Hugh and I did not become statistics (we did not want to add to the 50 people who died on Slovenian mountains last year), I’m glad to say, connected as we were to the precarious via ferrata cables by a combination of personal and rental kit. It was not a particularly tranquil ascent though. Triglav is seen as a rite of passage in Slovenia, and the combination of domestic tourists and new international tourists such as ourselves meant that making it from our hut to the summit meant a lot of patience and manoeuvring around other people even more foolhardy than ourselves. Runners, many people without helmets, children that I could only imagine were younger than twelve, and even more people without harnesses to clip into the railings provided our traffic up and down. It was in our company that we saw a reflection of ourselves and the versions of ourselves who planned this trip 18 months prior. Yes, now we are prepared and we respect the mountain and the dangers it poses. But there is a complacency that comes with not knowing what you’re in for.

We joined the troop of travellers coming over the Dolomites for a change of language. The Julian Alps shares a lot with its Italian neighbours. Much of the cuisine is very similar: stewed meat that is now goulash rather than ragù and the accompanying side is technically buckwheat rather than polenta. It is not necessarily a real change of scenery either, as limestone and dolomite prevail when you get beyond the tree line. The motivations, then, to make the multi-hour drive from Venice after landing, come down to a combination of novelty and business. Although I have previously alluded to the traffic on Triglav, it pales in comparison to the biggest Italian hikes. Forbes reported on the Dolomites’ popularity five days into our trip. The Julian Alps’ reported 2.1 million visitors have not quite warranted that attention.

It would be a bit disingenuous to suggest that Slovenia is some hidden gem that is only discoverable through ancient scrolls and Instagram reels that have fewer than ten thousand likes. Upon arriving at Bled, that much was immediately clear. English was obviously more common than Slovenian, and the pan-European-accented receptionist (who we later discovered to be Spanish) for our hostel gave us unprompted recommendations for Mega Burger: “The portion sizes are f***ing massive” and the cheapest beer in town: “It’s far out though, but also second cheapest is at the hockey. Probably just go here.” The “here” in question, to be fair, was a true Slovenian watering hole on the main road.

The popularity of Bled is reinforced by its landmarks. Bled castle was expectedly popular and spaces by the lakeside are few and far between, although this is in part because the local authorities hand out fines for swimming in the majority of areas around the lake near the town. Despite the many games of ‘guess where they’re from’ played on the walk round the lake (which is easier when the people in question have ginger hair and are wearing GAA tops), it was fun to feel the buzz of life for the last time before we would be heading off onto the trail. The Juliana trail route spans a lot further than we walked and is recommended to take over 20 days, but the stages we had picked were some of the quieter parts and saw us take the same paths as others before cutting through small villages and brooks to find these alpine huts and hotels. It would be our last opportunity to feel truly clean and cook a meal for ourselves. Over Hugh’s gas stove in the hostel car park, we boiled pasta and prepared for the journey ahead.

By the end of day one of walking, we had covered 28.17 kilometres and gained 868 metres of elevation. We had not brought enough food to cover dinner, and with no supermarkets or restaurants in proximity to Pokljuka, where our hotel was, we were already staring down the barrel of a missed meal. In our darkest hours and at our steepest inclines we fantasised of getting to the hotel and being offered a beer. It felt due reward for a first day that reeked of ‘planned 18 months ago’ and the sweat from almost seven hours of walking. Thankfully, there was a buffet dinner on which we could capitalise. With full stomachs and slightly knocked optimism, we went to bed and awaited day two.

Suddenly, it’s seven in the morning and we awake to gunshots outside the hotel. This can’t be – even in rural Slovenia we can’t escape the violence of humanity? Unbeknownst to us, Pokljuka is the hub of Slovenian biathlon and after cautiously peering out of the window, there were no Slovenian gangs carrying out armed robbery. Rather, a group of 12-18 year-olds on roller skis carrying out their offseason training. Somewhat relieved, we loaded up once again at the buffet breakfast and began to make our way to Stara Fužina, where we would be stopping for lunch (and a quick swim) before heading up to our hut for the night. At this point, we could still not see Triglav and the steadily building mystery and intrigue had us questioning where we were really going and the difficulty that we may have signed up for when it all felt like it would be easy.

