EDITORIAL

Matty McNally

Kate Craigie

Ben Wheawell

EDITORIAL

Welcome to the second issue of The Loop. This time around, we’ve gone for all things ‘Body and Mind’: Jonny and Winston attempt to relieve a bit of exam stress by

peddling some wordy treatises that basically say ‘IT’S OK IT DOESN’T REALLY MATTER ANYWAY YOU DULLARDS’; Liam McNulty and Ram Mashru explore the psyches of some of those naughty Old Schools occupiers (remember that back in December?); and Jenna Corderoy shares with us a worryingly detailed plan to create her perfect man. It’s not all Strictly Come Psychoanalysing though, as we get a sneak peek at the Homerton May Ball from the people that brought you Doctor Who and The Royal Wedding.

As always, our articles are one hundred percent factually accurate, having sourced objec-tive opinions and neutral polemics from the very best minds to grace those oh-so-snuggly Homerton pillows. Weeks of sleeplessness, frantic phonecalls to Susanne Ibru for updates on Rio Ferdinand’s current whereabouts and some bowel-convulsing research into the merits of Chicken Rush have produced what is definitely in our top two editions of The Loop so far. If you have a spare moment to read it in your frantic revision/drinking to forget schedule, we hope you’ll agree.

Unfortunately, all good things come to an end, and so this is also the final edition both of this year and from our current editorial team. We can only hope that you’ve enjoyed it, and that our not-so-glossy pages have made you laugh at least once over the course of the year. Flick over to page 23 if you’d like to see how you can get involved next year.

Other than that, we’d just like to wish you all the very best of luck for your exams. Whatever you might be thinking, it’ll be fine, we promise! Unless you’re a lawyer, in which case you’re fucked.

Thanks and love,

The Loop Teamx

THREE

SIX MONTHS ONLiamMcnulty

on student activism in Cambridge

SIX MONTHS ON

One thing which stood out about the occupation was how essentially physical it was. On the

most basic level the tactic is about physically occu-pying space in order to transform it into something new, creative and collective. This is done through maintaining a critical mass inside the occupied space at all times, securing the access points by being able to outnumber any potential intruders and by building numbers through various modes of out-reach. It may be noted in passing that occupations are also physically and mentally exhausting and not wholly characterised by frivolity as some detractors would suggest. No, anyone prepared to risk legal and disciplinary sanction by resorting to such means is not doing it for the fun of it, as anyone who has actually spent any time in such a space could tell you.

Nevertheless, the endeavour was characterised from the beginning by a definite asymmetry because quite clearly the University possessed the resources, both legal and financial, to have the occupiers removed. That they did not do so has to be explained not in terms of the sheer physical balance of forces but in the sphere of ideas. Universities justify their exist-ence by pretending to be islands of humanism in an inhumane world, reservoirs of scholarly virtue in an increasingly materialistic and disposable society. On the whole this is true but only so far as we conceive of the University as a collective of academics, staff and students. What belies this conception is the undemocratic character of most university manage-ment structures, and the occupations nationwide played an important role in stripping back this veneer to reveal the real interests at play.

The point here is that universities are not detached from the ‘real world’ and when challenged by staff and students they reacted much like the government has, with legal sanctions and coercion. That the occupiers were not physically dragged out by bailiffs was as much to do with maintaining a benevolent pretence as anything else. Whatever its pretence as

an Enlightened institution, however, our University does not recognise the Universities and Colleges Union’s role in negotiating pay and conditions for its staff; University College London only granted its cleaners a living wage after a a prolonged strug-gle; and rather than engage with its students and academics over the existential problems posed by the Browne Report, the University of Cambridge instead chose to lie down in the face of higher education spending cuts. Refuse to believe any feigned regret on the part of the University bureau-cracy; in its submissions to the original review the University of Cambridge wrote that “it will be vital that the Independent Review recommends that the cap on the maximum tuition fee that may currently be charged is increased or removed”.

On the whole universities operate by the same laws of motion as the rest of society, increasingly inte-grated into the neoliberal political economy. It is tell-ing that in its submission to the Browne Review the University justified itself with regard to Higher Edu-cation’s contribution to UK GDP; by its very place in the market society it becomes necessary to reduce education to a factor in endogenous growth theory rather than a good in itself. Forced by financial pres-sures, universities will be increasingly dependent on corporate funding thus further transforming them into the outsourced research arms of private capital. Given the cuts in teaching and research budgets, the burden of higher education funding will fall on the shoulders of individual students and access will undoubtedly suffer.

As Stefan Collini wrote in November in the London Review of Books, under the Browne Report’s vision higher education is seen as ‘a lightly regulated

“Refuse to believe any feigned regret on the part of the University bureaucracy”

FIVE

market in which consumer demand, in the form of student choice, is sovereign in determining what is offered by service providers’ rather than a public good paid for by general taxation. This highly individualised conception of the benefits of education ideologically complements the neoliberal project by atomising people and denying the social linkages which bind them together as a community. The assumption is that the individual student is the primary beneficiary of higher education, ignoring of course that those students who become teachers will spend their working lives giving more than the cost of their degree back to generations of young people; or that graduate doctors will use their skills to save people’s lives. Not only will these profes-sions exceed the basic rate of income tax, and thus contribute to the general tax take, but they will give back an incalculable contribution to society. It is perhaps because it is incalculable that the cretins in government, motivated by the re-hashed liberalism of a 19th century mill-owner, cannot understand it.

