But if you really look past the miscellany there is so much that we all share. Primarily, we’re all sat in Vanbrugh, have been sat in Vanbrugh and probably will continue to sit in Vanbrugh for the majority of the afternoon. Despite our ranging interests, University students posses that common, binding skill of procrastination.

For some, it is an aptitude that takes time and commitment to polish; but somehow for students it seems something more of an innate talent. We do it without even thinking. So characteristic is procrastination of student-kind that the ever-informative and erudite Wikipedia has even dedicated a whole chunk of its article on the subject to what it ominously terms, “The Student Syndrome”. Unfortunately, in what perhaps was an attempt to comfort Wikipedia’s explanation of this “phenomenon” as a by-product of the “academic setting, where students are required to meet deadlines in an environment full of events and activities which compete for students’ time and attention”, instead caused some mental anguish by bringing in the whole nature vs. nurture debate.

As if students don’t have enough existential crises to deal with as it is, we now must consider, are we just Procrastinators? Is that all we are, or, like lab-rats with human ears on their backs, what we have been conditioned to become? After some anguished hours spent in pensive deliberation, I decided it would only really do to look further into the matter.

As in most moments of personal doubt, I turned first to Google. The first hit brought up by the magic machine was an intriguing book, “Procrastination and You”. Unfortunately, the great and mighty Google had presented me with an enormous red herring. In his attempt to delve further into this bewildering “phenomenon”, the author of this article realised after “several weeks” spent tracking down the book, Procrastination Through the Ages: A Definitive History and even “enlisting the help of professional librarians” – like the A-team, but quieter – that it was, alas, an elaborate joke.

A book on procrastination that was never completed. Oh, those crazy academics with their ironies. Luckily that minor set-back only inspired me to research more intensely and pass the procrastination on to you.

I resolved to get right back to it as soon as I’d eaten another bowl of bran flakes and watched some X-Factor. Anything to stop me having to do any real work, anyway. I?am another link in a procrastination chain. I?am a student. This is what we do.

But then, as with most morning afters, I took some time to reflect on what induced the throes of passion the night before. Despite the wine, which as always mollified inhibitions, I found it difficult to believe that it was Darcy’s acts of gallantry that got us all hot and bothered and declaring his unparalleled glory, while lamenting the comparative failings of what we’re stuck with today. The Darcy of iconic status is the one moodily surveying the lake, plunging in and then emerging all soaked shirt and drops of water glistening from his perfectly tousled hair, trickling down his sideburns… sorry, I’ll refrain. But you have to agree, this is the Darcy we want, not the stifled, polite conversation rehearsed to a tee version, whose flawlessly cut breeches are only attractive because they give the impression of being a tad too snug. Chivalry isn’t dead, it’s just not desired.

A brief review of literary folklore heroes would suggest that conventional swoon-inducements are often grossly misconstrued. Emily Bronte’s Cathy and Heathcliff (from our very own Yorkshire moors) offer an instructive example. In a recent poll of the greatest love stories conducted by The Guardian (even the news has occasional lulls, it would seem) the fraught affair between Cathy and Heathcliff topped the charts. Now, describing Heathcliff as decorous would be like referring to a pony with alopecia as cute and fluffy. Heathcliff would probably be more likely to smack a door in Cathy’s face than open one for her to delicately step through. Furthermore, she would probably re-open the door just to thwack it back in his face. Their bond was a complex one of fraught passion – so tempestuous in fact, that the ‘zenith’ of this passion was accompanied by scrabbling, scratching and a smidgen of strangling. Yet, it seems, the nation loves it. Probably because the majority shares in the notion that real ardour is better marked by a few bruises than exhibited via some affected hanky dropping.
So from whence came all this chivalry malarkey? Shall we blame those medieval legends of coyly dropped Kleenex and hard-to-get minxes with unfeasibly long hair extensions? Yet, let me remind you that the most desired knight of that era, Sir Lancelot, eschewed decorum and ravaged his best mate’s wife. For the most part, Arthurian Legend skipped over ‘nice guy’ Arthur and tended to focus more on his rakish band of knights. Arthur always gave the impression of being just a tad too civil, the kind of guy who may have pulled out the Sword from that auspicious stone but probably had no idea how to, erm, wield it. Practiced courtesy just isn’t what women want. Mr. Collins tried it – and his bandy legged dancing and simpering flattery got him a verbal bitch slap from Lizzy. Frankly the only ‘wet’ men that women want are of the post-lake Darcy variety.

Our modern equivalent of ‘courting’ offers a useful example. A friend of mine recently went on a romantic dinner date with her long-term boyfriend. Yet when I caught up with her, she rather forlornly sighed: “Yeh, it was alright, I guess. It’s just that he was being a bit too nice, he wouldn’t stop complimenting me”. Obviously, my heart bled for her. But in all seriousness, after getting over the initial resentment, I oddly enough found myself empathising. Being treated like a delicate flower all night is suffocating and a little insulting. Darcy never really flattered Lizzy. He may have muttered a few veiled compliments about her reading, but in the pivotal scene when he finally declares his passion for her, it’s through a series of insults.

Camille Paglia once described the Elizabeth/Darcy rapport as a sequence of “epigrammatic thrusts”; suggesting that what makes their verbal sparring so engaging is that it’s 20 hours (BBC, not pouty-Knightly version) of foreplay. Flattery only gets you so far, some wit may get you further and if you top it all off by jumping into a lake clad in a precariously thin white shirt, who knows, we might even return the affections.

Go on, gobble this down

Apparently there’s a new national calamity brewing, or indeed swelling, into existence. Forget terrorism or global warming, they veritably wane in comparison to this far more hefty issue. Yes, the fearfully termed ‘Obesity Crisis’ has descended upon us.
The other day while hanging around the gym, doing my bit to alleviate this catastrophic crisis, I caught my first sighting of the ‘combat obesity’ campaign. A bunch of cattle, sorry children, were being herded onto a slew of stationary bikes and then forced to peddle away while being verbally abused by GI Prick. I can’t say I wasn’t momentarily amused when one of the little hamsters was dragged off his bike and made to perform jumping jacks in front of the others, but after he collapsed I got bored and sauntered off to watch Fern and Phil. While Fern, Phil and a child trainer chatted about the perils of the Crunchie, the kids valiantly bounced around on inflatable animals and chucked Frisbees at each other. Conveniently, said Frisbees kept slipping through the little tykes’ already waning fingers (result!) causing them to waddle off a few miles in retrieval missions.
Unfortunately, while busy spawning a generation with thighs of steel, little has been done to market the salad leaf as more appealing than a Burger King burger. Perhaps, if those M&S food-porn adverts employed Bono to teasingly sigh: “Crunchy, succulent, iceberg lettuce leaf, tossed in a melange of grated carrot and juicy cucumber”, the crisis could be averted. Or not. Whichever way you cut it, the fact remains: the cow still tramples the foliage.

Apart from the permanent troughs under my eyes and an ingrained dose of nourishing cynicism, quite a bit has changed within those seemingly brief twenty-four months. We came, we saw, we faltered (mostly on Micklegate) and life just passed the sozzled ones by. In my day, Ziggy’s was a place where the scantily clad ventured to be appraised by the grope happy, and now on Friday’s it is a “Strip Club”.

Ok, so really only a semantic alteration there, but some progression at least. Even Goodricke wasn’t built in a day. We have seen the demise of the baby-belling. Once upon a time, Freshers could strive towards their aspirations of culinary innovation – it provided a different experimentation outlet for those “late bloomers”. Indeed, in times past gastronomic mountains have been conquered with the baby-belling.

I heard tell of a full Christmas dinner being executed with one – albeit that abandoned Fresher probably had a bit of time on their hands to hone the necessarily skills to achieve that feat, but what are today’s Freshers going to do when heartlessly discarded by mummy and daddy come Christmas holidays? They can’t even go make friends with Fit Duck for some comforting conversation – because he’s dead. Fit Duck’s nesting/resting grounds have also altered. With the removal of the lake fountain, gone are the days when sporadic bursts of pond spew dropped most delightfully in one’s hair and coffee on the way to morning lectures. So there we are – changes. And I didn’t even have to fondle any micro-film.

About this time last year, I became conscious of a certain ‘Fresher Patronisation Syndrome’ pandemic that tends to sweep second and third years the instant they chance their first whiffs of fresh meat. A medical student could possibly concoct a more apt term, but English degrees bring with them a tendency towards poncey verbiage so it’s the best phrase I can offer for the continuous belittling and general mocking we revel in.

Patronising Freshers is an ingrained tendency, so inherent that occasionally it happens almost unconsciously. Pithy insults launched unawares – wondrous things, some might say. However, after mooching around the Nouse offices for far too much time whilst various Macs undergo yet another coronary, you start to notice things. Here at Nouse, we still lovingly refer to last year’s new additions as ‘The Freshers’ or in more tender moments, ‘The Nouselets’. Surely we will relinquish these brands come October 8, when they are officially all growed-up and living in damp infested student accommodation of their very own? Sorry kids, not a chance in hell.

With essays to scrawl, phone lines to set-up and TV licenses to pay, it’s undoubtedly the perfect time to while away the hours with some unhealthy introspection. So, do we mercilessly indulge ourselves simply because they’re younger, vulnerable to attack and a year shy of our bitterly sardonic wit? In part, or so we’d like to think. But since Freud never rested on his laurels and burrowed away until he arrived at those mother issues, so will I. Odd, is it not, how we refer to Freshers like inconvenient offspring? “Ah bless, they’re so dippy, but you can’t blame the young, especially when whatever brain formation they had achieved is probably now impeded with vodka”.

Language has this wonderful facility that allows it to frequently pun without any intent required whatsoever. The titles ascribed to Fresher ‘handlers’, for example. At Oxbridge they’re ‘Mums and Dads’; here we call them ‘STYCs’. As we assume these caretaker roles, we somehow also adopt the characteristics of their unfortunate titles. We become the grumbling Mums and Dads who inevitably become so irate with their charges they consider beating them with sticks.

