During his most recent appearance on his phone-in radio programme, the Deputy Prime Minister was challenged to eat a bacon sandwich tidily in order to best Ed Miliband. He proceeded to take a bite and all of it went in his mouth, which is either a success or welcome proof that the Deputy Prime Minister can eat properly, depending on which way you look at it. Given that his political career appears to be going the way of this poor table in a Georgian TV debate. I’m sure Mr Clegg its hoping we see it as the former. While I doubt the dear readers of this blog or the British public at large are ready to accept his political credentials as being restored on the basis of biting into a sandwich, - although we do seem happy to overlook Nigel Farage’s questionable expenses because he likes a pint - I do hope he himself takes some enjoyment from it. Because when the big picture looks as bleak as a long stay in hospital, sometimes it’s best just to focus on the joy the tea trolley brings. 

During exam term, and particularly at the time when exams are truly upon us, everything seems to become swept to the side. The only way of keeping time is the countdown until the next exam. Stress levels keep people pinned to their desks either in rooms or libraries, whilst possibly trapping them in paralysing inactivity. Meals with friends, sports activities, TV shows, and sometimes even tea breaks are traded in for a few more minutes of bookishness in an effort to claw a way to a better grade. But how much do we lose by being swamped in the big picture of exams and results, by missing out on the little pleasures? I reckon it’s quite a lot. 


I’m sure we’ve all read, or been verbally fed, exam stress advice like this offered by the BBC. And believe me, as somebody who has a birthday that falls during exam term, people greatly appreciate it if you make the effort to include a few drinks one evening in your hefty revision schedule. But this says nothing about the sweet five minutes you could take to glance out of your window, or the break you could take to enjoy a popular snack named after a furry/cute/much-videoed animal. Besides the science that suggests having a five minute break every half an our is beneficial to the brain, finding pleasure in small little things we do away from work helps to keep moral up and make life a little more bearable. If we begin to see life as a series of 'little moments,' rather than the ‘pathway’ to our targets and goals that so many self help authors clamour to point out, then we can feel less deprived of what we want to “get” and where we have to “be”, and become more fulfilled. In essence, forget about seeing the wood through the trees, and find a pretty leaf instead. If you feel like you’re enjoying your day more because you’re taking some time to yourself, then that motivation is far more likely to feed back into your work.    


The day that I post this you will be able to find me in Cambridge. As a result of persuasive (Blake) friends, wine with dinner and tactical ignorance of my bank account, I’m flying back for the weekend on a flight I booked yesterday. In the big picture world, I’m doing something far too spontaneous, and paying more money for it. I should be using my time to explore more of Austria, practising more of my German and getting more of my Year Abroad Project done (see: started). I have goals that I should be focused on, and distractions are a no-no. But on the other hand my friends are finishing their exams, I’ve been promised a party and the whole time is going to be hilarious. So after writing a whole blog post to justify my actions I’m pretty sure I am the winner here. I’ll just need a good bacon sandwich to top it all off. 

Alex Matthews

Jess: I think that restaurants have become too important.

Marie: Oh I agree… restaurants are to people in the ‘80s what theatre was to people in the 60s. I read that in a magazine.

Jess: I wrote that […] I also wrote, “Pesto is the quiche of the 80s.”

My epigraph comes from Rob Reiner’s 1989 When Harry Met Sally - best known as the film which forever ruined all ‘what’s the greatest movie ever?’ discussions - and perfectly exemplifies the kind of banal, epochal chatter which makes that film such a hypergeneric masterpiece. I will premise this ‘essay’ on the kind of broad cultural statement which can only arise from a misspent childhood or an utterly unjustifiable self-confidence: people eat more on English-language television now than at any other time in the medium’s history. I refer to all televised consumption: ‘Cheers’ or ‘Central Perk’-type foci of orality around which modern sitcom plots inevitably resolve; the increasing profusion of reality shows featuring supremely wealthy individuals spinning from social showdown to social showdown across a range of luxurious restaurants and bars - think Made in Chelsea and Real Housewives; and particularly I’m referring to the increasing profusion of ‘food reality shows’ across the daytime TV universe. It was not always like this. Just watch the sitcoms of the ‘70s from both sides of the Atlantic, or the light comedy shows of the ‘50s, or the American crime dramas of the ‘80s: people used to be able to have conversations on television in a living room or a park. Now, though, a televised conversation uninterrupted by the slurp of a frappucino or the guzzling of a green salad is a genuine rarity. There is a cynical - Marxist, perhaps, but at least Culturally Materialist - reading of this change in televisual practise which blames the shift in programme structure on canny product placement. Personally, I’d happily place an uninformed bet that, if one examined the diaries of the average teenager now and the average teenager of 1970, one would find a far greater social-meetings-with-coffee to social-meetings-without-coffee ratio in the modern case. Have we been the duped victims of major corporations who use television to make us believe that conversation without food is a social nonsense, thereby funding their own mega-chains? Perhaps, partially. But I suspect there is more to it than this functional non-analysis would suggest.