The occupations challenged this dismal vision by creating a truly collective and democratic space which stood in marked contradistinction to the Parliament of liars protected from the public by lines of riot police. By taking collective action, the hundreds of students, aggregated by the court’s possession order as ‘The Occupiers’ in unintentional

recognition of their common purpose, defied the individualistic logic of 21st century capitalism. The government once told us that there was ‘no such thing as society’. Even worse, they now have the gall to tell us that there

is a ‘Big Society’ as they cut funding to voluntary organisations and church groups. If their Big Society is that of dazed and disorientated victims desperately trying to patch up the destructive impact of a natural disaster or brutalising spending cuts then ours must be that of empowered citizens, imbued with a collective purpose to defend the gains of our grandparents’ struggles and actively fight for a more egalitarian and democratic future for our own generation.

For all the ruling elite’s denial of collective benefits,

they are intimately aware of their own class inter-ests. One former Sunday Telegraph editor, Per-egrine Worsthorne, was refreshingly blunt, writing that “I am a Tory-Marxist, in the sense of accepting the need to take sides in the class war, even if, so to speak, on the other side”. Do not think that tuxedoed parasites gathered at the British Bankers’ Association Annual Industry Dinner are unclear where their interests lie either. As students we must be equally forthright.

However, forging autonomous spaces is not enough; such spaces cannot function for long outside the logic of the capitalist system any more than the university can. Instead we will have to wage an offensive against this very logic itself, and this cannot be done alone. In a few months many of us will be trying to find employment, in all likelihood in the midst of a renewed recessionary spiral, or forced into low-paid or non-remunerated internships and expected to be thankful for the ‘opportunity’ to work. Alongside us will be hundreds of thousands of public sector workers, and just as many private sector workers thrown on to the scrapheap following the cancel-lation of public sector and capital-spend projects. This summer promises a wave of industrial action from teachers and lecturers protecting their pensions and public sector workers fighting for their jobs.

The students of the present will be the workers of the future so we have every interest in joining the battle against the destruction of society’s social fabric. Local trade unionists helped the occupation in Cambridge and students and workers marched in unison on March 26th. Let us reciprocate their sup-port in a real united front against the government’s cuts agenda. Students and workers must unite and fight because, otherwise, the future doesn’t bear thinking about. Which side are you?

Liam McNulty

“The occupations challenged the dismal neoliberal vision by creating a truly collective and democratic space”

“The ruling elite are intimately aware of their own class interests”

SEVEN

Hate. It’s a strong word, but I think it’s lost some of its meaning. The dictionary defines hatred as

“intense dislike”, but I think true hatred goes a bit further than that. Like its positive counterpart “love”, it’s a feel-ing that can’t easily be described in words.

But why, exactly, do we hate? When person A hates subject B, B being a person, object, action, concept, or indeed just any other “thing”, it shows that A sees B as a threat to their (or someone else’s) continued comfort-able existence. The American right hate Barack Obama because they believe he’s a “socialist Muslim” with plans to turn the country into the Soviet Union. The late Osama bin Laden (I started writing this piece in January. This is how much I’ve procrastinated.) probably saw you and I as an obstacle between himself and his supposed 72 virgins.

What actually creates these feelings, though? I believe most of it is ignorance. The Obama haters are applying selective attention to the news so they can affirm their own opinion. They don’t want to hear about the thou-sands of people he’s helped get affordable healthcare. They only want to hear about the costs of it, because that’s an excuse to hate him. (On a side note, I genuinely once had someone online telling me that the existence of the NHS is “fascist”). The EDL love reading articles in the Daily Wail about how immigrants are responsible for everything bad that has ever happened in this country since the beginning of time. They choose to conveniently

forget that migrants are probably one of the hardest-working sections of our society.

A lot of it is exaggeration. We seem to have forgotten what hate actually is. I don’t really HATE that bloke off the X Factor for ruining a perfectly good Biffy Clyro song. Sure, I dislike how he can get to the top of the charts with little effort simply because he was on TV and put in an unnecessary key change towards the end, but I can’t say that I hate him. Maybe if he kidnapped the band and forced them at gunpoint to let him cover the song, it’d be worth hating him, but as far as I’m aware that’s not what happened, and no-one was harmed ex-cept a few people’s eardrums.

I do try to make a point not to actively hate people. There is very little to be gained from bearing grudges. Try to forgive and forget, and if they don’t do the same for you, at least you have the smug satisfaction of the moral high ground.

I’m not saying that hate is always unjustified. I hate those who deliberately harm others. I hate that we are power-less to cure certain diseases. I hate most things associ-ated with Justin Bieber (sorry, but despite everything I’ve just said, I think this one’s justified). There are very few things worth hating, but the thing probably worth hating the most is hate itself.

Dan Baker

HATEIMAGE FROM JELLES ON FLICKR

A chapter all of its own will surely be dedicated to the tuition fee riots of December 2010, if a treatise

on the history of the (soon to be extinct) demographic known as students in Britain were ever to be written. With Edward Wollard (the fire extinguisher throwing wise-guy) and Charlie Gilmour (the cenotaph mount-ing son of a millionaire) doing their best to fuck things up, the political situation in favour of students was only rescued by Jody McIntyre, the disabled victim of police heavy-handedness. Jody now enjoys saint like status after delivering what can only be described as a smack-down to unsympathetic BBC reporters, and now boasts a blog with the Independent. Interestingly though, when speak-ing of his education Jody McIntyre refers to it as ‘18 years wasted’ and herein lies the point: student activists and their contradictions.