Suspicions confirmed on the third day, as we ascended up to Vodnikov Dom. In order to get to the top of a mountain, apparently you have to walk up it. I’m not sure that’s really cricket, to be honest. The walk up from our night two hut to the night three hut (Vodnikov Dom) was a never-ending wind-up that wound up 30-40° gradients and South African hikers alike. Between day two and day three, we ended up putting in 1,632 metres of elevation, agonisingly close to a nice, round mile but alas I remain unsatisfied, over exactly 33 kilometres.

Our latest domicile was the most rustic yet. 26 mattresses laid almost bare lined the sides of the top floor room, with little enough room to smell the breath (or worse) of your next door neighbour for the night. Having been showed to our beds, it appeared that one stood online on the right side of the room with a generous half a metre or so between it and the next-door mattress. On the left side, the mattress was cramped in cosily to its neighbours, and a feeling of dread washed over us when we identified the belongings sitting next to one of our sleeping areas. When we had arrived at the hut, we were sitting in the common area briefly, to escape the sun, and had gotten chatting to a young English couple who were debating how to get down to where we had just come from. Nothing wrong with that in principle, but after realising that showers cost €10 for four minutes (that is perfectly good Radler money I’ll have you know), we had both resolved to use a combination of sinks, taps, soap and deodorant to make do for a day, before getting to our next stop. With the risk of antagonising our new friends on the line, as well as potentially falling prey to hypothetically-proposed polyamory in jest, neither of us particularly wanted the cosy spot. The only fair thing to do would be to rock-paper-scissors. I got 2-0ed, and spent my night alongside our new friends hugging the wall to avoid awkwardness unsuccessfully.

Along the way so far, we had been playing continual games of gin rummy over and over. But at the previous hut, we decided to turn the many small games into one large game: first to Triglav (2864 points, in correspondence to the mountain’s height in metres). We ate into that total over the course of the evening of night three.

Day four was the day of the summit. Having gotten up early to escape my awkward predicament, we had made good time in getting to our hut for the night. We took a break for food and rest and then began to climb. Many of the details of the climb I have already spoken about towards the beginning. Hugh, the more experienced mountaineer of our pair, brought up the rear while I pieced together the combination of hiking, scrambling and climbing. We would make it up and down without real issue, but not unscathed. It was the worst possible day to forget suncream but also perhaps the funniest by the time we made it to Ljubljana. My farmer’s tan was swiftly replaced by a burn that mapped my sleeveless top, and Hugh’s jaw was lightly showing sign of the helmet straps that had protected only a fraction of his face during the day.

With the sweet taste of success, we skipped back down to Dom Planika hut serenaded by the dulcet tones of Slovenian accordion music which echoed long into the night, and probably a lot longer than we would have liked. It was at this hut where we finally got the chance to speak to other Slovenian locals about their experiences with the mountains, having mostly encountered other internationals along the way so far. It seemed as if this last hut was reserved for Slovenian domestic tourists and the serious mountaineers of the internationals (and us as a third, miscellaneous category who definitely don’t fit into the other two). We spoke of notoriety, hiking in the UK and respect for the mountain. Eventually it was time to leave, and the descent on day five, though gruelling, passed with some anti-climax. Soon, we would be in Ljubljana and revelling in the pleasantries of urban life that we had missed where running water was in scarce supply.

In Ljubljana, we frequented art galleries including the Graphic Art Museum, the Museum of Modern Art and the National Gallery; museums like the Natural History Museum and the City Museum; Ljubljana’s castle accessed by funicular and various upmarket trendy restaurants that earned it the nickname (that only we use) of Slovenian Bermondsey. Ljubljana is a fantastic city, the kind which you would actually live in, rather than simply proclaim: ‘Oh I would so live here.’ Most time between activities was spent out by the river, in bars or cafes or restaurants deciding where to go next. After making full use of the Ljubljana culture card, we were forced to say goodbye to both each other and the country in order to go our separate ways.