The stereotype that we all inevitably morph into our parents is curiously strengthened by Fresher’s week. Like parents whose children, if anything, are painful reminders of their bygone days, for us, Freshers are walking, slurring memories of when we could while away weeks in a sozzled haze without having to know the location of the library. So naturally, we’re a smidgen resentful.

To temper the frustration, we enact the same, bizarre, “doing it for the kids” antics of our parents. Weeks of vein popping stress are dispensed of in a frenzied over-compensation orgy, to create the perfect Freshers week, sorry fortnight, for our little-ones. Why? Because ultimately, Fresher’s week is a cushy bubble for all university students: it allows Freshers to forget why they fetched up to university in the first place and aids our smug belief that we actually have “more important things to be getting on with, quite frankly”. It re-imbues us fossils with a sense of haughty purpose, so we can blithely play the vexed intellectuals to their degenerate hooligans.

Fresher-Patronisation is the necessary coping mechanism that re-establishes our degrees as meaningful and not just the fetters reining us in from having fun – like, I don’t know, Freshers for example. If we trample some egos or hurt some “feelings” along the way – so be it. And for all the Freshers out there poring over this while muttering ‘repugnant’, consider your reaction in a few weeks to siblings who phone you up with GCSE woes. GCSEs you say? Heaven above and all its cherubim – if only we could go back to those sweet, inconsequential days…

Sshh now. Here, suck on this

With internet a distant fantasy for the next month, I’ve had to find new ways to wake up over my morning coffee. In the good old days of summer, when that thing ‘modern technology’ existed for me, I pacified my pre-caffeine savagery by perusing the internet; nothing like some black coffee and mindless Facebooking to ease you into the day. These days, I’ve been lowering myself to the tiresome task of ‘reading’. I don’t ‘do’ real sentences before my standard three cups, so I’ve taken to scanning whatever comes through the mail box. And what jewels of crap they are. My current favourite, ‘Hull Road: Your Ward’ actually made me crack a smile – a feat indeed when facial twitches aren’t usually an option until Cup 2. The headline proudly declared: “SSHH! Silent Students, Happy Homes”. After I got over the linguistic dexterity of ‘SSHH!’, I read on.

Apparently SSHH is a campaign that facilitates a “good living environment” between York’s indigenous and students. How do they achieve such sweet harmony, you may ask? “The campaign achieves this in a number of ways. For example, lollies are purchased and given out at the end of events, as a novel way of ensuring students are quiet and return home responsibly”. The reaction to such tactics is tricky. Either, we profess outrage at being reduced to the lolly-jammed-in-the-mouth procedure appropriate for deranged toddlers. Or we could be thankful that it’s not a dalek this time. Lollies are comparatively pleasant. Don’t fret if this is all a bit baffling because “this year, SSHH plan to invest in some good quality banners, t-shirts and window stickers” as well. Ah, isn’t it lovely to be back?

“A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.” The crux of Virginia Woolf’s polemic on female creativity—first declared in 1928 and walloped around the theoretical arena ever since—resounds today more than ever for the post-Sex and the City generation. Sure, the envisaged room is a “post-war Upper-East side walk-up” and the finances are limited by a substance abuse problem (expensive footwear), but the ethos remains the same: for women to create, they need agency.

In a twist on Woolf’s argument, ‘sexpert’ and writer Emily Dubberley generates the “money” by writing about sex for the traditionally inscribed sex. Founder and Editor-at-large of both Scarlet magazine and Cliterati (not forgetting author of 12 books in the last four years), Dubberley’s prolific career has centred on a process of “reclaiming”. The magazine was originally supposed to be called Peach, but Dubberley eschewed this title as sounding like a “paedo or spanking magazine”, and instead settled on Scarlet. “Personally, I’m a great believer in re-branding words such as ‘slut’ so that they become much more positive and liberating, rather than a ‘keep you in your place’ kind of thing. I thought we couldn’t call it ‘Slut’ because that was too full on, but ‘Scarlet Woman’ was the old fashioned equivalent, so it was a re-branding in that way”.

Reckoning with that feared taboo of the sexual woman, Dubberley’s work seems an active reaction to when Woolf “burst out in scorn at the reprehensible poverty of our sex”. Granted, Dubberley’s writing facilitates the financial issue; but with a demanding 60- to 80-hour week, she admits: “The work pays well, but boy, do you have to work for it.”

One aspect of Dubberley’s Scarlet magazine is ‘cliterature’—aptly named, in regards to Woolf’s thesis, for its amalgam of that female space and fiction specifically for women. Cliterature is unique to Scarlet as the only example of erotic fiction in a UK women’s magazine and is, in effect, a microcosm of Dubberely’s first enterprise in 2001: www.cliterati.co.uk. She describes this as “the UK’s first text-based sex website for women”, which now boasts more than 2000 stories. Frustrated with the wealth of erotic material available for men and the comparatively destitute “wank-material for women”, Dubberley declares, “I was pissed off and thought that there should be some out there. I chatted to about 200–300 women over a year, asking, ‘What do you want in a magazine?’, and they all came back with ‘honest representations of sex’”.

Both Cliterati and cliterature are amassed by “any woman adding her fantasy to the site.” Whereas Woolf lamented that females were “locked in by the safety and prosperity of one sex and the poverty and insecurity of the other”, Cliterati effectively reimburses women for all those Playboy and Hustler years, and has engendered a secure, safe forum to express their sexuality. Following Woolf’s proviso, Dubberley encourages creativity in her sex—and while a part of this process is through sex fiction, the rest works to dismantle the fictions written by men about female sexuality.
And what tangled yarns do some of them weave. Leaving Hardy, Hemingway and Genesis on the back burner for now, one such male author who few, if any, of you will have heard of, is Ron Coleman.

When Jacqueline Gold first pitched her idea for what would become the £74 million-a-year Ann Summers Industry, to a wholly male-dominated boardroom, Coleman declared: “I don’t care what you say, women aren’t interested in sex.” Apart from suggesting the world population was spawned via rape, this little remark almost cheated the Gold Industry of an extra £87.4 million in revenues per annum. Suffice to say, Ron no longer forms part of the Gold Group.

“Personally, I’m a great believer in rebranding words like ‘slut’ so that they become much more positive and liberating”

Sphinx-like as we are, the mystery that is woman is one rarely deciphered by men with much accuracy and is too often substituted to stubbornly-held, erroneous projections of their own imaginations. Dubberley encountered a similar situation. After graduating with a degree in Psychology, specialising in female sexual fantasies and sexuality, she moved to London and was soon shortlisted for the Cosmopolitan Scholarship. After enrolling on the Cosmopolitan programme she was asked to come up with two feature ideas based on the new influx of women into the Houses of Parliament. She offered up one on the last remaining Suffragette and another more controversial proposal: “Don’t Tax my Tampax”. The piece questioned whether, now that women had a more prominent role in the Houses of Parliament, the VAT on sanitary products would be eliminated.

The 17.5% tax mark-up on a three quid pack of tampons effectively meant that women were paying the equivalent of £16,000 in a lifetime for the sake of an inconvenient and unavoidable bodily process that debilitates you for a week all in the name of that imperative public service, procreation. “It’s basically a tax on being female”, comments Dubberley. Alas, the idea was shunned by the male editor of Cosmopolitan at the time who griped: “Well, it’s a nice idea but we don’t see it as an issue that is relevant to the majority of our readers.” Indeed; it is a women’s magazine after all.

Gold Group also found themselves misjudging the market before Jacqueline Gold stepped in. As she says: “The primary market was mostly the dirty-raincoat brigade as well as tourists and gay men”, and the profits weren’t dazzling by any means. However, when Gold began what she saw as her “mission to feminise the world of sexual pleasure”, things started to change. Inspired by ‘Tupperware’, the first party-based selling business of ‘50s America, Gold set up Ann Summers ‘party-plan’, and their first year’s gross turnover was £80,000. According to Gold, the reason the party-plan flourished with such triumph was that, at that time, “the sex business was biased in favour of men. There just weren’t opportunities for women to buy products to enhance their lives. The concept of sexual pleasure was something that seemed to exclude the idea of women as consumers, [it wasn’t] female friendly.”

One explanation for why the parties worked so well, and still do, is because they are completely female zones, in which women don’t feel the need to conform to a masculine perspective. Gold clarifies: “Our parties are a chance for women to escape their husbands, kids and careers, to forget being a mother or an accountant for a while, and tap into another side of themselves”.

All in the name of research, I decided to allow my friends a chance to escape their boyfriends, books and degrees and host an Ann Summers Party myself. To ease the slight tension, party organiser Anne* started us off with a game of musical chairs. Grudgingly, we put our tightly clasped drinks and Cadbury’s Mini Rolls to one side and took our places. The game was simple enough: Anne would ask us a question with a true or false answer, and if it was true we had to move one seat to the right. By the end of the game I think it is accurate to say that we were all quite physically and emotionally bonded, having been forced to clamber onto each others laps and let our sex secrets out into the ether of my Badger Hill living room. If only walls could talk, a dalek probably wouldn’t be the only thing being aimed in my direction by my OAP neighbours en route to the corner shop. But the game unveiled some interesting points about women and their sexcapades. To protect identities as much as I can, I’ll refer in generalities: “Have you ever been caught in the act?”—the majority moved; “Have you ever slept with anyone else’s guy?”—everyone stayed rooted to the spot and indignant exclamations erupted; “Have you had sex this week?” —a few moved, the rest grimaced, scowled or surreptitiously reached for a voodoo doll; “Have you ever faked an orgasm?”—most smirked and nodded.

Ever since Harry met Sally, the faking of the female orgasm has been inscribed in cultural lore. Sure, Meg’s climactic shrieking is never going to prompt sombre ponderings, but isn’t the fact that over 70% of women fake an orgasm at some point in their lives just a little depressing? Admittedly, we can’t all be like Samantha Jones, who declared, “when I RSVP to a party, I make it my business to come”, but the stigma that we should and the weighty expectation of our arrival is a burden borne by many women solely to further nurture the male ego. Whatever happened to the ethos that when you turn up at a bad party, it’s frankly okay to grab your coat, hail a cab and leave? Ann Summers has made it its business to create a different kind of party, where women not only stay till the end, but also leave satisfied.