Coming from a school where most people spelt ‘politics’ with two ‘l’s and a ‘k’, coming into contact with blue blooded Thatcherites and unshaven, un-bathed and often uncouth communists shouting ‘Property is theft!’ in Fresher’s week was an alarming experience. I should

say that I am no disenfranchised cynic. In fact, I take the time to glance at the manifesto posted through my letterbox before using it as a coaster. I also pay some at-tention to what Nick Robinson has to say to me at 10pm before being distracted by his piercing eyes, his unflatter-ing glasses and his spit filled mouth (surely you noticed too?). What I found alarming was not to find political awareness or a sense of political identity, but to encoun-ter an exhibitionist political conviction that needed to be voiced immediately, to as many people as possible and as much as possible – most memorably, taking the form of a ten-minute monologue in appreciation of Thatcher and her legacy.

What was confusing about it all was the confidence. How could someone who had, judging by the awkwardness with which they introduced themselves to girls before the freshers’ week bop, lived a very sheltered upbring-ing, be so sure of their political persuasion? I don’t deny that I have my place on the political spectrum and that I cannot foresee moving much from it, but it is still pos-sible to be open to persuasion and to be interested in an alternative perspective. After all, isn’t politics all about the dialectic?

When politics turns into activism things can only get worse. Cambridge never seems to miss a political band-wagon. I’m inclined to say the bandwagon route runs from wherever in the world the issue of the day origi-nates, through Cambridge and on to Westminster. From the occupation of the Law Faculty to the seizure of the

“The freshers’ week ‘working class hero’ spent his entire student loan in Whittards”

NINE

Old Schools, student activists in Cambridge not only cry out but make their cries heard. My complaint is not with the methods and nor is it with the causes. Rather, what pisses me off is the effect that such activism has on the collective student voice. These student protests (I appreciate the word is now somewhat of a taboo and I use it here in its pre-tuition fee riots sense) invariably give voice to the idiots (who shouldn’t have a voice) and the extremists (who don’t deserve one). How hand-cuffing yourself, around your neck, to a step-latter outside the Old Schools, or whatever profound symbolic gesture was performed, achieves anything other than ridiculing the cause is beyond me. Cambridge student activism also alienates the indifferent. You know you’ve shot yourself in the foot when you have the law fellows of the faculty

telling you to piss off.

Most annoying though is the fact that Cam-bridge student activism silences those who have something original and (dare I say it?) sincere to contribute. I don’t feel I can share the soapbox with the mous-tachioed, moon-cup using, anti-deodorant feminist as much as I can’t share it with the

animal rights campaigner wearing a string of scientists’ heads as a belt. The only people with opportunity to contribute in such a charged environment are the po-lemicists.

But when I think back, as a jaded and bitter finalist, I am

able to make perfect sense of my unexpectedly political fresher’s week. I’m almost embarrassed to admit that I couldn’t tell the political wood from the political trees at the time. I wasn’t reluc-tantly speaking to politically conscious individuals and nor was I engaging in an honest debate. I was the subject of rants delivered by parrots. Yes parrots. Parrots parroting the views of parents, of select history books or of cult internet chat rooms. I can’t help but doubt the sincerity of the freshers’ week feminist when pictures of her surface on my newsfeed, dressed as a playboy bunny, participating fully in a drinking society initiation. Equally, I question the fresher’s week ‘working class hero’ after he spent his entire student loan in the Whittard sale so that he could host ‘informal port and cheese soirees’. I turned down the invitation.

Why people feel the need to say and do stuff, that they don’t necessarily believe, is something that can only be speculated about (daddy issues I suspect). But student activists, who thrive in a culture of incessant protest whilst facing increasing scepticism and hostility, now must overcome the double hurdle of having their voice heard and of proving the sincerity of their claims. As far as my experience goes, most of the student activists I’ve met simply chat shit.

Ram Mashru

“Most annoying that Cambridge student activism silences those who have something original and sin-cere to contribute”

“They’re parrots parroting the views of parents, select history books or of cult internet chat rooms”

Supervisions – do they really matter? Lectures – will they make you happy? A degree – is that enough of a

reward to warrant the effort?

If you answered no to all of the above, you are either painfully disheartened by the whole university experience and have been made pessimistic, you are at Homerton, or you have an existentialist worldview. Me – I’m all three. But let’s talk about the last one.

Every now and again - as you are weaving around the SLR-wielding tourists on your bike at great speed to ar-rive on time, to meet a deadline, to get to a meeting – you stop, take a step outside of yourself and see yourself: out of breath, damp from the rain that characterises most of our climate and with a sullen look on your face. You wonder what is the fucking point.

We vary only in the ways in which we cope with the meaninglessness of it all – this, for existentialists such as Albert Camus, is the experience of existence. Our life is the Sisyphean menial drudgery of the day to day routine – for him it was ‘Rising, tram, four hours in the office or factory, meal, tram, four hours of work, meal, sleep’. For me – rise, meal, cycle, Costa, library, Nero, Starbucks, cy-cle, meal, shower, sleep.’ Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday… they vary essentially only in the order of the activities. Camus thought that once you realise this routine, once you can look objectively at how stale and predictable not only your life, but everybody’s lives are, you are faced with a crisis. Do you deny that your life is pointless? Do you live your days in the knowledge that it’s all pointless. Or, why not give up life as a bad job and throw yourself from the nearest ledge?

