found the recent diagnosis extremely helpful and enlightening: “I give myself more compassion if I’m struggling to keep up with deadlines, complete simple chores such as laundry (for ADHDers this is the worst one), attend lectures or even maintain friendships”.

Links have been made between those with ADHD and a love for music, as the structure of music has been known to help focus. Music such as house and garage, without lyrics, (music which Asha herself enjoys), is especially effective in this way. Asha laughs, adding that she can never be found without her headphones: “I find my life boring and dull if I don’t have my headphones with me”. Her love and talent for music has led her to meet incredibly creative people and earn positions within university organisations (such as DUCFS and nightclub DJing events) which are highly impressive and sought after. Asha’s creative flair proves yet again that neurodivergence ought to be celebrated within society; producing deeply creative people who see the world in a different light. 

ADHShe’s door is open to anyone who might be struggling with their ADHD at university, no matter their gender. They are a safe space and a community on campus where one can meet like minded individuals and cultivate new friendships.

For more information, follow their Instagram account: adhshe.durham.

By Maisie Jennings

First, a confession: I’m probably chronically online. I’d like to think that this is a result of some novice cultural observation instead of a routine frying of my dopamine receptors, but I also believe I can extract something discursively valuable from my endless scrolling. The internet, particularly social media, has become the largest bureau for cultural exchange and political discourse. For third-wave feminism, it is its digital beating heart – providing the framework for social movements of global magnitude and significance. In 2017, MeToo, spearheading the largest campaign against sexual violence and harassment, propelled awareness of rape culture into collective consciousness – on and offline. It seemed to solidify  – despite its many hazards – that the mainstream internet is largely progressive, and can function as an empowering and expressive space for women and girls. 

There are, however, several new trends that resist the forward-thinking, liberal ideology of contemporary internet culture. A few weeks ago, I liked a video about historical fashion – it appeared, to me, totally benign. Moments later, my feed became a tirade of videos about using beef tallow as sunscreen, the dangers of seed oils, the benefits of unpasteurised milk, and the overarching importance of submitting to one’s husband. What I’d stumbled across was the content created by members of the ‘tradwife’ online subculture – a large, and growing, community of women who believe in traditional conceptions of femininity and gender roles within marriage. Of course, this may sound like a bizarre fringe movement – situated at the internet’s peripheries – but videos under #tradwife have amassed 266.3 million views on TikTok. At its most sinister, traditional homesteading and lifestyle content quite clearly advocates for the political alt-right. However, it is the more ostensibly innocuous aesthetics surrounding the movement that disperse broader ideological implications regarding feminism online. I’m not suggesting that every video of a woman endorsing the benefits of raw liver is some sort of insidious far right dog whistle, but the recent surge in women adopting ‘carnivore diets’ is part of a growing scepticism towards the nature of modern life – manifesting in new age dietary fads and holistic lifestyle changes.

The shift to an idealised hearkening back to an earlier time is, surprisingly, not inherently right wing, but is also a viewpoint shared by some of those associated with the political left. Vegan wellness influencers are eschewing chickpeas for chicken – attempting to seek a lifestyle uncorrupted by the inorganic mechanisms of modern day capitalism. We might see this represented on social media as ‘cottagecore’ – a kitschy imagining of rural life through photos of women in floaty dresses wandering through fields and dappled sunlight. A digitised nostalgia for pre-industrial society is one that appeals to women regardless of their individual political stances, rather, it suggests a broader disenchantment with conspicuously modern ways of life. For third-wave feminism, it reveals a dissonance between corporate ‘girlboss’ culture and its potentially unsustainable, dissatisfying reality. This is due, in part, to a reevaluation of how we should live and work after the pandemic. COVID-19 ignited a reactionary desire for escapism; a pastoral fantasy of slow-paced, bucolic simplicity. In the fragile post-pandemic landscape we currently inhabit, locating ‘alternative’ wellness and dietary practices in the mainstream media is, perhaps, an exacerbation of the anti-vaxx movement that garnered support across the political spectrum. Connecting tradwives, carnivore influencers, and cottagecore enthusiasts is an aesthetic objection to modern life; it’s this aesthetic quality, overriding any background ideology, that makes reactionary womanhood so pervasive on social media. 