Yes, the contentious vibrator. Ann Summers boasts a selection of some 50 vibrators, the most famous of course being the Rampant Rabbit. Most men, if you’ll allow me to generalise, regard the vibrator either with discomfort and trepidation or just plain, no-holds-barred ridicule. My housemate commented, “Most men are shocked to learn that their girlfriends use vibrators. But why? It’s a biological fact that penises don’t vibrate.” One of my friends exclaimed, upon being enlightened to the existence of ‘the Bunny’, “My girlfriend doesn’t need a vibrator! I can satisfy her five times over!”—again, biological factors might dispute that claim. Notably, in Texas it is illegal to sell vibrators, but it is still legal to sell guns. Why the one sex is afforded the opportunity to gain tension release by shooting off, but not the other, is beyond me. The fraught relationship between men and the vibrator is due largely to the fact that vibrators allow women to access pleasure that has nothing whatsoever to do with men. It is literally in our own hands—and female agency, as always, is considered something threatening.

Interestingly, the one question that came up in the musical chairs game which posed a smidgen of discomposure was, “Have you had an orgasm this week?” The question was no more probing or outlandish than the others; if anything it was the most clinical of them all. The issue, I think, was that it was perhaps too intimate a topic for girls to discuss outright. Not because it was taboo, or because it had been contorted and subjected to patriarchal stigma, but simply because it was private. Whereas Samantha perhaps exemplifies the sexual aspirations of many woman, Charlotte may represent their sexual reality. Sweet, doe-eyed, Park Avenue–princess Charlotte—at least that’s how many brand her. Of all the SATC women I feel she is the most commonly misconstrued, and I think that the majority of us are closer to Charlotte than we’d like to admit. Granted, she may not be as brazen as her friends, but she’s certainly no prude. Many forget that Charlotte not only had sex in the show, but that she enjoyed it—who can forget that tumultuous reunion with the sorority girls who snubbed her for zealously off-loading her frustrations with her impotent kilt-clad husband? Or when her addiction to the Rabbit reached such heights that Carrie and Miranda had to intervene AA style and wrestle it from her? Charlotte was just as sexual as the other three women on the show —she just didn’t feel like waxing lyrical on it so much.

Sex therapist Jo Woolf is more acquainted with the Charlottes of the world, the women who “don’t seek out the information, who avoid the exposure TV and everything, because they have their own particular set of fears and anxieties”. Like Charlotte, these women aren’t silenced by the male-thumb, but just find it difficult to talk about their sexual problems. Jo began initially as a GP and then trained as a specialist in psycho-sexual medicine. She recounts how, “When I was in general practice, inevitably I would see women come in for smears, who had anxieties because there was something not quite right down below. I had a facility for listening and hearing and they would tell me stories. When somebody comes into the room, I’m going to listen to their story the way they want to tell it, but I’m also going to pick up other signs from the way they tell their stories, the non verbal communications. Through physical examination, I was also able to pick up fears and fantasies about the genitals.”

Woolf’s work demonstrates that a key aspect of sexual liberation is not, as some might assume, being comfortable enough to brandish your Rabbit in Vanbrugh Bar and burn your bra on your way out – it’s having the confidence to talk about sexual issues, to “recognise that your sexual problems count as valid problems, and that it’s acceptable to have them looked at.”

Emily Dubberley elucidates a different facet of the sexually liberated woman – the one who has the confidence to say “no, thanks”. “I hate the word normal. I’m completely anti the whole, ‘to be a sexually liberated woman you must have had a threesome, had anal sex and dabbled in bondage.’ It’s about being sexually confident, which means you do what you want to do and you don’t do what you don’t want to do. It takes a lot more guts to say ‘no’ than it does to say ‘yes’.” She offers the example of a woman, lying in bed with her long-term boyfriend, who turns over and says “Darling, can we try anal sex?” Now she may really not want to, but “she’ll feel pressured into saying ‘yes’ because she’s been with him for a long time and by the media pressure of ‘if you’re sexual than you should’. Dubberley’s suggestion in this situation? Say to him: “I will if you will – tomorrow we’ll buy a strap on and I’ll take you first. And if the bloke says ‘no’ to that, he has absolutely no right to keep on nagging you.”
Few women realise the extent of sexual control they have over men in their lives. So often written into the roles of victims of an over-zealous male libido or the “lie back and think of England girl”, many of us forget that at the end of the day, it takes two. As Frederike Ryder so succinctly put it: “When a man goes on a date he wonders if he is going to get lucky; a woman already knows.”

Venue: The Cockpit, Leeds
Date: 14/06/07

First there was Jamie, then Dizzee and now the sundry churn of London’s music scene offers up its latest progeny in the form of the relentlessly frenetic Jack Penate. Describing his music as “souly, poppy, rocky” and citing everything from Funkadelic and Bessie Smith to the solemnities of Jeff Buckley as influences, Jacky certainly possesses the same wacky, but still gelling, eclecticism that renders T and Rascal’s music constantly refreshing.

But unlike his “bit-cool” counterparts, Penate is an unashamedly giddy imp of a thing – unfailingly jovial despite the criticism of his “public-school rock ‘n roll” he rejoinders with just the right amount of smug assurance: “If you want to have a go at me for being from London, then go ahead. Better out than in, give me your worst”. This kind of ante-rebellious, “damn right, I’m a shiny, happy person” attitude fuels his music with an infectious vivacity, so despite the preponderance toward cynicism, you just can’t help bopping along.

But the gleeful songster also has his sombre moments. ‘My Yvonne,’ with its poignantly soft, verging on acoustic, spare guitar, provides a welcome contrast to the feverish singles ‘Spit at the Stars’ and ‘Second Minute or Hour’. ‘Torn on the Platform’ has just the right amount of wistful falsetto mixed with jaunty rhythmics to maintain the merriment without being nauseatingly jangly.

For an artist whose been trawling the gig-haunts on his lonesome for the past year, Penate’s garnered quite the musical range. Word on the NME grapevine is that, performance-wise, he’s quite the force to be reckoned with – renowned for careering around the stage like a jiving grasshopper on crack, your eyes will feast even if your ears occasionally wince. To the most apathetic, apparently Jack also offers Love Heart sweets. So, if global warming decides to dawn on England and allow us a little sunshine, head to the Cockpit, shake off the SAD and revel in what will probably be the cheeriest little shindig to kick off the summer.

Granted, the title does initially make you wince, but if you just put that down to misconstruing Scottish irony, this is quite a gem of a track. Sweetly spare, with a bit of zesty acoustic strumming, Macdonald has been a clever girl by deciding to eschew the tendency shown by many new artists today of trying to be too complex or innovative. The perfect pootling-with-Pimms-in-the-fields summer track. Sometimes it’s best just to follow the K.I.S.S rule: keep it simple, stupid.

band: air
single: mer du japon

So they effectively soundtracked every home and garden improvement in Lawrence Llewlyn-Bowen’s heyday, but Air really were quite brilliant at one point. Their haunting music for Sofia Coppola’s The Virgin Suicides and the numinous melodics of Moon Safari seem to have petered away. The track starts dynamically enough, but when you take a half-decent riff and repeat it for three minutes, frankly you’re just being lazy. Upsetting, from a band which once professed such sonic virtuosity.

band: siobhan donaghy
single: so you say

After the ethereal delights of ‘Don’t Give It Up’, the prodigal Sugababe seems to be a little over-enthralled with her own record and has given up on her ‘screw-Pop’ sedition, producing a disappointingly flat record. Bless her, it’s been a long run since the Sugababes days of the ‘90s; the poor lass is probably tired. That’s the most forgiving explanation anyway for a banally mediocre chorus culminating in ‘you’ve got me on a gurney’.

band: jakobinarina
single: Jesus

“And I’m thinking, what did I do to deserve this?” Probably Jesus’ personal anthem, but when the chorus kicks off into “Jump around, jump around to the sound”, unless your personal Jesus is a 14-year-old pubescent raver, the reference doesn’t really hold up. If they’re trying to be winningly sardonic, that’s probably the cleverest aspect of this track. It begins with a kitsch electronic melody spoiled by a chorus that makes you consider impaling yourself. Empathy, not satire, is perhaps the point here?

Procrastinating, perusing and pootling: my top three, conveniently alliterative, activities of choice – or, some might insist, occupational hazards. Semantic wrangles aside, there is that inconvenient, looming thing of a degree to be had, after all. Yet, exactly one year and 18 days ago, something happened to relieve my angst-ridden existence. Facebook came to York.

I’d heard tell of this ‘website’ from friends, but when it finally arrived, I tried to go along with my cooler friends and feigned nonchalance. But let’s Face it, the minute I was ravished of my wall virginity, with, “Congratulations! Here begins the end of your degree,” I was ruined.

But then I decided to delve a little deeper into Facebook founder Mark Zuckerburg’s $2 billion empire. After some brief, (pleasingly diverting) research, unveiling a plethora of websites linking Facebook investors to the CIA, I was forced to take pause and consider this zany notion: when little Mark finally lifted his rimmed eyes from his iMac, gazed at the heavens and declared, “Let there be Facebook!” – was it really good?

When Zuckerburg spawned Facebook in 2004, it was a simple directory intended to facilitate the convoluted web of student life. Yet, it was soon ‘Bye-bye baby’ and ‘Hello, Honey, I Blew Up the Kid’. (For those of you unfamiliar with ‘90s American cinema, in Honey… a zealously techie father’s prize gadget erroneously enlarges one of his children to a 100ft monster; I’m sure you see the Facebook-Frankenstein parallels.)

Facebook now boasts over 18 million users; it garners 30 billion page views and 600 million searches per month, rendering it the seventh most viewed sight in the US – i.e. each user conducts 33 searches per month on Facebook, which is, disconcertingly, a little more than once a day. Still coolly perusing the News-feed?

Oh, the controversial News-feed. When this little feature was first added to Facebook, it spurred quite the outrage; “Nazism!”, “1984… but 2007!” people cried. The protest was channelled, naturally, through a Facebook group: ‘Students against Facebook News Feed Group’.