Let’s thrash out this decision.

Acknowledging the base grey futility of your existence is pretty disheartening for most people – in fact, most people don’t agree. Most, in fact, go against the exis-tentialist logic and posit that there is a purpose to life. Christians may deny themselves their authentic freedom by stating that God is their purpose, that they are merely his servants on the earth, only to be rewarded with a life of bounteous pleasure and perfection in Heaven – they experience their existence on earth bent over, eyes closed in prayer, judging people against a skewed moral code. The rationalist, the scientist, may find his purpose in the

Enlightenment pursuit of truth and of the absolute – with rationality, he quickly pushes away all that religious nonsense and instead forays in the undergrowth of exist-ence for that which can be proven. With microscope, with survey, with quill and with calculator, many more people deny themselves their selves by focusing single-mindedly on the unsustaining pursuit of meaning in a meaningless world.

Alternately then, you could accept that life is meaning-less. To live in a world without meaning is not as pes-simistic as it may at first seem: with no meaning comes no immense consequences. One can break down the shackles of convention, tradition and expectation – if you enjoyed your gap year so much, stay there – leave only when it no longer sates you. Do all of those small, essentially meaningless things that make you smile, and then die, never to think again, never to anything. Isn’t it beautiful?

Or, you could always kill yourself. If it doesn’t matter whether you live, surely it doesn’t matter whether you die? If life gets so depressing for you that you feel you lack any purpose, it is very likely that this state has been induced by an over-reliance upon factors in life that are meaningless: property, ownership, social acceptance, de-pendence. This doesn’t really matter in a futile world. It would be unthinking for this to necessitate one’s suicide. If you drop a bag of sugar on the floor, it is regrettable, but it doesn’t really matter – it wouldn’t make you grab the scissors, eye up your wrists and run a hot bath. Replace that bag of sugar with your entire existence, replace the dropping with the eternal swirling in a perpetual abyss – this is your life, and it is equally as facilitating of authentic suicide as the sugar bag.

The choice is yours. You have nothing to lose but your chains.

Jonny Walker

JONNY SAYS it doesn’t matter

ELEVEN

WINSTON SAYS it’s ALL IN YOUR HEADJONNY SAYS it doesn’t matter

Cambridge is intense. Whenever someone asks me what it’s like studying here, this is always my stand-

ard reply. It’s the supervisions that do it. The pressure here is always immediate; always constant; always hang-ing over our heads. Grilling sessions with fiery academics keep on coming; essays are always due; the revolving doors just keep on spinning. It’s a relentless cycle, and there’s no escaping it until the eight weeks of the term are done.

Nevertheless, there’s no point complaining. Sure, your average media student isn’t expected to work quite as hard as you, but then again, there are normal expecta-tions, and then there are Cambridge expectations. You may complain to your DoS or your tutor about it, but at the end of the day, the general sentiment over here isn’t very compromising: if you can’t handle the pressure, you better just leave. Cambridge isn’t going to change for you, so you’re going to have to adapt.

I realise that the above para-graph sounds overly harsh; I don’t want to sound like an insensitive twit, but those are the plain raw facts. Fortunately, there is a solution, and it’s quite simple really: nothing really matters.

Let me explain. The ‘pressure’ we are constantly faced with is entirely external. The ‘expectations’ we are constantly faced with are entirely external. Sure, supervisions make us prone to feeling stressed and overworked, but ultimately, they’re just something external. Whether you actually feel affected by any of this is an entirely different matter.

Remember, you have the choice to ignore this pressure. So what if you didn’t manage to get any reading done for that supervision? You’ve got important extra-curricular activities to be getting on with! Who cares what your supervisor thinks? You have a life which involves more than just academia.

Believe it or not but you’re an adult now; you can do whatever you want and live however you like. This isn’t school anymore; you actually do have freedom, even if it is easily overlooked in a pressure-cooker such as Cam-

bridge.

We all come from backgrounds where academic success was a given. We worked hard, and we reaped the re-wards. It’s this very mentality which gives us the tenacity to push ourselves to the limit for those eight weeks. We strive to impress that supervisor as much as we can, but at the end of the day, we only spend a couple of days on those reading lists, while our supervisors write the damn books.

Now I’m not saying that we should just flunk off, I’m saying we just shouldn’t worry. The less you worry, the happier you become, and ultimately, happiness is the most important ingredient in life.

Besides, what’s the worst that can hap-pen? A third? A fail, even? We don’t live in perpetual fear of contracting ma-laria, unlike several other million people around the world. We are supplied with basic amenities such as food and shelter, unlike several other billion people around the world. In fact we’re all lucky we even exist – that was a bit of a freak accident to be fair. Eventually, the human race and all its achievements will die out, and the universe will simply move on. I repeat - nothing really matters.

So by all means, do the best you can with your degree, but there’s no need to feel any pressure. And if you do, then that’s your own problem.

Winston Preece

“If you can’t handle the pressure,you better just leave.”

Don’t be fooled. Her funky jumpsuit might imply that she’s a fan of cutting some pretty groovy shapes on the dancefloor, but that knife tells us she’d also like to cut them into your face. Beware.