Having dinner with my ex’s family introduced to me a cultural phenomenon which I found, and still find, simultaneously oddly discomforting and almost utterly inexplicable. As dinner was cooking, or as the takeaway approached, her family would sit at their dinner table watching (on a notably large-screened TV) Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall’s River Cottage. As if watching pornography before sex, the entire family would settle down and watch the master at work. Salivating hungrily, with curiously little comment, we would watch Hugh skinning a salmon, Hugh gutting a trout, Hugh slicing a courgette and then, before the show had come to its logical conclusion of Hugh filling his face, the television would be turned off. Finally, with me apparently the only unnerved participant at the feast, we would commence the inevitably anti-climactic process of actually eating. It was a ritual which seemed thoroughly to hollow out the oral ritual of nourishment. Cooking along to a cooking show, or even taking recipe notes along the way, had always seemed to me just about comprehensible: with the chef (or contestant) we approach the climax of orality through a process which is illusorily educative - but then we get to the culinary crux, the foody fundament of eating the meal which you have just seen cooked. However, removing this objective appeared to me almost inhumane:  why were we watching this bloody ‘real food’ show before a non-organic Chinese takeaway? Let us consider too the cooking competition show more generally which, often under the Masterchef franchise, is such a popular means of procrastination at Cambridge. In this case, students watch the show without even the intention (or budgetary means) of recreating the meal they are watching cooked. Even the tokenistic post-show meal which had justified my ex’s family’s enthusiasm is removed and one is simply left watching a crowd of semi-literates having a cook off.  Is it the competition which excites them? Surely nothing so banal could occupy us. Nor, I believe, is it the gastronomy which, without any eating or cooking, is surely a hollow hobby. Given the lack of the pretence to or means of eating a comparable meal to that on the show in almost all cases, are we here onto some hint towards a theory of televisual orality?

People watch culture shows in an armchair, arms folded, silently accepting their BBC 4, soft-shoe education. When not enjoined in the cultural ritual of footy -and-pint, people will also happily watch TV sport without any accompanying snack. Not so with the ‘real food’ show, the Masterchef, or even the sitcom which hops from restaurant to café to bar to kitchen and back again. If you are not hungry whilst watching these shows, then you are at least being induced to hunger. If you do not watch with cheeky kit-kat and casual curry at the ready, then you will probably fancy one just afterwards. The complex origins behind the social and personal anxieties which are, both consciously and unconsciously, associated with orality require more attention than I can here give them - D.H. Lawrence, Freud and Bakhtin are probably good places to start if you’re interested - but they go far beyond the kind of body image problems which are given more than ample attention in the national press. Watching a reality show where the ‘characters’ bounce from meal to meal (an analysis of eating to non-eating time ratios in The Real Housewives of New York might productively demonstrate the kind of life-style such shows encourage) and yet maintain a socially desirable figure both justifies and gestures towards our own cultural obsession with orality, and yet perpetuates a fantasy which combines endless eating and postponed or negated weight gain. Gradually one’s interest in the show has shifted: the ego may affect an interest in the evermore flimsily constructed ‘plot’ but, for the id, the interest is all in the feeding. The oral ritual expands in significance until it eventually envelops the intellectual pretence. Who really gives a monkeys if Ramona’s a bitch so long as she’s stuffing some steak in between those pinched little lips? So what if Spencer has cheated again if we can only watch these beautiful people eating these beautiful foods for just a little while longer?