Arguably, the main source of the “News-feed revolt” (as termed by veteran ‘Facebookers’) wasn’t political indignation, but anxiety. Not so much about what people saw, but the potential revelation of the unseen, covert acts: stalking. And don’t any of you dare contort your faces into incredulity; after reading this, I have no doubt that you will trot along and laboriously scrutinize my profile. As per the Google-grapevine, there is an endemic paranoia amongst Facebook users/stalkers; apparently a ‘Facebook Tracker’ has been invented. This nifty device divulges who has been peeking through your profile. (Breathe; no such device has actually been confirmed. Yet.)

Most of us would be lying if we maintained that the suggestion of this ‘tracker’ didn’t trigger some fretful nail-biting. Such rumours puncture the comfy Facebook bubble and reveal the bunch of peeping Toms we really are. The average Facebook user spends at the very least 22 minutes on Facebook per day. Even if you’re friends with a tenth of the University, it won’t take that long to check your wall, reply to a couple of posts and briefly engage in some poking. The majority of those 22 minutes is spent absentmindedly clicking through other peoples’ profiles and photos. It’s amazing the amount of new people I meet who face me with a bizarre look of recognition. The zenith being when I received a message from some guy saying: “Hey there, I’ve seen you picking up your mail in Derwent…” Christ.

Some, such as that zealous chap, may be interested to know of a website called www.facebookaddiction.com. Or for the less solipsistic stalkers, of the American student who founded Facebook Anonymous. In an article entitled, ‘Don’t worry Facebook addicts, you’re not alone’, this guy lamented: “Hi, my name is Brian and I am a Facebook addict. Facebook doesn’t make me feel like I have friends. Friends aren’t supposed to let you sink deeper into an addiction. It feeds the addiction.” But this doesn’t exemplify what I think is the root of the issue. For most of us (sorry, Brian), the problem is not with the friends, but the pictures.

We all possess an innate fascination with images. What else explains the inordinate success of Heat or Now? It’s not the linguistic dexterity. According to Freud’s theory on ‘Scopophilia’ (the pleasure in looking), people approach others as objects. Unsurprisingly, Freud soon delves into the sexuality of scopophilia; but, kinkiness aside, essentially we gaze to control, to re-figure. By now, the fact that Zuckerburg was a psychology major doesn’t startle. Zuckerburg’s Ivy League education served him well – he’s tapped into all our latent desires and fashioned a social environment that we can’t stop wanting. It feeds our scopopholic impulses and simultaneously allows us control over the flip-side of gaze politics. For every photo we take ‘pleasure in looking’ upon, someone is doing the same to us, but now we have control over exactly what they see. Facebook renders identity malleable, allowing everyone to mould their perfect ‘public-me’. Conscious of our harsh voyeuristic tendencies as we scrutinise other people’s photos, everyone strives to ensure that their projected image is one that they want people to see.

Recently, after a long, hard look at my profile picture, I had to wonder, what have I become? Was I destined to join the ranks of Brian? Oh sweet Jesus, say it isn’t so. Unfortunately, it doesn’t help that Zuckerburg has created the Pringle of virtual social networking; once you pop, you just can’t stop.

With characteristic pomp and flair, Oscar Wilde once indignantly huffed, “I’m not English; I’m Irish, which is quite another thing.” Despite protestations that the legendary Beckett/Joyce faction simply “looms over one”, John Banville seems set to be hauled into that prodigious “thing” that is Irish writing. Having read and been stunned by The Sea, I decided to wheedle my way into a PhD session with the professedly loathe victor of the 2005 Man Booker Prize. There, I became a little better acquainted with the man who “despises and is embarrassed” by his own work – but nonetheless is quick to concede that, regardless, they are indeed “better than everybody else’s books”.

From the sombre density of his novels, one could quite confidently presume that Banville will not be the chirpy sort. For me, however, his reputation as a daunting and austere figure was evoked by Google-folklore, and then reinforced by the somewhat anxious, bated silence that heralded his arrival. And indeed, Banville begins as anticipated – terse, hesitant to over-effuse or enthuse and with a disconcerting shrewdness in the eye. Yet swiftly enough, and perhaps loosened up by the ‘free drink’ so gleefully identified by Hugh Houghton, the threat of ponderousness is swept up and away into a dynamic, often jocular discussion.

Admittedly, it is heavily weighted to one side as Banville so relishes and revels in “writing-talk” that he completely quells our would-be brazen tongues, and impounds us in rapt attention. Well, I can only really speak for myself and, in hindsight, I hope I didn’t physically drool as dotingly as I just did verbally.

Banville is indeed an imposing figure. Author of some sixteen novels, respected critic and frighteningly erudite, it’s little wonder that he is often reverently regarded from a distance, to the extent that such appendages as ‘Banville the Austere’ and ‘Banville the Grave Intellectual’ probably wouldn’t go far amiss. Interestingly, it is not only the critics who displace the author from person into noun; this detachment from identity is felt by Banville himself. When talking about his work he jettisons the expected pronouns; discarding ‘my’ for a ‘John Banville book’, or even a ‘Benjamin Black book’. He utters such terms without flinching, as if multiple identities are quite natural. “Look,” he elucidates, “the person you expected to meet is not me, I didn’t write the books, that’s some other person I left in my study”.

“The person you expected to meet is not me. I didn’t write the books – that was some other person I left in my study.”

For any fellow literature students out there unavoidably bound to that (shudder) Norton Anthology, this ethos is all too reminiscent of when Barthes decided to kill off the author circa 1967. However, gleaned from his own words, Banville’s writing practice seems less the calculated erosion of authorial identity advocated by Barthes and more of a numinous process. “To make art you think down to some strange netherworld, where you’re not yourself. It’s a kind of sleeping and a kind of dreaming”. Banville asserts that this ‘self’ that presents itself – unwillingly – to the public, the one that “sits there wondering about his dinner”, is usually met with a little disappointment. He amusingly notes that many readers who venture to meet him glance around for a man of stature, like his protagonists, only to be thwarted by his wry yelp, “Down here!”

After meeting the author, ‘looking down’ becomes something you start to associate with Banville. Not so much because of any vertical challenge – really he’s comfortably average – but due to his constant, laconic self-deprecation. Granted, as critic Mark Gallagher laments, Banville “doesn’t do cheery”; he is sardonically funny though, which dismantles the pedestal somewhat and renders him remarkably approachable. Really, how can you not warm to a man who ventures, “I’m like Bart Simpson.” To clarify, just as Banville distinguishes between his many selves, this isn’t the haranguing “Eat my shorts!” Bart, but the one in the opening credits dedicating to the blackboard “I must get it right, I must get it right”. This is what Banville constantly aspires to – simply getting it right. And when he finally does? “Well, then I’ll stop writing”.

For Banville, writing seems to be an ever-enthralling escapade – despite all his sardonic compulsions, he expresses an unfailingly genuine relish for language, with its malleable capabilities and challenging ambiguities. Surprisingly, Banville declares, “Now I’ve got to a point, finally, when I’m just about beginning to learn how to write”. This sudden revelation has been arrived at via a new-found feeling of freedom from what has become the shackle of his distinctive first person narrative. He bemoans, “You know, I wrote so many bloody books and they’re all the same!” Christine Falls – authored by his alter-ego Benjamin Black – signified for Banville the first “real transition” and, he ventures, “was a way of breaking away from a rut that I was very deeply in. This was part of the process of change”.

The Sea seems to be a continuation of this process, being a marked distraction from his previous intense and psychologically-fraught protagonists, moving instead towards a more nostalgic account of childhood. However, it is his forthcoming ‘John Banville’ book, tentatively titled First Light – of which only 6000 words have been written and published – which will prove the real turn, as Banville breaks into the alien territory of third person narrative (although the ghostly ‘I’ still lurks fleetingly in the voice of God Mercury, mordantly remarked upon by his publisher as “another crowd pleaser, John…?”)

Yet, the exuberance of this newfound liberation has not gone unmitigated: “I do feel freer than I have in a long time. I do feel less oppressed by my own need to keep speaking in a particular voice. But I don’t know what will happen, if it will work.” This hesitance and uncertainty is a consistent trait throughout the discussion. Although Banville speaks with articulate assurance, at times his comments contradict each other, and even he concedes, “I’m answering as if I know the answers to these questions, but I don’t! I’m just making it up as I go along – as all of us, I don’t know what I’m doing until I’ve done it”. This, yet again, seems to hark back to that mystical experience of writing, where authorship becomes unconscious and instinctive instead of a deliberate act. Banville attributes this to the power of language and argues that “language will write itself, as language always does. I don’t believe that we speak language, but that we are spoken by language”. This comment is a near-perfect echo of contemporary Irish poet and acquaintance Paul Muldoon’s statement, “I don’t speak poetry, it speaks me”.

Banville’s writing reminds me of Muldoon’s poetry – both are pithy yet semantically adventurous, engaging in what I suppose could be termed ‘disciplined linguistic gymnastics’. Muldoon and Banville both have an ability to seamlessly intertwine the dirge and the droll; even the gravest depictions contain minute fluctuations in the language that invoke a lightning glimmer of wit.

Unable to shrug off this uncanny parallel and having been thus far dutifully silent, I decided to recklessly ignore my editor’s assurances to the PhD group that I would be “very well behaved and quiet”, err on the side of brazenness, and ask a question of my own. Having noticed throughout a constant return to the notion of “transition”, I wanted to know in which direction that movement was tending, and whether it was towards a more poetic medium. Unfortunately it seemed my query was more than a little overdue as it was something that Banville had been striving towards all along: “Auden said that the poem is the only art form that you have to either take or leave. You cannot read a poem and fantasise about sex. If your mind drifts from a poem, the poem doesn’t work…I like to write novels like that, in which you have to concentrate. I want it to be as dense and demanding as poetry, and I also want it to give the kind of pleasure that poetry gives”.

Banville distinguishes that “What you’re getting in a John Banville book is concentration, and what you’re getting in a Benjamin Black book is spontaneity”. Such emphasis on concentration and focus threatens to confer a schoolboy tedium on reading Banville. In keeping with this schoolboy metaphor, according to Banville, writing his books – and, indeed, reading them- is more like sex. Granted Auden, you probably can’t read poetry attentively while in a wanton state of mind. Nevertheless, for Banville, the focus you need in order to write poetically “is almost sexual”.