She might look uninterested, but she’s just playing games with you. Catch her atten-tion and she’ll be as perky as Barbie’s tits. Those crossed legs aren’t an obstruction, they’re a challenge.

GIRL 2GIRL 1

COFFEESHOP

PSYCHOLOGY

THIRTEEN

Ever wondered what that hot minx sitting across

from you in Starbucks is really saying when she twiddles with her hair or rubs her crotch in your direction? We’re here to lift the lid on the secret body language of coffee shops across the country. Use these powers wisely.

GIRL 3Even with her arms open, she has a cleavage deep enough to hide a small child. Holding her mug in her right hand shows her desperation, so if the chase thrills you, look elsewhere.

BRINGING BACK OUR DEMONS

On the website for the mental health charity Mind, a picture of a worried-looking young man in unset-

tlingly round glasses introduces, somewhat confusingly, the case study page for “Sarah’s Story”. Yet the implication that “Sarah” is a bespectacled young man is, surprisingly, not the most thought-provoking or worrying thing about this web page. What concerns me more is her assertion that: “I don’t know why I experience depression. What is important is that I now recognise it as an illness, rather than seeing myself as a useless failure, and can therefore recover to better health.”

I don’t want to deny how comforting this recognition seems to have been for Sarah, or how much it may have helped her path to recovery. But behind it lurks an assumption bandied about by health professionals and picked up by counsellors and supportive friends alike: that we are better off in this modern, ‘scientific’ age, where a chemical explanation can be found for every emotional ill. The problem is that for many people, a chemical explanation implies a chemical solution. Where does this leave people like Sarah, if – as for so many people – the drugs don’t work?

If Sarah had experienced depression three thousand years ago or more, she would probably have been told that her feelings were not her own: they originated from something outside her. A demon had invaded her mind, and a vein should be opened or a hole drilled in order to let it out; or she had incurred the wrath of the god(s), and needed to sacrifice a goat or say seven hundred Hail Marys to make her de-ity smile again. If we suspend our superiority instinct for a moment and look at what these explanations imply, we can see that however false they may be, they at least give Sarah something other than herself to blame. Just as in the Mind case study, she knows she is not “a useless failure”, but is the victim of something bigger than herself.

This is undoubtedly the biggest gift that the modern medi-calisation of mental health problems has to offer sufferers – clearly, whether this gift comes from a GP in a surgery or a shaman in a cave, the impulse to offer an escape from self-blame is strong and valuable. But what the prehistoric and the modern approach also share is something more problem-atic: a separation between body and mind, or as the shaman might say, body and soul.

At first glance this may seem downright contradictory. It’s obvious, you might say, how the demonic/divine intervention explanation implies such a separation: the soul is invaded, which leads to worrying changes in the body. But surely the

benefit of more scientific explanations is that they manage to integrate body and mind, by seeing emotions as bodily, chemical responses and demystifying illnesses like depression? Not always.

Imagine that Sarah goes to her GP and tells him she feels severely depressed. He tells her not to worry, that depression is just an illness like any other, and her feelings are down to a chemical imbalance in her brain. He gives her some tablets to redress that imbalance, and tells her to come back in a month. Off Sarah goes, medicine in hand, relieved and knowing she can take that medicine and carry on with the rest of her life as normal – it’s just a chemical problem, after all.

One month later Sarah comes back, in a worse state than ever. She’s taken the tablets, and sometimes they make her happy, but on other days she feels just as depressed as she ever did. She tells the GP that she feels like a failure: her body is fine, the chemicals are balanced again, but she’s still depressed! There must be something wrong with her!

It’s a seemingly incongruous fact that most suicides, rather than happening in the dull and depressing winter months, take place in the spring. This has been attributed to the fact that during the winter, people can find plenty of ‘rational’ reasons for their depression – I’m alone at Christmas, it gets dark early, the sun isn’t shining – and only in spring, when all these reasons disappear, are they forced to confront the fact that they feel depressed with no rational cause. It’s not the fault of the weather or the festive season: there is something wrong with them, and them alone. And this is the danger with medicalising mental illness. While it provides hope of eventual recovery, it risks unrealistically promising a ‘quick fix’ and leaving the sufferer full of disappointment and self-blame.

So what are the alternatives, short of investing all our trust in cave-dwelling witch doctors once more? Maybe it’s time to re-integrate mind and body. To acknowledge the chemical causes of mental illness, but provide sufferers with someone other than a financially squeezed GP who needs to get every patient out of the door within ten minutes – someone who can help them figure out the non-chemical factors behind their feelings. Habits of thinking, stifling relationships, stress-ful situations – these are the 21st century’s new and legitimate demons, and they must take their share of the blame.

Kirsty Upham

Dear University Library (pet name, UL). You house the love letters of the greatest poets, philosophers, musicians and art-ists of all time, but here, rude and raw though it may be, is my love letter to you.

Light of my life, fire of my loins, Library. My sin, my soul. Li-brar-ree.