There is also a significant religious element to a lot of the content that advocates for a return to ‘natural’ or ‘ancestral’ rhythms of life through heavily aestheticised, mock subsistence farming – most videos are overwrought with Christian hashtags and captions that vehemently promote Evangelical purity culture. Female Christian influencers are certainly popular, amassing hundreds of thousands of followers, but they surely aren’t at the cutting edge of whatever’s trending online. However, Catholicism has become an unlikely, transgressively chic fashion statement. In Instagram bios, where there once was an astrological symbol, the internet’s cool girls are now adorning their profiles with crucifixes. Brandy Melville, the controversial ‘size zero’ clothing brand, has released a series of t-shirts depicting Jesus Christ, and Praying, a smaller label that cultivates grungy pop culture references, sells ecclesiastical motifs on bikinis and crop tops. Fashion, particularly fashion on the internet, has always been subversive – perhaps the edgy photos of scapulars and rosary beads are merely pastiching the cheekily iconoclastic Catholic schoolgirl aesthetics seen in the 1990s. I think this is largely the case; Catholicism is a natural counter-cultural symbol, it has been since the emergence of goth subcultures in the ‘80s. 

Arguably, there is somewhat of an ideological background to the rise of this subversive aesthetic. Dasha Nekrasova, a co-host of the Red Scare podcast, is a Catholic revert and a dryly critical voice against liberal feminism and ‘woke’ political culture. She is credited with leading a coolly cynical, post-ironic discursive vanguard – flirting between shrewd criticism of neoliberalism, arch academic discussion of Camille Paglia, and a close proximity to the new right. Nekrasova’s world-weary vocal fry attracted significant criticism and admiration after she denounced MeToo as a superficial liberal performance; ‘this seems’, she said, ‘like bullshit’. Since then, her personal coquettish style of babydoll dresses and obliquely ironic American flags (reminiscent of the hyper-feminine tradwife uniform) have made her a Pinterest board staple for the vaguely alternative. It’s easy to dismiss this kind of frisky, reactionary rhetoric as simple provocation, but Red Scare’s popularity and online cultural impact do reflect the new perspectives towards feminism in the digital age. There are debates, on the left and right, about hookup culture, the empowerment and objectification in online sex work, and the effectiveness of social media based feminist activism.

I don’t think the rise of reactionary behaviours on the internet signify some kind of cataclysmic tectonic shift, across an online political landscape, towards an anti-feminist new right. Women on social media aren’t slowly rejecting feminism. Rather, the increase of tradwife content, the popularity of carnivore diets, and the aesthetic appropriation of an ancient religion reflect natural, anxious responses to the confusion of 21st century life. The trends themselves, like most things on the internet, may have a fleetingly short lifespan – however, the interrogation of modern cultural and political conditions will surely remain. 

By Emelie Robinson.

As we approach the colder months, you’ll be hard pushed not to spot somebody wrapped up in a classic You Look Hot scarf as you pass through market square. I sat down with the brand’s founder, Sophia Ponsonby, to discuss her experience and what it takes to balance being a small business owner, employer and Durham University student.

1. Tell me about yourself and what motivated you to start your business?

I am a third year studying Spanish and Italian at Durham, currently doing my year abroad in Siena. I’ve always loved fashion and making clothes and took the leap to launch my knitwear brand, You Look Hot, in December 2022. I thought university would be a good time to start as there was less pressure for it to work out and would allow me to get stuck into lots of different things like marketing, social media and product development because I had no idea what I wanted to do for work!

2. What does the concept of ‘looking hot’ mean to you?

I knew I wanted to create something that people would like wearing and feel good in, so the idea of ‘looking hot’ for me means clothing that makes people feel confident. Like they say – when you feel your best, you look your best! I also like the play on words as knitwear is so  warm. Especially as Durham gets so cold, I found it difficult to find clothes that were both warm and looked good!