‘Banville’s prose is something of a coquettish sprite – it flirts with the reader, hints at some concealed pleasure, but never succumbs to candid realisation’

Before we arch our eyebrows in sceptical bemusement and wonder if that free wine was really a good idea after all, Banville clarifies: “Concentration on the writing object is like how the lover concentrates on the beloved. The lover knows that the beloved is a flawed creature like himself, but he insists that the loved creature is a Goddess. And that is how the artist treats the world – the world is constantly turning to the artist and saying, ‘Look, I didn’t expect to be noticed in this extraordinary way’. And the object blushes under this depth of concentration, this depth of attention. And that’s when real art is made – when the object becomes self-conscious and blushes.” Arguably, Banville’s prose is something of a blushingly coquettish sprite – it flirts with the reader, always hinting at some concealed pleasure but never succumbing to candid realisation. It is a tantalising puzzle and thus it does “give the kind of pleasure that poetry gives.” According to Banville’s definition, his work is nearing the accolade of ‘real art’: “I think real works of art are always closed, they contain their own enigma and they hide their own enigma, and this is what makes them last because they don’t give up their secret.”

It would seem, then, that language not only “speaks itself” but controls what it decides to say and when – it is its own agent and not, as we would like to assume, merely a serf of the vessel it finds itself in. We have all felt that internal bubbling of words which we cannot channel and subsequently emit in a sort of frenzied babble. But remarkably, Banville rarely succumbs to verbiage. He is Emily Dickinson’s fearful “man of frugal speech… [who] weigheth – while the rest – expend their furthest pound”. Banville’s control and facility with language, only achieved he argues “after forty years of scraping away at the pages” certainly is, as Dickinson suggests in her poem, something of which to be ‘wary’.

Banville’s method now involves writing sentence by sentence: “I finish a sentence before I go onto the next one. So there’s practically no revision”. The result is deceptively spare prose that veils a seething, complex sub-texture of nuance and motif. You don’t look twice when you read a ‘Banvillian’ sentence, you look thrice – and even then you might want to have another glance just to make sure. Certainly, this isn’t a process for everyone. Banville admits that he meticulously crafts the opening paragraph of every novel so that he can “teach the reader how to read. Not your way, my way. Many readers don’t like that and I sympathise with them. But I can do it no other way”.

But it’s not all ‘my way or the highway’. Yes, the novels are linguistically thick, but not opaque. The prose is just sufficiently perforated for the reader to engage and read-in their own perspective – that is to say, sometimes you can flirt back. As Banville says, “The Sea becomes a new book every time it is read. People are constantly telling me things about my books that I didn’t even know!” For example, as ventured by the PhD group, the novels seem rather saturated with gin. Whereas Banville’s interviews almost always seem to include some reference to a “glass of Sauvignon Blanc in hand”, the characters in his novels often have a tumbler of gin conveniently nearby. Banville , unfortunately, has not registered this insight. In contrast, one of the students has even ascertained that the characters usually go for the Bombay Sapphire brand.

Banville’s texts seem to almost invite these misreadings in their quest to be edifices of linguistic art – and language is one puckish slippery snake. That’s how Banville’s wife seems to see it, anyway – when the Book of Evidence was short-listed for the Booker, she exclaimed to her husband, “they must have misread it…but don’t worry, you’ll write another one!”

One of Jonathan Ross’s favourite new bands. Does this say it all? Not really. Cuter and jollier than their wavy-haired celebrity fan, the single bounces around on a Space-Hopper beat through childhood memories of the British ska revival and its American counterpart. As it hits the cruel, cruel tarmac of the modern indie scene, new wave guitar makes sure it carries on nicely. Wherever Six Nation State are at the moment, it certainly sounds delightfully sunny.

Bondo Do Role, Solta O Frango

Now that CSS have thrown open the door for sublime Brazilian party music, we are surely in for countless treats like this, the debut single from South Brazilian three-piece Bondo Do Role. Opening with a blippy electronic pulse not a million miles away from ’21 Seconds’ the track collapses beautifully into a cacophany of whooping, beats and Portugese rapping. The Music team is split as to whether this sounds like the best party ever or the Tellytubbies on crack, and if the latter is, necessarily, a bad thing.

Gisli, Long Way Down

First Brazil, now Iceland; Bjork and Sigur Ros have set the tone for quirky inventiveness and floaty atmospherics, which emerging artist Gisli is now displaying with a similar level of national talent in the field of indie-pop. Whimsical lyrics with a dash of politics means that this is a sound to rival the Shins’ latest efforts, but inventive use of what sounds like Bertha the big green machine sets it apart.

Deftones, Mein

Dissonance? Brooding intensity? The emotive, experimental rock that is the Deftones’ stock in trade is starting to sound a little dated. Despite repeated claims by critics that the band are superior to the sounds of the late-90s nu-metal explosion, the first band that this single brings to mind is Limp Bizkit, minus the fun (which was, let’s face it, the only good bit). This is the sound of a band taking themselves far too seriously.

Archie Bronson Outfit, Dart For My Sweetheart

Don’t let the boarderline emo name throw you, this is rock ‘n’ roll in the vein of The Raconteurs or BRMC, with a na-nanana-nana chorus that sounds like the chant of a religious sect devoted to the blues, guitars and beards. Achieving the sort of brooding instensity that the Deftones single would sell its distortion pedal for, the third single from the band’s second album ‘Derdang Derdang’ is fantastic.

Window-shopping has lost its charm for me. These days, whenever I turn my head to wistfully gaze at Office’s newbies, I end up getting smacked in the face by an obese cherub threatening to “spread the love” or else skewer me with a cross-bow. Honestly, I think I’ll go for the latter, take a leaf out of St. Valentine’s book and just impale myself.

Granted, I’m not one for gooey feelings; however neither am I averse to that whole ‘love’ concept. What bothers me about Valentine’s Day is that its ceaseless onslaught of all things pink and fuzzy has destroyed my savoured perusals and turned my typically rational friends into raving cynics. Frankly, it’s an inconvenience; suffered by the people and capitalised upon by the Hallmark moguls, it really makes you ponder, ‘what’s love got to with it?’

Before you hastily brand me a bitter singleton, take note that most Valentine’s Day angst is suffered by the coupled ones. My housemate who’s been in a near two year-long relationship, commented: “Valentine’s Day and all who revel in it should be locked away in a room where they can inflict their joy on each other. If I have to celebrate one more stupid Valentine’s Day with another bouquet of flowers I am going to make the guy eat it”. Later, I sceptically relayed the story to another paired-off friend and suggested that really, underneath it all, Valentine’s Day might actually be quite nice when you’re in a relationship. She, however, exclaimed: “What, are you serious? It’s a f***ing hurdle – like there isn’t already enough to deal with in a relationship. It’s a case of ‘does he want to do something? Do I want to do something? Should I ask?’”

Console yourselves, fellow singletons: the kinkiest Valentine’s actually gets is a rosy-flushed commercial orgy.

Not so warm and fuzzy then. Buying suitable presents is a particularly fraught issue: what if one person spends more than the other? Is the depth of your love going to be measured by the depth of your pocket? Another friend has decided to throw caution to the wind and buy her boyfriend a pork pie – however, she is attempting to bribe the baker into fashioning a heart-shaped version.

Unfortunately, the high street isn’t much help. While gleefully adorning itself with shiny red decorations, it fails to realise the psychological anxieties loaded upon its would-be consumers: “One week to go! Don’t forget!” in bold pink lettering is hardly soothing. Instead of creating an opportunity to express love, Valentine’s Day is more a reminder of the tedious obligations that come with a relationship.

Significantly, one of the first public acknowledgments of Valentine’s Day took place in Paris on 14 February 1400, with the establishment of ‘The High Court of Love’. The court was created to deal with violence against women, fickle married knights running off with swooning damsels – essentially basic domestic squabbles. On a contemporary Valentine’s Day, couples are not without their share of moral quandaries. According to Legalmatch.com, divorces, prenuptial agreements and annulments spike around Valentine’s Day — 36%, 28% and 21% respectively in 2005. On a more familiar note, if your boyfriend shows up at your door obscured by foliage, the initial response is probably one of embarrassment at not having come up with the goods yourself. Sure, there is always opportunity to compensate later on but, as my housemate reminds me, after all the wine, food and chocolate, the most physical contact you’ll actually be able to stand is a belly rub. Thus console yourselves, fellow singletons, with the knowledge that the kinkiest Valentine’s Day actually gets is a rosy-flushed commercial orgy.

And what a non-exclusive orgy it has become. There was a time when the monopoly on Valentine’s Day paraphernalia was tastefully retained within the Thornton’s/Clinton’s/flower shop circle – not so anymore. A tentative example is Wetherspoons’s witty and wonderful Valentine’s meal deal: two steaks for £9.99 with the tagline ‘Love me tender’. With this extent of commercial exploitation, it is no wonder that my friend Mariella has demanded, “Whoever sainted that bugger should be shot!”

The Greeting Card Association approximates that one billion Valentines are sent out anually; placing it a nose ahead of Christmas in the card-selling stakes. Add all the wine, chocolates and impromptu trips to Venice and you’ve got yourself a multi-squillion dollar conglomerate.
The pent up resentment over the commercial frenzy has found an outlet in a number of boycott ventures. There is ‘Canada’s Largest Singles Anti-Valentine’s Bash’, the ‘lovers-go-to die’ party against couples, and of course, Singles Awareness Day. The latter, celebrated on the 15th, involves singles giving gifts to one another in celebration of their unattached status. Unfortunately, according to Wikipedia, “the day is often used by less friendly couples to simply remind the singles about their current, uninvolved status”. I suppose it doesn’t really help that it forms the acronym SAD either.

The rife anti-Valentine’s day merchandise which has recently cropped up presents a more chirpy front. Websites such as cafepress.com offer everything from t-shirts to boxer-shorts emblazoned with pictures of cupid and the words ‘Shoo! You little bastard’ or slogans such as: ‘If it weren’t for you, I’d be a different person. Maybe even happy.’