Final score in gin rummy: Seb, 2867; Hugh, 2502.

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Terrestrial television is dead. Long live terrestrial television. Mr Beast is our cultural overlord, overseen by the Netflix gods sitting atop Mount Olympus (the one in Washington, once they have moved into the Woodies Building). Streaming platforms are transforming how we consume media in Britain. Other than the BBC, YouTube has overtaken all other streaming services in Britain (Ofcom) and has its sights set on first. The timing of the World Cup will kick the can down the round another year, but numbers suggest that terrestrial television is a dying art, at least on its own platforms.

The existence of YouTube TV, which offers collated subscriptions for American networks such as ESPN, CNN and Fox (as well as others) for the low, price of $67.99 per month, demonstrates their willingness to enter this market on the other side of the Atlantic. Domestically, Sky owns those rights, and is highly unlikely to relinquish them. There is no YouTube TV for Britain as it stands, but the concern is that we will lose our creative vision when YouTube eventually comes knocking. It is not currently profitable enough to resist.

Although YouTube operates ‘Members-only’ sections on individual channels at the discretion of the poster, it is demonstrably more profitable (for the largest channels, including conventional terrestrial broadcasters) to keep videos free. The YouTube Partner Program offers creators 55% of advertising revenue, as well as 55% of the money spent by YouTube premium members who watch their videos.

In 2024, the BBC earned around £300 million from advertising (Statista). It would take a lot of views (between roughly 100 and 300 million) to get anywhere near that on YouTube, but that’s fine when the BBC are seeing numbers like 14 billion in their viewer count for 2024-5.

In January 2026, the two companies signed a symbiotic deal; one that brings more BBC content to the YouTube platform and away from traditional terrestrial spaces. Purported to be a partnership, this deal could be exploitative by YouTube, on their quest to become a one-stop-shop hegemon for entertainment - the death of the terrestrial channel, of cable television.

While the two remain separate entities, the BBC’s presence on YouTube is a rebirth of its content, rather than a death. YouTube is consumed at a higher rate than Netflix not just in Britain, but around the world. With BBC, ITV and Channel 4 content readily available in a platform more popular than any other individual streaming service, free TV is alive and kicking.

It would be assumed that the uptake in YouTube is driven by younger generations. That is, in part, true: Gen Z and Gen Alpha do make up the majority of viewership statistics (18-34s watch an average of 18 minutes per day compared to the over 55s’ 11 per day) but more specifically the older viewers are taking to the platform. Over 55s doubled their YouTube viewership in Britain from 2023 to 2024 (Ofcom), of which 42% took place on a television set. It is clearly perceived as an acceptable alternative for the channels they had grown up on.

Large YouTube creators are also training themselves on terrestrial television. The series Beast Games (unsurprisingly hosted by ‘Mr Beast’, Jimmy Donaldson, himself) took 25 daysto reach 50 million views and followed the conventions of the reality genre. The show follows contestants through challenges, akin to the tribulations of the Netflix’s Squid Game which inspired the title and format. Although it premiered on Amazon’s streaming platform, Prime Video, the pilot reached 77 million views when uploaded to YouTube. Returning again to the British media space, the Sidemen’s (a British content creation group on YouTube) Inside, an interpretation of Big Brother, also debuted to great statistical success. Its own pilot reached 15 million views respectively.

If it looks like terrestrial television, behaves like terrestrial television, is free like terrestrial television, is it terrestrial television? It is an identity crisis that will need to be resolved to understand the incoming era of entertainment in Britain, but the apocalyptic messaging that YouTube is eradicating our institutions is sensationalist. You will still get your favourite BBC and ITV classics for free, you might just have to go on YouTube for it.