Virginia Woolf once proclaimed that in order to write, “A woman must have money and a room of one’s own.” But, my darling University Library, that room was not burdened by the distractions of Facebook, and neither did Woolf know the guilty delights of the afternoon nap (forbidden in exam term). And so, sweet incomparable University Library, I turned to you in my hour of need, hoping that the barren anonymity of your endless dusty shelves and desks might offer the distraction-free revision I’d been craving. We’d met before when I was researching my dissertation and I’d been pleasantly surprised by the number of books you offered me, but, in the frantic rushing in and out between other classes and super-visions, I’d barely taken the time to notice you properly. In revision term I came once more to you, so sure at first that I would find your charms unappealing and that my interest was driven by necessity alone. But as time went on, as hours and days passed, each time I stood trying to scan my university card at the entrance gate (it takes longer every time, my barcode is faded after three years floating in the bottom of my bag), I realised that the thought of sitting once more at one of your many desks filled with me with an intense delight that I can only crudely express in words. I started to admire your enchanting flaws (floors) and your quirky personality traits (weird shelving system). I took great pleasure in sampling all the over-priced delicacies of the tea room, unperturbed by the cold judgement of the till assistant (Ping, named and shamed) when I returned for my third chocolate bar, or the intimidating conversations from some fellow third-years who seemed infinitely more organised than I. I even forgave you when I arrived, exhausted, to the sixth floor in search of a book that turned out not to be on its rightful shelf even though the Newton catalogue assured me that I’d find it there.

And now I wake filled with thoughts of you. I rush to catch the earliest (post-10am) Uni4 so that I can once again ascend those stone steps and pass through the revolving doors where we are reunited. The extended opening hours do little to quench my insatiable desire. I even forsook an afternoon’s revision, took a train home and retrieved my bicycle so that on Saturdays I’m able to reach you sooner and with greater ease. Nothing must keep us apart.

But, even now I feel like a stranger to you. South Wing remains undiscovered and although I want so badly to love West Room, I can only see it as an inferior Reading Room. I once caught a glimpse of your hidden depths, the underground wealth of unusual and ostracized books waiting to be retrieved by stack request, and I longed to understand you more and to know your inner workings; but, my darling, I revel in your mysteries.

Our time together is short. Once exams are over I will have no reason to visit you any more, and there will soon be a whole new batch of admirers creeping anxiously towards your threshold. Even now I’m aware that for you, I am just one of many suitors. You offer books to first and second years with the same flippant consideration that you lend them to me, an admiring finalist (and why, oh why did you have to fine me when my book was only one day late?)

Perhaps we will never be together.Perhaps I will only ever be a five-digit barcode to you.

Your secret admirerx

A Love Letter to theUniversity Library

OD

ETO HO

ME

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Homerton,You are the place that I call homeThough I often grumble at your food.There is nowhere I’d have rather knownFor three years I have withstood:

Incessant fire alarms and “clean linen”,Grass cutting at eight am.Putting wrong things in recycling binsAnd fishing them out again.

Broken lifts and ResNet,They are the bane of our lives.Sending supervision work by UMSGuaranteed not to arrive.

But Homerton I love thee,I am so proud to attendThat women-only teaching college,On whom I can depend.

Chris Hussey

SEVENTEEN

CAMBRIDGE BRAINS

‘The Lad’

The deleterious effect that binge drinking has on my kidneys and other vital internal organs.

‘The Education Student’

Ever wondered what goes on inside them big ol’ studenty brains? We take a little look inside the heads of some of Homerton’s best loved students to find out...

VIGILANTE

“I hope somebody who knows his fucking name reveals his identity, that’s what I think”, he growled, affronted.

“I swear on my nan’s grave he dun’t deserve to live – what happened to eye for an eye tooth for a nail? But you can’t say anything now can you coz it’s all this PC racism red tape gone mad health and safety benefits culture prison’s a fucking holiday. Bring back hangin, that’s what I think”, he continued, riled.

“An’ the police don’t give a shit about us. Who’s gonna protect us when all these filthy paediatricians are traipsing down the fuckin street? Evil, dirty, bastards. And all these foreigners – don’t get me fuckin started! Evil, dirty, bastards”, he relented, lividly.

“It’s fuckin wrong what he’s done, he dun’t deserve to get away wi’ it. Hang the cunt. Kill the bastard. I want to rip him apart. Torture. Fuck that human rights bollocks. Leave me in a room for 5 minutes with the nobhead; that’s fucking justice”, he ex-plained, taking umbrage.

“Stand him against a wall and let’s throw bricks at him to death…Fuck it, no-one listens – I’m going off on a tandem,” he conceded, in a huff.

“I’ll do it myself.”

Jonny Walker

Congratulations to Jonny, who wins this year’s Flash Fiction competition, which challenged you to write the best story you could in 200 words or less, titled ‘Vigilante’. His entry was chosen by our secret panel of judges (not the editors... we swear!) as the best submitted, and so he wins a copy of Kick Ass on Blu-Ray, courtesy of HMV Cambridge, located in the Grand Arcade. The Flash Fiction competition will return in Michaelmas!

In my gloomy laboratory, somewhere in the dark-est depths of Essex, I am ready to begin my Nobel prize-winning work. My equations are neatly scrawled on a nearby chalkboard, and the electric charger is cranked up to the max. Rubber gloves - check. White overalls – check. A copy of Heat magazine – check.

I wipe down the metal table with some antiseptic because I didn’t want my precious work being infected now, did I? My deranged assistant named Ivor, looking pitiful, wheels in a large metal box containing male body parts. Not just any male body parts, oh no. These are the perfect male body parts, taken from perfect male celebrities that grace our planet. And now it’s time to stitch them all together to create my very own Adonis. Mwahahaha.