However, all the buoyant Valentine’s bashing has been sucked dry by the greeting card industry. American Greetings now offer a plethora of ‘novelty’ and ‘funny’ valentines. AG’s chief shopper Shannon Coulstan has ominously commented: “everyone’s owning a piece of Valentine’s Day”. Suddenly the jingle ‘be mine’ has assumed a whole new meaning.

The problematic ethos that all this anti-Valentine’s jumble propagates is venerating it as so significant that some form of involvement is compulsory. Whether it’s dinner with your boy- or girlfriend or heading to Ziggys with a tub of gin-infused Ben and Jerrys in one hand and a wallet of VK-bound cash in the other, everyone has to have a slice of the proverbial heart-shaped pie. Singletons feel compelled to drown their sorrows with a bottle of Pinot and a cackle of girlfriends raging about why “boys suck”. One particularly acerbic online blog lamented, “Valentine’s Day is like herpes: just when you think it’s gone for good, it rears its ugly head once more. No wonder some people prefer to call it VD”. For a day dedicated to those pricked by the arrow of Love, really it seems to induce more piqued and prickling sensations.

The question, it would seem, is not whether you believe in or enjoy Valentine’s Day, but rather whether there is any way to actually avoid it. When St. Valentine jumped on a log fire and martyred himself, I wonder if he had any idea of the excruciating Catch-22 situation he was leaving in his wake.

Does the world need more indie bands trying to make dance music? “Genres are so irrelevant!” I hear you scream from your oh-so-cool discotheque. Well then, here’s some more indie with synths and a house beat. There are hypnotically repetitive swirly bits and brooding build-up-and-WHAM bits that make it tick along quite nicely. Is this a non-rubbish direction The Killers could have gone for? Only just.

band: mumm-ra
single: what would steve do?

More synth. More break down/build up bits. But somehow this is really, really great. The anthemic sing-along chorus with a profusion of ah-ah-ing and the naive yet burningly confident vocals of the improbably named Noo
means that this is smiling instead of glowering, a tune that pogos instead of performing a hairstyle-preserving nod to the beat. What more could you expect from a band named after the baddie from the Thundercats?

band: willy mason
single: save myself

There’s a lot to be angry about at the moment: war, inequality, and, on a more local level, the disintegration of the portering system. So where are all the protest songs? From the incomprehensible moaning of Thom York to the brasher American offering of Neil Young’s ‘Let’s Impeach the President’, there’s not much new for the demonstrating crowds to sway to… until now! Willy Mason is back to lull you out of apathy. ‘The culture’s drowning in a bad dream’, but he is offering you a raft.

band: Herman Düne
single: I Wish That I Could See You Soon

Calypso horns, bongos and swaying acoustic guitars evoking flip-flops, sandals and people with dreadlocks sitting round campfires could be painfully teasing in arctic York, but the charm of the male/female harmonies and chirpy love story of this single means that the beach scene actually seems a tantalising possibility. With flavours of Belle and Sebastian and ‘Graceland’-era Paul Simon, this is a fantastic tune for summer dreaming.

band: nelly furtado
single: say it right

Thank God all that Chris Martin nonsense is over. It’s back to the good stuff with Timbaland; crunchy beats and barely-there instrumental accompaniments ripple under floating vocal harmonies. Slower and not as club-driven as ‘Maneater’ or ‘Promiscuous’, and apparently inspired by the Eurythmics, this song captures a different side to the collaboration, with a subtlety that the current crop of British popsters can only dream of.

NME once remarked that when they fed Larrikin Love’s record into their “secret NME Band Pigeonholing Machine” it generated a “huge explosion followed by an automated reply: ‘Service is out of order’”. Possibly, (at least I’d like to thinks so) this little disclosure was intended to reveal the delusional, foam secreting crazy of the NME office clan. Witless similes aside, the general gist is that the band certainly deserve some kudos for their cunning skirting of any genre.

The Freedom Spark skittishly meanders around a plethora of sounds, easily oscillating between Gypsy-ska and what sounds like a hillbilly-hoe down on speed, all in one song no less. So, tedium and monotony is something you can definitely count out if you head to Leeds – and besides, the rough, shambolic amalgam that lends the album such a restless feel is rumored to amplify into an energetic, infectious, flurry when uncaged and let loose live. Not a bad start then.

Larrikin form part of what the NME has dubbed the ‘Thamesbeat scene’ (with such overuse no wonder that “secret machine” busted a gasket). Larrikin’s sonic mongrel certainly possesses a poetic troubadour-like quality – think of them as the iPod generation’s version of the daffodil and Tintern Abbey-loving Romantics. Citing Wilde, Orwell and Byron as influences, the band may have somewhat of a literary ponceyness to them:
“The Freedom Spark is an exploration of innocence, of childhood, of human nature, and, ultimately, the yearning to have a real sense of freedom… it is the first instalment of an ongoing exploration” expounds Ed Larriken. Big things to come then.

If you’re up for some musical dynamism with a poetic varnish, the Cockpit will be your haven on the February 2. Still unconvinced? Consider going for the visual spectacle alone – with Ed Larriken’s one-side skinhead, other side Vernon Kay ‘do’, their coiffeurs are a work of avant-garde artistry in themselves.

Unfortunate choice of title. Propelled into fame by Sofia Coppola and monopolisers of the ‘memorable ad music franchise’ Air, once upon a time, were arguably quite good. It makes you wonder where that inspired decision to release a filler-sounding track as their first single came from. Perhaps Jean-Benoit’s comment on his own track will shed

LCD Soundsytem – North American Scum

With an opening reminiscent of the Buffy theme and lyrics relishing, “I would love to bite your neck”, it’d be easy to say, “nuff said”, right there. Unfortunately, Marty’s Dracula-clad-in-60s-Mod and insouciant cigarette ‘look’ on the cover manages to jolt even the most indolent into passing comment. Watch out, he’s a dangerous kitty.

Sophie Ellis Bextor – Catch You

In which Sophie discovers electro-pop and becomes better than anyone ever imagined she could be. After having a baby and getting married to that bloke from The Feeling, Bex is back with the first single from her new album Trip The Light Fantastic. Catch You is like a slice of Goldfrapp coated in pop icing, and her best effort by a long way.

The Klaxons- Golden Skans

In which The Klaxons continue to edge towards being as good as the NME tells you they are. Falsetto oohs and aahs drag the single towards a chorus just earnest enough to distract you from the fact that it nicks its melody from Hot Chip’s ‘Over and Over’. More focused than previous singles, this is the sound of a band hitting their stride.

The Good, The Bad & The Queen – Kingdom of Doom

When a band has such remarkable credentials, Albarn of Blur, the Clash’s Simonon…you start to worry a little. Even Slash’s fro-mane couldn’t save Velvet Revolver. Thankfully, this time we were pleasantly surprised and just a little dazzled. Mixing haunting balladry reminiscent of the Beatles’ White Album with a melodious, catchy refrain, Albarn has again proven himself to be no one trick pony. As one review succinctly extolled Albarn’s talents: “Jammy bastard”.

Life is full of little nuggets of bizarre, incongruent delights. Cases in point: banana, chocolate and mozzarella pizza; salt & vinegar crisps dunked in Nutella; those unforeseen feats of culinary genius compiled around 3 a.m. when you’re still swaying to Baywatch. Jamie T reminds me of Nutella & Walkers butties–his music is an erratic amalgam of anything and everything, fused together in a sozzled haze. Punk-funk, ska, garage, bit of hip-hop, all jammed together and recorded in a bedroom on budget equipment – this shouldn’t work, frankly it should be disastrous.

The unfathomable thing is that not only does T make work, he does so with brilliance. The “let’s just bung it all together and see what happens” feel of the tracks is just cunning pretence, as the genius lies in the subtle detail. Brackish bellows of “Loonndoon!”, hollered “lalalas” and snippets of John Betjemen’s poetry frequently puncture the melodic texture, never skipping a chance to provoke or pique. The music constantly revivifies itself, with every play exposing new harmonies and unpredictable kitschy beats, so all you have to do is plug it in your ears, go for a walk somewhere and revel in the “blue blooded murder of the English tongue”.

Out now.

Let’s be honest, Christmas isn’t just one day of festivities: it’s an entire festive season that plunges us, for at least a month, into a hyped-up, commercial frenzy. Mid-November rolls around and before you know it, Starbucks is already serving up Eggnog Lattes in new ‘holiday season’ cups and the checkout boy at your local corner shop is wearing a Santa hat and acting eerily chirpy.

For many followers of non-Christian religions, however, Christmas just seems like an overly-extended birthday party that they weren’t invited to. Josh Schwartz, the Jewish creator of cult Californian drama The O.C., bemoans this exclusivity: “What Jewish boy or girl growing up doesn’t feel a little jealous? They get all the good songs, the tree, Frosty and Rudolph. We get dreidels. It’s just not the same.”

A festive Funfair brings Christmassy cheer to York. Photo: Georgi Mabee

Oi Humbug. Well, if there’s no room at that inn, make another one. Schwartz has managed to do just that, resolving all his childhood angst through Seth Cohen – the O.C.’s infamous and endearing skater-indie boy with a “Jew fro”. Growing up with “Waspy McWasp” for a mum, and dad having unresolved issues about being a “poor struggling Jew growing up in the Bronx”, every year little Seth was faced with a seasonal crisis. His solution: Chrismukkah, the interfaith amalgam of Christmas and Hanukkah (for those of you who were in doubt). Who knew that Seth’s words to an eternally baffled and bemused Ryan would be so prophetic? “It’s the new holiday Ryan” he says, with a knowing, adorable grin. “And it’s sweeping the nation.”

Corporations are exploiting inter-faith tensions to breed a new wave of kitschy merchandise that will replace the old Christmas trimmings.

And swept away it has. You can now buy a Chrismukkah cook book and enjoy a Matzah Pizza, Meshugga Nog or a Yule Plotz of your very own. Not that culinary-inclined? Go to www.chrismukkah.com where you can buy ‘Yarmauclaus’, ‘mish-mash-menorahs’ (they come with candy-cane candles) or tree-shaped ‘December dilemma Dreidels’. Strapped for cash? Just peruse Chrismukkah blog. Chrismukkah has now propagated a consumer market to rival (and possibly conquer?) the billion dollar Christmas paraphernalia industry.