Of course, this is going somewhere and where this is going is an extended panegyric to the greatest show on television: Man v. Food, Adam Richman’s sublime tribute to direct television.  At the opening of every episode - each one a perfect ritualistic celebration of pure orality - our host (‘guru’ if you will) declares, with that frankness and honesty which is the necessary fruit of the self-justified belief in a good cause: ‘I'm Adam Richman. For years I was one man on a quest to discover the country's greatest chowdown joints and take on its legendary food challenges. Now it's your turn. Together we'll find the most delicious local eats and face down the mightiest meals. This is... Man v. Food Nation.’ For 21 minutes an utterly, literally, engrossed audience watch with co-mingled delight and horror as Richman takes on a series of exquisitely immense masses of food, each one apparently drenched in entire paddling pools worth of barbecue sauce. This is honest television. Gone is the pseudo-plot, the agonized quasi-characterization, the crack-competition: here is man and food, orifice and substance, food as semi-sexual demi-God. Celebrity chef Alton Brown has written of Richman’s masterpiece: "That show is about gluttony, and gluttony is wrong. It's wasteful. Think about people that are starving to death and think about that show. I think it's an embarrassment." Brown, the creator of the sickeningly self-righteous Good Eats is scared of Richman and rightly so. The message Man v. Food declares again and again with the repetition compulsion of the righteously indignant (and the hungry) is that shows like Good Eats are a precious hypocrisy: stop pretending you care about gastronomy, Richman declares, and start showing your audience a brash, bearded, chubby American stuffing his face. As television programming streamlines its social function from plot to symbol, here is narrative reduced to its increasingly predictable conclusion: ultimate televisual orality.


By Anthony Lazarus

As any of my friends or housemates will tell you, having been recently subjected to endless caterwauling from me as I attempt to recreate her sultry, soulful tones, I have a new love. Actually it isn't really a new love at all, but a recent discovery of the recordings of her 2011 performance at the Royal Albert Hall has rekindled my adoration, whilst providing a handy backing track to revision, relaxation, and just life more generally. I am of course talking about the utter goddess that is Adele. Yes, I know such a proclamation is not exactly original, and just about everyone has already seen this show, but I am not intending to demonstrate any kind of serious musical insight, or to make pretences at coolness. Rather, I want to share with you the reasons why I'm convinced Adele is the cleverest of all of us, as well as putting the whole show in one handy place for you. So sit back, enjoy, and fall in love along with me. 

Class with a touch of sass
Adele shows effortlessly that pretentious conversation does not an interesting woman make. Instead. she is just her fucking self, and that self is fabulous. She flips from soothing songstress to foul-mouthed femme in 30 seconds flat. Watch: 

She's a Dolly Parton fan!
And no one who loves Dolly Parton can be bad. And I also find the way she asks if the audience is alright incredibly comforting. I'm weird, I know, but that's exam-term soothing right there. Just shut out the revision and pretend she's talking to you. 

She's known heartbreak and she sure knows how to sing about it
Knowing that even someone as gorgeous and fabulous as her (I wasn't kidding, I really do adore her) gets kicked in the teeth too makes me feel less awful about my own life, and it should hopefully offer you some solace too! 

'Not enough time has gone by since he was a fucking prick to me, so I will chat shit about him until I'm blue in the face.' 
Pure poetry... 

She's known the struggles of the common man
I can sympathise, Adele, the Tesco checkout woman doesn't know who I am either... 

For all that she badmouths people, she knows how to forgive and how to apologise
And that's a very valuable lesson in grace, which even the best of us could do with a reminder of from time to time. 

If you've made it this far, I do hope you'll forgive me for being such an over-indulgent fan. I also hope you now see why I love her to bits. Anyone up for a singalong? 

Miriam Goode

I have a confession to make. I am a Eurosceptic. No, I am not some Farage fanatic who believes that the socio-economic benefits of independence from Europe would render Britain a stronger and more prosperous nation (perhaps another article?), rather, the purported conjunction of razzmatazz and glitter that is Eurovision is one I tend to steer well clear from. This is for good reason. I have lost many friends to Eurovision. Once clear, level-headed young individuals with a fine future in Banking or equivalent have spiralled into an abyss of leopard-skin-stricken turmoil, off of the rails and into a sea of overbearing eye-liner. Like a fly into the Venus trap, they’re left ecstatically wriggling in the jaws of strobe lighting, while the rest of us look on with a pitiful shake of the head. Tonight, however, I will take the plunge into this world. Quite who will emerge from the other side, we shall find out…

19:58-The National Lottery. The ‘camp’ has already begun as Dale Winton’s effeminately dulcet tones provide just an enticing taste of what will ensue. As my family all take a moment to reflect on his recent weight gain, I sit with Budweiser in hand, laptop on desk, seatbelt securely fastened. I’m ready…

20.00-Apparently there’s strobe lighting. Who would have thought it?