I empty the box of body parts onto the table, and in the meantime I slap my deranged assistant for touching my copy of Heat magazine (a valuable research tool I have you know). He cowers and begs me to stop – aww shucks, Ivor your puppy dog eyes get me every time. So I lower my hand and he licks my leg as a thank you. It’s time to start assembling my perfect male body.

I stitch Robert Downey Jr.’s beautiful head to Christian Bale’s ripped torso. I lovingly attach Will Smith’s muscly arms and the gorgeous legs of James Franco to the body. As for the arse… Roger Federer? Yes please, and the er… genitals? Ahem… well, did you see Daniel Craig in Casino Royale? I know I did. I gauge out Downey Jr.’s eyes and I replace them with that of Edward Norton. I stuff Clive Owen’s voice box down my perfect hybrid’s throat. Jude Law’s feet, Leonardo DiCaprio’s firm hands, Jake Gyllenhaal’s eyebrows, Harrison Ford’s chin… it’s almost ready.

‘Igor!’ I yell to my assistant. ‘Start the electricity!’ Igor dances with glee as he pushes various buttons and pulls various handles of various machines. Electricity pumps into the veins of my Adonis.

‘More power!’ I scream to my assistant as I see the body twitch to life. Igor cackles as sparks and smoke erupts from the machines. Yes, yes, yes, it’s working! Mwahahahaha. The smoke clears and standing beside the table is my beautiful monster.

‘It’s alive!’ I say rather dramatically, throwing my arms into

the air. ‘It’s alive… and it’s well fit’. I assess my creation, oc-casionally stroking my beautiful monster’s sweat-glistened six-pack. World, behold! Bow down to this perfection!

After winning the Nobel Prize for science, my work was exhibited in every major city of every country. My beauti-ful monster landed itself lead roles in films; it was offered hundreds of modelling contracts; it starred in shaving adverts, signed to record labels, spreads in magazines – you name it. Women drooled over my creation, and then the jealousy kicked in… the phone calls in the middle of the night from Cindy and Mindy, text messages from Gabriella and all the other Barbarellas they can rot in hell.

I locked my Adonis under the stairs so I could keep him all to myself. But spending so many years imprisoned in the cupboard, it’s Will Smith’s muscly arms became puny, it’s Leonardo DiCaprio’s firm hands became supple, it’s Clive Owen’s honey-like voice turned hoarse, and it’s Jake Gyl-lenhaal’s eyebrows were unkempt. It was no longer a perfect male body, no longer a beautiful monster or an Adonis. I made Igor put it in the dumpster.

‘Oh Igor’ I said woefully. ‘My creation was meant to change the world, and I destroyed it with my jealousy and selfishness’. ‘Never mind, master, there are always other experiments’. Deranged Igor placed his comforting arm around my shoul-der and I looked into his eyes. Sure, they weren’t as nice as Edward Norton’s, but aww shucks, Igor your puppy dog eyes get me every time. I snogged his brains out.

Jenna Corderoy

CENSORED

NINETEEN

THE PERFECT MALE BODY

“As for the arse... Roger Federer? Yes please.”

RE

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ned. HOMERTON MAY BALL

When I first saw the poster for the Homerton May Ball, I thought it looked like a right old jolly affair. It promised more class and pomp than you usually get this side of Parker’s Piece, and it

certainly didn’t disappoint. Not only did the portcullis make me feel at home, but the jugglers, magi-cians and tarot readers set the scene wonderfully. Even the guests seemed in on it, having a befud-dling ability to make large quantities of alcohol vanish. Must be one of those new BTEC thingies they’re teaching in the comprehensives.

From the headliner to the harpists, the DJs to the jazz bands, eclectic music was literally spilling out of every room. Or maybe I’m thinking of vomit. In any case the ents were joyfully unusual, though I saw some rugby lads ‘see away’ several tankards of ale before trying out the crossbows, and their aim was even more frightfully off the mark than Granny’s is after a few gin and tonics. I was especially impressed by the large flaming dragon they got up on stage with me when I volunteered for the hyp-notist, though everyone but me seems to have been so drunk they don’t remember seeing it. Oh well. There was a lot of talk about fire alarms, and putting those responsible for them in the pillory stocks for a right Royal sponging. I didn’t quite get what was going on, but in my line of work one learns to guffaw at things one doesn’t understand.

Jousting proved the perfect venue to lay the smack down on my subjects, and my polo training came in handy. I didn’t particularly enjoy the ‘your mum’ jokes that I received when I won, but was reli-ably informed that they’re a key part of ‘banter’. I’ll have to ask Harry about that at some point. As far as the design and theme goes, it was hard to believe this was Homerton. The trees seemed other-worldly, and (privy city council approved) fire flickered enchantingly throughout the grounds. There was something about the decor that seemed oddly familiar though… in any case it was re-ceived a very good reception. It took me back to an age of might and majesty, and I felt almost like the King of England himself. It was good prep.

Best dressed was of course the lovely Catherine Middelton, who looked adorable in a wimple.

Worst dressed was the ill-advised medieval enthusiast who came in a full suit of armour. It was fetching, but hard to get drinks in the visor without a straw. I’d have much preferred the little bastard to stand still in the corner of the room than ruin my fun on the bouncy castle.

Ultimately this was a very Ball: drinks were quaffed, dances were well and truly danced, and the students I met were the only Cantabs not to mock me for my St. Andrews’ degree. The only slip in the theme was that the ale that didn’t poison you, though I’m grateful: if I’m ever going to get that promotion, I’ll need to keep in good health for some time yet.