Surprisingly, however, Seth’s feat of genius creativity isn’t unprecedented. Chrismukkah was actually created by German Jews in the 1800s, who called the holiday Weihnukkah (Weihnachten being the German word for Christmas.).

Neither is the O.C. the first T.V. show to spawn an entire festive cult. Approximately ten years ago, Seinfeld’s Frank Costanza created Festivus, a non-denominational, anti-commercialisation alternative to Christmas. Costanza’s genesis story differs a little from Cohen’s though:

Frank Costanza: Many Christmases ago, I went to buy a doll for my son. I reached for the last one they had, but so did another man. As I rained blows upon him, I realised there had to be another way.

Cosmo Kramer: What happened to the doll?

Frank Costanza: It was destroyed. But out of that a new holiday was born… a Festivus for the rest of us!

Cosmo Kramer: That must’ve been some kind of doll.

Frank Costanza: She was.

Indeed. Aside from the heart-warming anecdotes and the obligatory Festivus pole, (an aluminum pole utilized for its ‘high strength-to-weight ratio’ and because Costanza “finds tinsel distracting”) Festivus is founded on two main principles: The Airing of Grievances and The Feats of Strength. In ‘The Airing’, each person at the Festivus dinner table informs their friends and family of all the times that they have been disappointed by them that year. After this collective slating comes the “Feats of Strength”, where the head of the family wrestles with other members until they have been pinned to the ground. Just a more structured version of most family gatherings then.

As ridiculous as this ritual sounds, it has nestled itself quite comfortably into contemporary seasonal proceedings. Jennifer Galdes, a Chicago restaurant publicist who has been hosting Festivus parties for three years now, remarks: “[More and more] people, when they get an invite, respond with, ‘Will there be an Airing of Grievances and Feats of Strength?’”

However, do these kitschy elements threaten to render the occasion more parodic than meaningful? Virgin Mobile USA’s 2004 television commercial certainly seems to endorse that suggestion. The advert is based on yet another multi-holiday fusion, combining Christmas, Hanukkah and Kwanzaa to create the bizarre and completely unpronounceable Chrismahanukwanzakah. Intended to satirise the secular effects of political correctness on the holiday season, the cartoon showed bizarre, hybrid characters – such as a Vishnu-esque, turban-wearing Santa, which sings a Chrismahanukwanzakah song extolling the virtues of “an all-inclusive celebration/No contractual obligation” and attempts to soothe religious tension with a camera phone: “Whose faith is the right one, It’s anybody’s guess, What matters most is camera phones for $20 less”.

More crude than catchy, the advert unveils the covert, profit-orientated ethos of inventions such as Chrismukkah, Hannumas or Festivus. Arguably, commercial corporations are exploiting inter-faith tensions to breed a new wave of highly marketable, kitschy paraphernalia to replace the old, somewhat tired, Christmas trimmings. The O.C. website is selling Yarmuclaus’ for $15.95, Chrismukkah Holiday, and the book Chrismukkah: Everything You Need to Know to Celebrate the Hybrid Holiday sold out in its first print run, only four days after being released. Seems like the creator of Scientology had a point when he said “the quickest way to make a million is to start your own religion.”

There certainly seems to be a Chrismukkah backlash, which protests the creation of an ostensibly inter-faith holiday that negates the respective significance of the originals. Weeks after publication, the author of Chrismukkah, Ron Gompertz received a slew of angry emails lambasting the holiday. Here’s a particularly Grinchy one: “You should be ashamed of yourself making money on trying to reduce the already shrinking Jewish population. I picked up your book and felt sick. To tell you the truth, you should be shot. I spit on your whole marketing scheme”.

Seth also voiced concerns in season two of the O.C.: “What if it’s starting? The Chrismukkah backlash… What if it’s getting too big and commercial? It’s like it started out as this really cool, cult holiday, and then all of the sudden there’s too much pressure!”

But this seems overly puritanical and just a bit paranoid. Firstly, as Seth points out, having “Jesus and Moses on its side” gives it “twice the resistance of normal holidays”. Secondly, Chrismukkah is simply re-vivifying the holiday season with some much needed irreverent spark – a new panto-humour of sorts. Christmas is meant to be a ‘merry’ time: it’s ‘the season to be jolly’ for Christ’s sake (no pun intended). As the author Mary Ellen Chase suggested, “Christmas is…a state of mind”, but the only state of mind those Eggnog Lattes put me in is bored bemusement. Yarmuclaus has more of an “Oy Joy” effect. So forsake the usual Crimbo, log onto Chrismukkah.com and surprise your friends with a Merry Muzeltov. In more traditional terms: ‘And then Seth said, “let there be Chrismukkah.” And it was good.’

Today, only the ultimate Christmas scrooge makes it through the festive season without feeling compelled to buy at least a few presents for their friends and family. It’s lucky for us in York, therefore, that this city is the perfect place for the discerning shopper to source the perfect gifts. Not because of its stunning array of chain stores, that is – if you’re in the market for mass-produced tat, you’d be better off heading to Leeds instead. If you’re prepared to resist the high street’s dazzling window displays, however, and diversify a little this Christmas, all the romance of the festive season can be found and packed into a little box in and around the quaint little shops in the Shambles. I know, I know, it’s weeks away yet – but do you really want to leave it all until the holidays? With this quick guide to the pick of York’s Christmas markets and gift shops, you’ll save time, avoid the usual high-street hassle – and get yourself into the festive mood as well.

Your first chance to search out something original to produce on Christmas morning comes in the colourful form of the ‘Made in Yorkshire’ Craft Market, which takes over the central thoroughfare of Parliament Street from November 30 until December 10. York does markets well (its heritage as a commercial trade centre is founded on this – not on its having a decent-sized Topshop), and losing yourself within the little dens of miscellaneous, material goodness is as much a sightseeing experience as a successful shopping trip. Search out unique gifts from contemporary art to handmade jewellery, to bedspreads and garden sculptures; hot tips include hand-painted ties for a twist on the traditional ‘man present’ (sunflowers is the favourite, if unseasonal pick) or handmade silk underwear from the provocatively titled ‘Mistress Collection’ for your girlfriend.

The market can’t fail to inspire you but if it doesn’t actually offer up the goods, head for the plethora of gift shops scattered just beyond the city centre. The most popular of these is probably Give the Dog a Bone (17 Fossgate), a London export that epitomises quirky city-chic and makes much-appreciated attempts to offer the disillusioned shopper a choice of more ‘individual’ Christmas presents. In amongst the slapstick comic books, retro paraphernalia and – wait for it – Jesus action figures, is a treasure trove of affordable items. Where else in York could you find a pink flying pig watering can for your mum, a giant rubber duck for your sister, or a 1950s-style toy robot for your brother?

If your Christmas afternoon usually culminates in eating left-over turkey while slouched in front of the television, a trip to Compendium of York (1 Grape Lane) could turn things around. This kooky little store stocks a wide and unusual range of games that provide, as it says on the label, “fun for all the family”, including the usual favourites – beautifully crafted Backgammon sets, sparkling marble chess boards – and more contemporary tools of amusement, like table football and poker apparatus. The main items of appeal, however, are the giant Connect 4 and mega-sized Jenga – ideal for a friend, and a fantastic addition to any Christmas house party worth its punch.

Getting tired? Finish up at Cusp (28 Back Swinegate), another favourite gift emporium that looks like a miniature gallery but is actually full of attractive, purchasable items. With its accessories and home-ware, glasswork and ceramics, it looks like one for the girls. A hint for the boys, however: don’t peek in and then fly past; make it your one-stop last shop for an assortment of cards and wrapping paper.

There are, of course, always the stock fall-back options: alcohol and chocolate. Luckily, even if you do need to rely on these, as a term-time York resident you can still put a spin on old favourites. The Whiskey Shop (11 Coppergate) means that, instead of picking from the measly selection at Costcutter, you have a whole shop to choose from – and clued-up staff who can help you choose so that if you don’t know your malts from your blends, you can still confidently hand one or the other over to someone who does.

Satisfying someone’s sweet tooth with a box of sugary titbits is another easy temptation to succumb to – and one often welcomed by the receiver. However, while chocolate is a cop-out, fudge, on the other hand, says originality, style and taste. The Fudge Kitchen (58 Low Petergate) makes and sells delicious, creamy fudge out of its little shop in the Shambles. With countless flavours to choose from, it’s a real treat – not least for you, weary shopper, who can put down your bags and sample each before you buy. A perfect end to the shop for the perfect present; a perfect little gift for the giver – even one who knows it’s better to shop than receive.

James Morrison tries to melt your brain with his new single as he replaces the upbeat soul of his previous releases with an aptly insipid ‘Christmas Number 1’-geared ballad.

“It’s time to surrender”, he croons in the chorus – no James! NO! We will not give in to your middle-of-the-road musical stodge.

Jeremy Warmsley – Dirty Blue Jeans

Like the musical equivalent of a hyperactive child, Jeremy Warmsley cannot seem to focus his attention on one melody or rhythm for more than a few seconds. The newest single from The Art of Fiction jerks from sublime moment to sublime moment, somehow managing to rise above the fragments with a soaring chorus. Wonderful stuff.

Jamelia – Beware of the Dog

Following the trend of sampling large parts of 80s hits and singing something vaguely associated with the original lyrics over the top (step forward Rihanna…) Jamelia pilfers the good bits from Depeche Mode’s Personal Jesus and hollers something empowering and feminist over the top. To put it proverbially – a lot of bark and not much bite.

Lily Allen – Littlest Things

The London belle stops smiling for a while to deliver a collection of her feelings following a break-up. The fairy-tale melody means that it comes across a bit like the sad part in a musical before everything is alright again. This is the sound of the energetic Lily Allen of the summer months deciding to stay in with a bottle of Pinot and have a good moan.