3. What are the core values of your brand?

One of my biggest aims is sustainability. As I started off with all the pieces being made-to-order, I’ve always avoided any mass production. However, since moving to Siena, I have taken on a team of knitters based in the UK that hand make everything in small batches for our drops. It’s also important to me that our clothes are for everyone rather than a small demographic, unlike some brands which only have a one-size fits all approach that just doesn’t work. My new team of knitters are more skilled than I am to make a range of sizes, so there’s lots more scope for the future to stay inclusive and keep creating pieces that look flattering on every body type.

4. How important do you think it is to have experience in the industry you want to get into and did you have any yourself?

Experience is never a bad thing and can definitely help you figure out what you like, but not always necessary. I had no experience of owning a brand myself – there was a lot of trial and error. I had made clothes before doing textiles at school, but hadn’t actually done much knitting so that was a spur of the moment decision! I’m really lucky to have watched my mum start her own clothing brand six years ago, so she has been a fountain of knowledge to answer all my questions.

5. What is the hardest part about owning a small business?

I think my biggest challenge has been staying motivated when I wasn’t selling as much as I’d like. Particularly doing something as seasonal as knitwear, it can get frustrating. I definitely worked harder than ever during the summer to keep the momentum going. It was also difficult when I was making all the products myself since I’m a pretty amateur knitter, so there were times when I would mess up a scarf right at the end and have to start again. The exam period last year made it difficult to balance everything, but since I enjoy working on YLH so much, I usually find it’s nice to have something to break up my day.

6. What would be your biggest piece of advice to anyone thinking about starting their own business?

Just go for it! I spent so much time thinking about it instead of actually doing it. I would also suggest setting up a website early. Initially, all my sales were done through Instagram, which was great to build a following but wasn’t the most efficient for selling. Since launching my website in September, it’s much easier for people to follow a link on adverts or social media directly to the product. I created mine using Shopify which specialises in e-commerce and although it did take some learning, it wasn’t too difficult. Another thing I’ve learnt is how valuable it can be to reach out for advice from other brand owners, it is something I wish I had done sooner. Also be prepared to make lots of embarrassing TikToks!

7. How do you think being a student with direct access to your target audience has impacted your brand?

It has been super helpful, especially in a small city like Durham where it’s easy to spread the message. It also means I can easily send my products to friends at other universities for them to wear and help spread the brand elsewhere. Although, I do think Durham in particular has an advantage because of all the events going on. With all the societies, fashion shows, charity fairs, I’ve been lucky to get involved in a lot. The DUCFS market takeover was one of my favourite memories of YLH and was our biggest day in sales so far. Cat and Eliza did such a great job running it!

8. What is your vision for YLH?

Just keeping it growing – I have a whole Pinterest board of ideas! I’ve recently taken on some amazing brand ambassadors and have lots of Christmas fairs coming up, so the last few months have been really exciting. Ideally, I would love to do this as my job and keep bringing out new products – maybe one day something that isn’t even knitwear!

By Emilia Brookfield

St. John’s College. 7:36pm. The window looks tiredly below at St. Mary the Less. The bar is not open yet, there can only be one thing left to do, become the “reader”. 

When my reading list for 1^st year English arrived those many weeks ago, the sight of Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre caught my sneering eye off guard. What a field day it would have as I scorned the text for daring to exist next to Austen’s masterpiece of Emma; how could such a juvenile piece, sneered at by even the ever cynical 13-year-old Emilia, have reared its head as I emerged into the complexities of a degree level reading.