William Arthur Phillip Louis

twentyONE

HUS BULLETIN CHICKEN RUSH

Attempting to think of a suitable analogy for the HUS bulletin is quite hard. The best I can

think of (after an unmotivated minute or so thinking) is laundry: you hate doing it, but have to regularly, and no one else cares about it except you. It’s also pretty full of spin. Unfortunately the analogy quickly breaks down when we consider that it doesn’t clean anything, it doesn’t involve washing tablets, and I’m pretty sure nobody wears it. Perhaps I should just describe it as ‘an incredibly mundane task’.

To be fair, there are plenty of good reasons why hardly anyone cares. Principally, most of it is just bor-ing crap. You might, however, be surprised to know that what I send out is actually just the least bad of an incredibly tall pile of rubbish that accumulates in my inbox over the course of a week. Some people find clever ways to attract attention to their submis-sions: ‘FREE BEER!’ is a good one, but for those hopeful few among you, that’s from the first bulletin of the year so there’s unlikely to be any more! Others seem utterly deluded as to what will be of any interest to anyone; CSSA Cam Travel is a prime culprit here, as they consistently send reams of Chinese (two A4 pages full) describing what appear to be regular trips to British sights. No offence to them, but it’s hard enough getting anyone to care about submissions in English, without even contemplating Chinese.

In Lent term, I tried to inject some interest by put-ting secret codes in to the introductions, but I don’t think even Michael Bay inserting constant blistering explosions would liven it up. Alas, persistent terrible reviews will have no impact on the bulletin in reality. It has to be sent, and so sent it will be, and one thing is for sure - every Thursday, without fail, it’ll pop into your inbox for better or worse. But probably worse.

Kenichi Udagawa

Let’s face it: it’s a bit shit.

Robert Cluck

THE PLAYLIST

As a naïve and sprightly fresher I have yet to experience the joys of Easter term, though if certain second years are to be believed then I’ll be lucky to come through it with my nerves, sanity and dignity still in tact. By now

I’ll have completed my first oral exam (unfortunately not as fun as it sounds) and be knee-deep in a term of stress, exhaustion and self-loathing. How do I combat the gloominess? By seeking solace in my favourite pastime and spending valuable revision hours compiling playlists I’ll probably never listen to. It’s a ritual that helps me through life’s challenges, and I’ve decided to share my most recent playlist, with songs for each layer of exam term hell...

massive attack - unfinished sympathySome people seem unable to revise without music blaring at full volume, kindly sharing their (often question-able) taste with the rest of West House. I, on the other hand, prefer the sound of silence; hearing nothing but the tapping of computer keys creates the illusion that I am doing something productive. When I decide to switch on some revision music however, there isn’t much better than the sound of Bristolian trip-hoppers Massive Attack. Their calm melodies combined with quiet, intricate beats are displayed perfectly on this track, which allows you to sink into a state of focus. Perfect for quality revision time. If dubstep and classical had a love-child, it would sound like this. (Not a fan? Try: Kylie – All I See.)

bjöork - army of me

We all know the feeling: exams are less than a week away, you’re tired and agitated, and you have the uncontrol-lable urge to maim whoever’s next to knock on your door. The more you try to channel your restlessness into something productive the more stressed you become, and to top it off you have a ‘friend’ from home moaning about their escalating addiction to red gummy bears. All of this is condensed into one furious Icelandic threat from Björk as she wails “If you complain once more, you’ll meet an army of me” over the track’s stomping beat. A thrilling song bursting with energy which dares you to let it all out in one ear-piercing shriek – just don’t let the porters hear you. (Try: Lily Allen - Everything’s Just Wonderful.)

radiohead - creep

I imagine most of us have been through the ‘angsty teenager’ phase (although some of us are lucky enough not to have immortalised on our university cards) and this inevitable feeling returns once again during exam time. Should we try and hide our angst behind dyed black fringes and heavily applied guyliner? Nay, we should em-brace it, and even revel in its bittersweet taste. And what better way to celebrate the wonder of youthful angst than with Radiohead? “What the hell am I doing here? I don’t belong here” groans Thom Yorke – a question which I will be the first to admit to asking myself after spending my first few weeks at Cambridge. (Try: t.A.T.u. - Not Gonna Get Us.)

t.i. feat. ludacris and b.o.b. - on top of the worldI admit I’m not the world’s biggest hip-hop fan; I’m usually the first to shuffle sheepishly to the bar when Soulja Boy turns everyone’s swag on in Cindies. However, it’s hard to resist the addictive, uplifting chorus On Top Of The World offers. It’s perfect for the day when you realise the exams are over and you’re confident you’ve done enough to avoid being dragged out of Cambridge kicking and screaming. (Try: PJ Harvey - Good Fortune.)

destinyö's child - survivorThe title says it all – you’ve finished your exams and made it through another year at Cambridge, if this doesn’t warrant a dance to one of Beyoncé’s finest tracks then I don’t know what does. As well as a chorus which makes you scream “I’m a survivor!” at the top of your lungs, the nostalgia factor makes it all the more special (2001 is long ago enough to be nostalgic about, right?) But while you may have survived the exams, surviving a night of inevitable heavy drinking, chunder dragons and awkward schweffing is another matter entirely.(Try: The Libertines – Time For Heroes.)

Alex Norris

REVI

SION

Stre

ssAn

gst

Relie

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rty

twentyTHREE

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