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Two Sun journalists walk into a mosque. Ben and I are there under the specific invite of Akram, who we have met only a handful of hours ago at the Bangladeshi Nationalist Party’s office in Whitechapel. Our other new friend Shah will not be there, but on the bright side, that means I no longer have to try and convince him that capital punishment isn’t really a good thing. In the last 11 days, I have travelled 720.8 miles, on four methods of transport, over 21 hours for the pure purpose of reporting (roughly the distance from central London to Florence or Oslo). Reflecting over these different reporting trips, I realised that the final product is one thing - the angle or story you’re pursuing is important in itself - but the stories gained from the process are often just as whimsical and bizarre.

The Quixotic

There was good reason for us to be in the mosque, and thankfully for once The Sun were pursuing a more empathetic angle. The resulting piece was not as touching as our day had been, which was filled by warm hospitality, generosity and openness. The day started with a door knocking posting to Ilford, in search of a grandfather who had just lost his daughter and granddaughter. Mistaken identity at the first address, mistaken ownership at the second, and suddenly Ben and I were traipsing through East London asking Uber drivers and locals if they had information.

When the addresses proved fruitless, we turned to community centres: the Ripple centre, the Hedgecock centre. Even the ‘City Bangladeshi Community and Cultural Centre’ (we had heard that the family were indiscriminate “community leaders”). All to no avail - the Ripple centre held no such related events and neither did the Hedgecock. The so-called ‘City Bangladeshi Community and Cultural Centre’ was two blokes in a room that had no idea the company even existed.

“One of my friends must have used my address.”

When traipsing became trudging, not even local mango slushies could generate any real optimism. Despite a burst of energy for Ben sparked by bumping into another reporter for the Times (because we were on the right track, of course), all was starting to look lost.

The last place to try was the Bangladeshi Nationalist Party’s office in Whitechapel. We decided that it was the last place we could reasonably be expected to try, and from there we could have a quick pint and head home. Arriving to the Google Maps address, it had seemingly become a restaurant. Tucked just to the side of said restaurant, however, was a well-populated alley with off-duty waiters chaining cigarettes from each other. We hadn’t come this far to leave a stone unturned. Down the alleyway we were given some rather inquisitive looks - standing out in dress shirts and suit trousers in the flock of polo shirt and jean-ed gentlemen. At the back of the alleyway was a Russian-doll second alleyway-esque corridor into a building, allegedly leading to a library and research centre.

Come on, last place to try in the last place we’re trying, no stone unturned, right?

Through the second corridor, we struck the motherload. A Bangladeshi man is sitting in the chair at the front of rows of chairs, and stands up to greet us. In standing up, he reveals the logo of the Bangladeshi Nationalist Party, which by now is laser-printed into my mind from the day’s research.

“Excuse me, that’s the Bangladeshi Nationalist Party logo right? Is this the BNP office?”

Adorning the walls are a flood of photos. My university logo, gatherings, lectures, political figures, proud smiles and one of the most eclectic book collections I have ever seen (pictured below).

We are offered tea and individually wrapped cupcakes as we sit down to talk with Akram, our new aforementioned friend. We interview him, and another friend, for the best part of an hour and a half. I am not so involved in the interviewing - I was not as clued in on the story beforehand so leaving the details to Ben - but instead providing casual, lighter conversation to keep things smooth.

Soon, Akram is visited by Shah, who is popping in to say hi to his local political leader. He is particularly chatty, and I can instantly recognise that my new role is to keep him locked into conversation so that Ben can stay on the task at hand. We agree about the shameful brutality of Ann Widdecombe’s murder, and to my surprise and slight horror, he decrees absolutely that the man should be hung. Shah has minimal faith in the rehabilitative nature of prison, and thinks that he’s only going to get right back to bloody murder once he’s out. I don’t doubt the terrible violence of the murder, but can’t quite bring myself to brush off capital punishment as an agree to disagree.

Shah, despite his tendency towards state-sanctioned murder, is otherwise incredibly personable and welcoming. We talk about cricket - he tells me he can get me into his club if I’m looking for somewhere to play - and my upcoming graduation. As a point of conversation, I complain lightly about the £50 rental fee for my gown and hood. Instinctively, he demands that I send him my bank details so that he can pay for it.