 Charlotte remains my least favourite Bronte. The turbulent, destructive (yet witty) Branwell ranks higher than her on my charts. His cartoonish scribbles of a taunting death at one’s elbow reach wit and gothic twistedness far beyond Charlotte’s reach. Bronte’s accompanying fresher’s author, Plato, rally’s that art is full of mimesis, simply layers and layers of shadow, light, and imitation; these imitations are especially apparent in Charlotte’s writing as she tries to emulate the broodiness of her sisters. Charlotte appears to only mimic those feelings that her sisters so perfectly put. When other’s swooned over the plateable gothic of Jane Eyre or the wildly stormy, yet ultimately dull, Villette, I cemented myself further away from Charlotte’s camp, declaring myself to be a firm comrade of Emily and Anne. Although perhaps in being so obstinate, I was more Eyre than met the eye…

Reluctantly I settled down to the opening chapter. The wind whips down the Bailey, swathes of tired students scurry along, the Victorian graves sigh under the weight of the leaf carcasses; I read in both this world, and the hauntingly similar world of Jane, from my window seat. 

Jane’s stubborn procession through life has become an oddly great comfort to me. Trapped in the red room alone, haunted by the whispery ghost of her uncle, I took solitude; I too am that girl afraid, in an unknown room, haunted by the spirits of those who lived before me, hiding behind the curtains of some haunted hide-n-seek.  Floating along in this strange newness, the first few weeks of freshers are full of expectation more than anything. Unknown voices rise around Jane in her new Lowood environment; threads of conversation catch her ear, yet she cannot grasp them. She is surrounded by people her own age, yet is unable to distinguish a single person.  This constant feeling of overcrowded loneliness permeates Freshers. The voice across the dining hall belongs to a physics student, yet turning you lose them, unable to connect that voice with yours in harmonious conversation beyond the parameters of the department they belong to and the papers they sat one June afternoon. 

Thrown into a tumult of new places, names stick when visuals can’t be mustered. Thornfield, Lowood, Millcote, Gateshead, Lowton – all these decidedly English names that could be anywhere. The anticipation of what these mythic places look like as you finally are asked to meet for an audition, a meeting, a seminar, in one of these made-up halls. Jane believes herself to be smart, admirable, respectable upon leaving Lowood; graduation to Thornfield displaces this. She has no idea where she is going, asks to help too often, and is naïve to the stately and suspicious goings-on. Out of depth is the best way to describe her, and as a fresher in those formative weeks. 

The window is fogging up with that Durham dampness. Only the leaves remain. My four walls creak under the weight of many maddening bodies. Am I that brooding girl? Or are we all her. Her adventures, dull and dangerous, make for a great selection of anecdotes, and is that all we can hope for at this moment? The gothic works as it takes the familiar and distorts it; you feel comfort whilst also checking behind you as you walk down the corridor. It’s that faint familiarity we hold on to when finding our ways back. Charlotte may have some merit as a trusty guide or a stoic beacon in the mist. 

Summer term

Going into the summer term of my second year at Durham, I anticipated scenes of warmth, freedom, and partying.

As I stared out the window of my LNER train from Kings Cross to Durham with Taylor Swift on full volume, I dreamt of walking to Tesco not wearing my thermals, two jumpers and a goose-down puffer coat. Waking up with my only decision being whether I have sushi or sashimi for lunch. Days spent on the racecourse sipping enough Somersbies to be entertained by a football. Playing games of “snog marry avoid” whilst my slightly intoxicated friend chauffeurs me in their VW Golf back from Tynemouth beach. Screaming, “I’m loving angels instead” whilst enough alcohol bubbles through me that I start to question whether DJ Dave B is actually attractive. These were the scenes I imagined. It’s safe to say I was fairly surprised to find myself sitting in a Durham Magistrates court, putting forward my witness statement against a man who was being charged with stealing my knickers. 

I was not only surprised because all the knickers I own are M&S high-waisted women’s briefs, meaning they’re not only undesirable for anyone other than my own comfort, but they’re also probably less valuable than the one-use plastic bags half the student population seem to “accidentally forget to scan” at the Tesco self-checkout. I couldn’t work out whether it was more surprising anyone wanted to steal them, or that the police had time to charge someone with such a low-value theft. Nonetheless, there I found myself on the 26^th of May, in Peterlee’s magistrates’ court, telling the judge I was rather upset that David Ian Wales had stolen my knickers.