Phunkin DJs ft. Pamela Fernandez – Kickin the Beat

Who needs new rave when old rave still has a pulse? Pamela Fernandez has the classic voice of 90s dance music, so by re-recording the vocal of the 1992 house stomper with the newly assembled Phunkin DJs she’s ready to blow away 2006’s indie dance pretenders. Get in early with the tune that you will be dancing your neon socks off to in Toffs next year.

Gruff Rhys – Candylion

It’s a hard world out there for band members gone solo. For every Robbie Williams there’s a Mel B, and for every Justin Timberlake there’s a Lisa Scott Lee. Fortunately the first single from the Super Furries’ lead singer’s second album is a lovely slice of wistful pop with the cheekiest strings put to record in living memory.

Once in a while a band comes along with a genuinely innovative, exciting sound – one that prompts you to think “wow” without even a tinge of irony. Blue October are not one of these bands. The album’s derivative mediocrity simply leaves you apathetically pondering “why?”. Why does singer/songwriter/guitarist Justin Furstenfeld cite The Flaming Lips as influences and then produce enough self-indulgent emo angst to rival My Chemical Romance? And why on earth did Imogen Heap even deign to collaborate on one of the tracks?

Possibly, Furstenfeld suffers from an aural colour blindness and Heap needed to fill her quota of charitable deeds for the year. Yet, there is hope – single ‘Hate Me is the US’ was most requested track on alternative radio. Ignoring the opening voicemail from Furstenfeld’s mum, the verses possess a melodic facility reminiscent of the Goo Goo Dolls when they were “dizzy[ing] up” that poor girl. Tolerable stuff, until the “feel my pain” guitar solos kick into gear.

Apparently Furstenfeld started work on “Foiled” after a nightmare which prompted him to proclaim, “My brain melted that night”. Well, after a few listens, one feeling the album certainly doesn’t fail to inspire is empathy.

Out Now

It has been ten years since Tony Blair first coined the mantra,“Education, Education, Education” and as with all things outmoded, it could probably do with a little re-working; a cover version, perhaps, to revive it in contemporary popular culture. Copyright issues aside, “Money, Money, Money” might suffice, given the current fiscal aura which ominously surrounds any mention of Higher Education. Forget bird flu, fee-anxiety is the new disease threatening to infiltrate every recess on campus and luckily for government proponents of top-up fees, it’s currently incurable. Not to say that the most pro-active of the nation’s student haven’t had a valiant stab at it – on Sunday 29th October, thousands of students headed for London to join a national demonstration in an attempt to combat the potential removal of the current £3,000 fee cap.

However, despite the successful turnout, it seems the vast majority of students are still steeped in apathy and cynicism. The University boasts a 9,000 strong student population, yet only a meagre 150 were estimated to have attended the London protest. Matt Johnson, a 2006 graduate, gloomily voices the general disillusionment with the current situation: “It can never get better though can it? It’s been going on for so long now and nothing’s really changed. It’s just gone the other way and personally I just see things getting worse”.

‘The best days of your life’? University seems to have left graduates more soured than inspired as memories of their sweetly hedonistic days dissipate into financial anxiety. A few of you may have seen that eerily relatable Capital One advert – for the unenlightened, it’s the one with the woodpecker incessantly jabbing the head of the poor guy who’s in debt, while his smugly suited and booted friend waxes lyrical about the joys of the Capital One programme. Generally I find debt adverts to be the most vacuous, mindless, irritating interruptions to my much needed T.V. time (especially the Churchill advert – the only use that giddily enthusiastic dog could possibly serve is shooting practice). Nevertheless, the woodpecker makes a good point. After university, there doesn’t seem to be much opportunity for nostalgia; financial worries over-write the drunken Toffs’ and Ziggy’s memories and you start to wonder whether that £6 pizza was really all that necessary.

Top-up fees are apparently going to make like Spiderman and save the day. With the new system, there are no upfront payments and the Student Loans Company foots the tuition fee bill until you have graduated and are comfortably earning at least £15,000 per year. 9% of your earnings over £15,000 will be siphoned off to pay back the fee-loan; this amounts to a feasible £270/year for £18K salaries. Sarah Foster, a fresher of the new top-up fee generation, surprisingly said: “Some of my friends actually really like the idea of top up fees, because it means that they can wait and pay when they actually have money, so they feel more self sufficient”.

Many are so convinced by the future success of the new system that they have dubbed the protest students as misinformed and naive. Gabriel Rozenburg, for instance, reported on the October demonstration and entitled her piece ’March of the Student Dinosaurs’. Rozenburg compares the UK’s situation with the leading universities of our ever-friendly neighbours, the United States, who charge students there at least the equivalent £10,000 per year: “It is no coincidence that all this year’s academic Nobel Prizes were won by Americans”. So it seems increased fees will make us smarter. Brilliant!

Sadly all it currently seems to be achieving is churning out a bunch of paranoid and financially fixated students. Monetary concerns have become an endemic part of University life. Apprehended by fiscal anxieties instead of their intellectual interests, students today are unavoidably tangled in a performance-obsessed, career-fixated web. Degree choice is determined by the course which will ultimately best justify the cost of education. Concerns over remuneration precede the actual investment and consequently the ghost of financial future will be a constant companion for students. Forget expanding your mind, university is now about enhancing your future career prospects. A recent Guardian article astutely summarised the issue: “If you’re paying tens of thousands of pounds for something, you’d want more than an in-depth knowledge of the poems of Emily Brontë to show for it”.

Higher Education is the new consumer market. Ever-expanding and increasingly competitive, it’s starting to seem more ruthless than Wall Street on a particularly testosterone-infused day. Universities have always vied with each other for the best minds, but recently the stakes have changed and institutions now manipulate their prospective students on a fiscal level. For example, Leeds Metropolitan University has made the financially-savvy choice of charging a considerably lower fee of £2,000 and consequently have seen an 8.3% increase in applications. This financial rivalry will only be amplified if and when the fee cap is lifted.

Unfortunately, it seems that York will be one to watch – YUSU welfare officer, Amy Foxton, believes that “York will definitely amplify their fees” once the cap has been lifted. The University’s decision to charge the maximum amount of £3,000 and the looming Heslington East prospect (it could need a little funding) is bleakly indicative of its future decisions. Not forgetting that unlike many other Universities, York has not experienced a decrease in applications, but instead boasts an overwhelming ten applications per place. Consequently, it would be economically logical for them to exploit the demand and charge more for the goods.

However, the goods don’t really seem to have that wow-factor. Last term saw an uproar over the potential closure of campus bars due to their failure to make large enough profits. This term, Derwent’s kitchens in all their Baby Belling glory are set to disappear into the ether and I don’t think I’ve ever set foot in the library without hearing frustrated whispers of “where the hell are all the books?” (just to clarify, this is not uttered by post-Ziggys still-drunks in last nights clothes, but actually the ones who look a tad more academically focused and have pencil cases).

Just to add some icing to the cake, last March the University’s academic staff initiated a strike over insufficient pay. Their ensuing boycott of assessments and examinations threatened to jeopardize the degrees of many graduating students. (An interesting note – what do seem to have enjoyed a dramatic improvement are the Vice-Chancellors’ salaries, which have increased by 25% over the last three years. The average V.C. banks a comfortable £154,000 per year and thirty-three Vice-Chancellors now earn more than the Prime Minister.) Ultimately, by the end of last term, not only were students addled with worry over their looming debts, but there was a viable chance that all their hard work and expenses wouldn’t even guarantee them a degree.

Unfortunately, regardless of NUS Extra’s current effusions, students aren’t actually that spoiled for choice in career pathways, as fresher Sarah points out: “I had friends who were angry about the fees but nobody went as far as to not apply, what are you going to do? There’s no choice”. Even if there is a choice, it’s a meagre one: “leave ‘em or join ‘em”. About 13,000 have chosen the former – there was a 3.5% decrease in applications to university this year, but as you can see, the majority have made like sheep and done the latter. But as Sarah points out, you can’t really blame them: “At the end of the day a degree is still a degree and necessary for when you need to get a job”.

Worryingly, in graduate Matt’s case, this turne out not to be the case. Matt has achieved a feat which many would only attempt with some trepidation: two degrees – an undergraduate BS in Electronics and an MA in Music technology. According to Education officials, with two degrees from a respected University, job offers should be practically suffocating him – however, Matt says he’s “pretty much on the dole”.

So far, prospects seem to be looking quite bleak. Your best bet could be to enrol on an Economics course, learn the tricks of the trade and then try and exploit the system from within – realistically speaking, that sounds a little too 007 for most and there’s probably not a martini or a fawning bikini-clad blonde at the end of the road. In a Utopian world, education would be “free-for-all” and Ben n Jerry’s would rain down from the heavens in fat-free glory. Unfortunately, even the most buoyantly optimistic would have trouble envisaging either being realised in the near future.

However, what the recent demonstration shows is that students have the ability to try and change the situations – to create the choice for themselves. Apathy and pessimism are inevitable, but hardly helpful. The ‘Education not for Sale’ anti-top up fees petition gathered 800 signatures, but the attendance for the 2.45pm handover to the Vice Chancellor was a little scanty in comparison. Universities have cast students as the new consumers, so why not demand your money’s worth? After all, if we’re going to become the ‘future creative minds of tomorrow,’ asking for just three years of enthusiastic work and a little indulgent play, minus the deranged woodpecker, is hardly overly demanding. Wouldn’t you agree?

Where to find help if you’re struggling financially

York University Student Financial Support Unit

This service offers various funds and bursaries to help out any York students who are in financial difficulty. For information or advice, email them at student-financial-support@york.ac.uk, call (01904) (43)4043 or visit them between 10am and 4pm in the Sally Baldwin Building, block B.

Unidaid.org.uk

A charity designed to help students deal with financial barriers to entering and completing higher education. As well as helping students access financial advice, and featuring a student budget calculator, it provides free or supported accomodation to students at risk of dropping out of university due to money problems.

NUSonline.co.uk/info/money

Provides information on the new student finance system and compares different credit cards, bank accounts and insurance in terms of their benefits for students.

National Debt Line
0808 808 4000
Will discuss your debt problems and ways to resolve them.