Just as we are about to leave, Akram issues us an invite to the Brick Lane Masjid. He thinks that the grandfather we have been looking for might be there, and he guarantees us that he can secure an audience. 9PM sharp, we will be there.

9PM comes, and we are taking our shoes off to participate in special remembrance prayers. In the process, we have accidentally procured approximately three free dinners from other interviewees on Brick Lane who demand we come back so they can feed us. It feels appropriate to demonstrate our respect for the loss that has been suffered, and that cannot come in the form of standing at the back awkwardly. Instead, Ben and I are praying to a God that we do not know and facing Mecca. When the service is done, the masses are cleared out by Akram and his friends - who have now turned bodyguards - so that we can interview a close family friend. Bangladeshi media is told to wait by the door while we get our 15 minutes with him.

Afterwards, we must dash to the pub (which feels distinctly ironic, but is one of the few places open around 10:30PM with free WiFi) to write up copy and send it into the Death Star (News UK building) for tomorrow’s paper. What was a single-address door-knocking report has turned into a ten hour quest for the exclusive.

The Odyssey

“Now I know how Odysseus felt.” I joke to my girlfriend over text, after letting her know I made it home from Manchester safely. In pursuit of the new political hub of revolution, I’ve been sent up shortly after the mayoral election to capture some of the energy in the bottle.

The trips to Manchester and Bristol do not contain even half the story of the previous mission, but nonetheless required cumulative travelling efforts that rivalled Matt Damon’s. As I pull over halfway into my journey home, I feel like a trucker as I wonder towards the Golden Arches, luminescent against the night sky. It’s Watford Gap services, and I must resist the temptation to buy Jack Links beef jerky and ‘Kitty-Kitty’ (miniature Kit-Kats) for the pure purpose of emulating the ‘trucker diet’ of Uncle Rob (@merdzictrans on Instagram for the reference). If you really stretch and mix all metaphors and anecdotes, it’s a bit like sparing the Sun God’s cattle.

My day out in Bristol does not get the same faux-trucker treatment, but instead I cosplay the overworked commuter, hastily writing up my transcription of Zack Polanski’s speech as if there are any stakes to me doing it tonight rather than tomorrow.

I had almost never gotten to do reporting before the last two weeks. I had reported on things certainly, and at times gone to the sporting events myself. Ashamedly, it was probably ~50% live reporting and ~50% second-hand accounts. It’s fun, if draining, and there are certainly as many stories from the reporting itself as there are produced by it.

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It is better to have loved and lost, than to never have loved at all. I love England. They lost. In two years’ time, I will love them just the same and I will have the same blind, delusory confidence that they will ascend to the mountaintop and finally achieve total footballing glory. I am a self-diagnosed deluded individual.

It starts with superstition. I am neither particularly spiritual or superstitious in my normal life, which echoes in the troves of England fans. I am also a relatively new England fan, having only come to consciousness for the 2014 World Cup, at the ripe old age of nine. However, when England finally won on my birthday (July 11th, the date we lost to Croatia in the semi-finals, 2018, and Italy in the Euro final, 2021), I was utterly convinced that this time would be different.

But Lionel Messi took over, as he always does, and Thomas Tuchel’s roll of the dice came up as snake eyes. It was only in the 84th minute that the English castle wall finally capitulated to the Argentinian siege, but as Enzo Fernandez’s shot looped and curled and dipped into the back of the net, all English fans knew what was coming. It was over well before the final whistle was blown.

Losing is not much fun, but dominance is hardly that great either. I question whether Paris Saint-Germain fans experience any real joy at winning France’s Ligue Un at this point (they have won 12 out of the last 14). That is why delusion is the beautiful intersection of the two. For a month, we experienced the self-affirming belief that England are World Cup winners, because we could not imagine anything to the contrary.