Storytime

This unexpected situation all started when I was sitting in the TLC writing an essay in May and got a random phone call: “Hello, Kitty, this is the Durham police. We need you to come down to our office immediately.” These are not particularly settling words when you don’t remember walking home from Babylon the night before. Luckily, they quickly reassured me I wasn’t some Exeter-like cretin who accidentally stole a child on the way back from a night out thinking it was Yoda – but was rather a suspected victim of theft. They refused to comment on the details of the theft until they saw me in person.  I jumped out my TLC seat and ran the fastest km splits of my life to the Police station whilst simultaneously searching up my car insurance details. My red golf, appropriately named Valentine, was my only possession I thought could possibly be worth stealing. I arrived, darting through the police station doors, demanding if my Valentine had been stolen. The police officer was rather baffled.

The PC sat me down to ask if I recognised various items found in a man’s house in Gilesgate. The first piece of evidence, “250 Snappy Snaps printed photos’” found nestled in a black box underneath the man’s bed, alongside an ordering receipt with my name on it. I looked at the photos, instantly recognising my gap yah Snappy Snaps collection I had been looking for since January. The PC insisted we look through the entire folder to confirm they were mine. My heart rate doubled. 

Me eating a jamon baguette on the floor of a Venetian chapel; me tactically squatting in every corner of Europe; me pretending the Leaning Tower of Pisa was my massive cock; me drunkenly posing with the Barcelonan Policemen as if they were my gigolos; my friends pretending to give each other fellatio in the confession box of the Sistine chapel. 

Yes, yes, yes. They’re all mine.

When documenting my gap yah travels, it’s safe to say I had not prepared for them to end up in a police forensic investigation wallet and to be sat with an officer by my side identifying each one as mine. Luckily, he only seemed mildly phased. 

We then moved on to the “main criminal damage.” The officer said this piece of evidence was “too large for the forensic investigation wallets.” I was taken to the next-door room to view it. Of course, this couldn’t fit into an investigation wallet. There lay piles of thousands and thousands of pants. This Police investigation room looked more stocked than a Victoria’s Secret Warehouse. 

Thongs, hipsters, tangas, cheekies, boyshorts.

Blue, pink, black, grey, orange, ambiguous.

Ann Summers, Calvin Klein, Gucci, Gap, Tesco.

Spotty, striped, seamless, stained … at least David Wales was not picky. 

For panty sniffers, this was Willy Wonka’s factory. For most, this was an apocalyptic graveyard of generations of Durham girls’ pants.

The PC ruffled through them to reach what he believed to be mine. He picked out the ugliest pants of them all, some high-waisted women’s briefs, with my school’s name tapes hanging down. For some, a uniformed PC handing you back your knickers could feel like living the start of a kinky low-budget Hollywood drama; for me, this was little more than a public exposé of my greatest hidden pleasure … “Oh yes, the massive granny pants are mine too.”

After much embarrassment, I was eventually dismissed from this rather traumatic trip to the police station, returning to the TLC questioning whether the portobello mushrooms I had for lunch were, in fact, magic. An Outlook email from the Durham Constabulary shortly confirmed this was not a hallucinogenic trip, detailing the case and asking if I was available next week to provide a witness statement in court. 

So that’s the story of how I found myself on the 26^th May, in Peterlee magistrates court, telling the judge I was rather upset that David Ian Wales had stolen my knickers.

Court day 26^th May 2023

It was my first ever court case, so my nerves woke me early. I showered and put on my smartest clothes – a white linen shirt and some black suit trousers. To be safe, I was, of course, commando. 

I was driven to court promptly by another victim’s fuming parents, who had driven 8 hours from their home to bring their daughter justice. Annoyingly, David Wales was less concerned about timings and arrived 5 hours late, with no legal representatives. Thankfully, however, he was not dressed from head to toe in knickers; instead, he was in a biker jacket and jeans.  After brief discussions, the court concluded that his panty-thieving was too extensive to be dealt with at a magistrates court, so the case was raised to a higher court. 

Three months later, on the 12^th of September 2023, David Ian Wales pleaded guilty to all charges at the Durham County court and will spend the next 3 years in prison. David Ian Wales was finally, well and truly, caught with his pants down.