20.02-Informed that Molly, the UK entrant, is the final contestant to perform. There goes any hope of clocking off early...

20.05-Now we meet our three presenters for the evening. The man with the slicked-back hair looks like the lovechild of Leonardo DiCaprio and Remus Lupin.

20.07-Voting via text and the Eurovision app is not available to British viewers. Is this some sort of European hint? According to this Morning’s ‘Today’ programme, votes from the recently annexed Crimea will count as Ukrainian, meaning they can vote for Russia! Apparently Eurovision is a calendar highlight in the Kremlin.

20.13-Here we go then! First song of the evening, and it is Ukraine that has the honour. The introductory video involves the construction of a flag perilously close to a railway line.

20.14-Why, oh why, is there a man in a hamster wheel? I had a hamster once. She died.

20:18-The entry from Belarus has a nice reggae feel to it. The band consists of five young gentlemen with spikey hair, like a sort of annoying ‘One Direction’, if you can imagine such a thing.

20:21-Azerbaijan’s entrants certainly know how to live on the edge, featuring a woman hanging from a trapeze while her ‘friend’ (perhaps in need of reassessment) advocates the starting of a fire

20:25-Iceland have a Member of Parliament on stage. Does this mean Eric Pickles will be making his Eurovision debut in the British entry? Or perhaps we should give Michael Gove a go on that trapeze and see how he gets on. Certainly has the potential to be wildly irritating. Verdict? My mum’s clapping. Infer as you will.

20:29-Judging by the Norway entrant’s eyes he’s either blazed or suffering from some exceedingly severe jetlag after flying in all the way from Norway.

20:30-I didn’t know Norway was so liberal a country, allowing escaped convicts to represent them

20:34-Romania. In case you didn’t catch that first time, “it’s a miracle”. I hear that, brother.

20:36-Key change!!! No doubt a flurry of people across the country see away their drinks, alcoholic or otherwise

20:37-The Armenian entry entitled “Not Alone” has a flavour of self-help meets positive visualisation to it. Reminiscent of a Rudimental track.

20:41-The singer from Montenegro appears to be speaking in some sort of gibberish. How inconsiderate.

20:45-Poland. Music? Or soft-core porn?

20:46-I’m being unfair. If you look really closely, you can actually make out some clothes.

20:49-The opening of Greece’s entry is reminiscent of Chopin’s Funeral March. This is perhaps appropriate considering the song’s title, “Rise up to the sky”. The song is likely a profound look at eschatological dilemmas, the rise and fall of the man on the trampoline representing the great irony of the philosopher’s quest to ascend to the intelligible realm, despite one’s ascension relying first on earthly sensibles.

20:53-Austria. Probably the best song yet with a James Bond-esque brass scream at the end. More importantly, what a beard. So plump and well-groomed. I could definitely grow one like that. Definitely. No problem. I just choose not to, that’s all. Anyway, on with Deutschland…

20:56-Apparently Germany ‘buy’ their way in to the Finals. The singer, donning a sort of wedding dress with a floral, leather jacket would certainly not look out of place in the English Faculty library

21:00-We’ve reached the one-hour mark as well-groomed spectacled man is back alongside recently-left-at-the-altar woman to have a look at the highest note in Eurovision history. Definitely an opportunity for a loo break…

21:04-On with Sweden. Clearly their song introduction was a bit last minute but that’s okay. The singer is ensnared in a sort of prison of beaming light. “Definitely top 5” is mum’s verdict. Only time will tell…

21:08-The French tell the story of a man who has everything but can’t grow a moustache. Certainly a facial hair theme running through the show tonight. Would probably make quite awkward viewing for anyone with facial hair insecurities. Surely deserved of the win solely for the mohican that would arouse even Jedward (I presume they arouse in tandem?)

21:12-Russia. This…is…bizarre. They’re hair is literally attached. Fortunately, the twins have saved it by wearing exactly the same thing, which is never weird.

21:16-Italy’s entrant is trying to rally the audience into some sort of clapping frenzy. They’re not really catching on, quite frankly. Perhaps should have put a little bit more thought into the camera angles considering the length of that dress…

21:20-Slovenia. Love a bit of flute to mix things up. Although, she rather looks as though singing is causing her a not so insignificant amount of pain.

21:21-Seriously, she’s in agony. Someone should probably check if she’s okay.

21:22-Oop, the flute’s back. Now she’s just sort of holding it, like a staff, Moses-style.

