Enough of what our writers and editors have to say, we sent reporters to find out what York students think of today’s issues

1. Is there more to the NUS than a discount card?
2. Should YUSU have more control of college events?
3. Do you think campus life really is getting duller?
4. Could Jesus Christ Superstar be considered offensive?

Blood, guts and plenty of naked flesh. Anatomy for Beginners had all the ingredients of a standard late night TV show, but according to Professor John Lee, such a characterisation is at best unfair, at worst ignorant…

Whether one has a problem with the premise of Anatomy for Beginners and its ilk (such as the abortion footage Channel 4 screened last year), must surely be a matter of philosophical taste.

Fashion lore usually dictates that what was in style last season will almost certainly not surface on the fashion scene again for several years (more if you’re lucky; remember the re-invented 80’s neon craze of autumn just past?).

Fashion? Oh, that thing that other people think about in the big wide world? No, we don’t do that here. York just doesn’t seem to care. It is a bubble of comfort and warmth, where the sports club or society hoodie, be it Fruit of the Loom or not, is an intrinsic part of the student wardrobe…

During the heady, care-free days of university, graduation and ‘joining the real world’ can seem like the ultimate hangover to three eclectic years of hedonism. Faced with such a distant and daunting hurdle to overcome, it is easy to become fatalistic and ignore this rather pressing issue until the Spring term of your third year – when it is often all too late.

The other day, as I munched happily on a ham sandwich my phone began to ring. It was my girlfriend. “Hello!” I said – “what are you up to..?” There then ensued a preliminary series of niceties (always the way, even with girlfriends) before she got to the point and asked me if I could look up for her, on the internet, the directions to The Coral gig in Bracknell as her and her flatmates were lost on their way there…

Last week saw what would have been the 60th birthday of Bob Marley. The occasion was marked by a concert in Addis Ababa’s Meskal Square, an event that attracted thousands of fans from around the world. The importance of this event, however, had little to do with the quality of music that Bob Marley and his band The Wailers produced in their distinguished career.

Music journalism is a lot like the plot of a James Bond movie - it involves the arts of disguise and persuasion to get past DoorSafe and infiltrate Goodricke dining hall to get nouse exclusives from the Battle of the Bands finalists. We were greeted by an empty room where the air was heavy with dry ice and the master of ceremonies for the evening, Mr James Alexander, with his ubiquitous sidekick and compere Ozzy Atton, enjoyed a breather before the hulabuloo ensued.

How often do you watch the news or read an article in the paper about something horrific – a war, a famine, a natural disaster – which is taking place in a far off country? Are you disgusted by it? Do you think how awful it is that nobody does anything about it?

As the Spinal Tap-esque tour manager leads us up a grotty staircase, suspicious shrieking noises can be heard from the dressing room. Caution is aroused: The Kills are renowned to be a notoriously reclusive band (until recently refusing all interviews) and are determined to maintain their aloof underground persona.

Ah, The Oscars. That special time of year when, for just one night, the men and women of Hollywood cease their fussing and a-fighting, come down from the hills, and say to one another: “We like ourselves.” True, it’s an overblown, overlong celebration of the mediocre drivel the film industry callously pumps into the multiplexes; and, true, the teary ramblings of the winners should rightly cause any decent human being to hurl their guts out in front of the telly; but we still love it, don’t we?

In theory, Ocean’s Twelve has all the makings of a great film: A star-studded cast, a beautiful setting and a fantastic original behind it, yet in practice it simply disappoints. The performance is essentially arrogant and lazy, with an equally effortless plot to match.

When was the last time you saw a film about a middle-aged, balding failed writer/wine connoisseur and his friend, an about-to-get-hitched flailing actor, embarking on a week-long stag night around the vineyards of California? Granted, the subject matter is not entirely new; indeed ‘a week in the life of…’ and ‘the road trip’ are not novel concepts in film. However, Sideways manages a more than decent attempt at being original.

A general rule of cinema says that a film is only remade if the story needs improving. The fact that Jean-Francois Richet’s version of Assault on Precinct 13 is an unnecessary and uninspiring dirge to senseless violence, is an unflattering review of John Carpenter’s brilliant 1970’s original. It follows the blueprint for the typical modern action thriller: all bullets and no brains.