21:23-Finland-Entitled “Something better”. Let’s hope so.

21:24-That silver suit is to DIE for. There are an awful lot of lights. Thank goodness for the strobe warning.

21:28-Ruth Lorenzo, former X Factor contestant, takes to the stage for Spain. Poor girl is soaking wet! Surprisingly stationary for a song entitled “Dancing in the Rain”. Perhaps another deep irony; full of them tonight. This feisty matador is my favourite of the night.

21:31-Switzerland’s song has a slight folk feel to it. Verdict? They should definitely stick to chocolate. Speaking of which…

21:35-The young man representing Hungary tells us that ‘she’ (presumably denoting some rather desirable young woman) keeps on “running, running, running” away from him. One hardly need wonder why.

21:39-Malta. Why won’t he stop staring at me? Why me? Stare at someone else! Actually it’s…it’s kind of hypnotic…yes Malta…I’ll vote for you…you can have all the votes…

21:43-Denmark-A cliché love song. No, that’s the title. Token afro man in the background is loving it.

21:45-A thought has occurred. How does one go about auditioning for Eurovision? Perhaps the Blake Society should put forward an entrant…

21:47-Lisa the presenter is back trying to fill for a delay on the stage. She strikes me as about as natural as the flavourings in a packet of Percy Pigs

21:49-The Netherlands. Cheeky little guitar solo, although I can’t tell if he’s playing his guitar or grinding it. Who knows what this quirky little love-ballad is about!

21:52-The woman representing San Marino has represented her country for the last three years, never making to the final. Evidently failing to get the message, she is back and has this year reached the final! I have to admit the first minute of her performance was spent looking up exactly where San Marino is; I was struggling to find it in the middle of France. The Heart of the Ocean hangs boldly around her neck. Christ, she’d have sunk straight to the bottom. Give it an hour…

21:55—GREAT BRITAIN!!!-“Children of the Universe”. The moment we have all been waiting for. The thumping percussion jumps through the screen and reverberates around the room. Dressed like Pharaoh in a golden dress with black, high sandals, perhaps she will reign supreme… (I really am sorry)

21:59-That’s it! Let the voting, block or otherwise, begin! And as if that wasn’t enough, apparently the songs are all available to download online!

22:00-Before all this excitement gets too much, I’m going to bed.

I must admit, I did not have high hopes for my first Eurovision viewing, but I actually rather enjoyed myself. Conchita Wurst is a much deserved winner, it’s just a shame Molly wasn’t so well-received. All in all, when not taken too seriously, the contest certainly provides a thoroughly entertaining evening! Eurovision, I’m sold.

 

 

Street art in the UK is mostly referred to as graffiti, which does not exactly have positive connotations and tends to evoke images of “youths in hoods” (yes I am aware that I sound like a disgruntled grandmother) with spray cans defacing buildings, trains and walls. Graffiti is illegal in the UK, along with the selling of spray-cans to under-16s and is punishable by fines and even imprisonment depending on the scale of the damage caused. 

However, graffiti can also be considered a form of art: the name Banksy automatically brings to mind the anonymous artist known for his UK-based paintings, and his works are considered far from offensive or antisocial. Known for his contempt of the word vandalism, used by the government to describe graffiti, his works are satirical and bold, intended to capture the public’s attention.

I am currently living in Chile (yes, I’m sorry, I know it’s exam term and the words Year Abroad – synonymous with sunshine and slacking – are far from welcome) and it has led me to wonder if our UK laws are too strict: the only possibility for legal graffiti is on designated free-walls, and our attitudes seem extremely traditional – surprise surprise, it is the UK after all! Here in Chile graffiti is legal as long as the artist has the permission of the owner of any given property, and it has led to one of the most colourful and interesting cities in the country: Valparaíso. 

The city is famous for its brightly coloured houses and beautiful street art, and whilst there is the occasional scribble in spray-paint, the presence of so much beautiful art seems to deter people from mindless defacement, and encourages creativity. What is more, after meeting some locals on a free walking tour it was apparent that they are proud of their colourful walls.

In the capital, Santiago de Chile, wherever there is street-art it adds to the beauty of the city, and distracts from the otherwise often grey and dull apartment blocks. 

So let’s stop all of this negativity towards graffiti, and start treating it as street-art! After all, when it is employed creatively, shouldn't it be considered as part of our democratic freedom of expression?

Ellie Jeffrey