When Harry Kane struck it on the turn against DR Congo to pull us back ahead, and Jude Bellingham became a walking brace against Mexico and Norway, it seemed as if the Jules Rimet trophy was within our grasp already. Argentina would meet their inevitable end at the hands of strong and noble warriors like they did in 1982, and the momentum by that point would be more than France or Spain could bear. We were invincible.

The relentless, delusory optimism when it comes to supporting England is bizarre as a phenomenon. It is so distinctly anti-British. Could you imagine if we had the same relentless, delusory optimism about a rebound in the economy, a dip in unemployment, or heaven forbid a full prime ministerial term? We are not necessarily in our strongest or most stable era as a nation. So perhaps we could do with a little delusion, the belief that (to quote D:Ream) things can only get better.

The beauty of delusion comes from the futility of the exercise. It is not valiant if we declare our strength, just to win. It is only a romantic heartbreak if we lead for 84 minutes before falling apart spectacularly. Yet over and over, we heal our hearts to have them broken again, because it’s no fun actually being good.

Agincourt, Waterloo, the Armada, the Blitz, “Fight them on the beaches”, Eddie the Eagle. Bosh. In the pursuit of British victory (or just participation in the latter’s case), the underdog status is a core aspect to the protagonist’s character. The unpalatable victories that are the result of crushing oppression get lost to time, which is its own issue. We are no longer in military conflicts, but the underdog mentality lives on in its own way, and two new champions have arisen to embody this idea in a way that only British people can.

Arthur Fery finally saw the end of his fairytale Wimbledon run in straight sets on July 10th, and although Alexander Zverez advanced to the final, Fery won. Coming into the tournament as a wildcard and the ATP rank #114, he was only the fourth wildcard to make a Grand Slam semi-final and only the fifth Brit to make a Wimbledon semi-final. Sweeter still after growing up so close to the ground, and attending school locally at King’s College School, Wimbledon. He is now ATP rank #36, and the British #1 at the age of 24 years and one day old. His is the classic underdog story, perfectly mapped onto the enemy-less template of the British underdog story. In a sense, most similar to Eddie the Eagle, who did not have anyone to defeat but the Olympics Committee, and maybe Dexter Fletcher for making a pretty average film about his life.

As a result of his previous anonymity, his youth, and the overall story, Fery received a great deal of support from the British media. That drove in-person support, the in-person support drove results, and the underdog story self-perpetuates as the advantages mount on top of each other. When Cameron Norrie was taken apart by Carlos Alcaraz last year, there was no underdog narrative, the talent discrepancy was too wide. There was no “maybe, just maybe” sentiment. That was, in part, because Alcaraz is no enemy - he is young, well-liked and so absurdly talented that to position him as any kind of antagonist is a complete waste of time and energy. The unessential antagonist is more common to the sporting underdog, but it is not always the case.

Simultaneous to Wimbledon, the World Cup rambles on and England’s success, too, relies on their ability to turn themselves into the underdog. In contrast to Fery, England’s underdog status does hinge on their ability to create an enemy for themselves, a superpower that is willing their defeat the whole time. Against Mexico, it was the altitude, the Azteca atmosphere, and it was going down to ten men. Against Norway, it was the fearsome Viking, and the “no one likes us, we don’t care” attitude. The entire world is against us (they aren’t) and want to see us fall. You can support who you want, we’re England, and we’re going to put the ball in the f***ing net.

Those two dragons now lay slain (we were a combined 37 positions above our two opponents in the global rankings going into this tournament), and two more stand between us and glory. The former, the reigning champions, headed by the greatest player of all time, and ably supported (allegedly) by the very institution running the tournament. Should we beat them, what awaits us in the final is either the most dominant team in the tournament, by far, or the team that beat us just two years ago at the Euros final.

There is no way to spin it such that we are not underdogs. Let’s ignore the growing global animosity towards Argentina, who are experiencing a perfect storm of bizarre Trump affiliation through Milei, favouritism (once again, allegedly) from the tournament’s governors, and their historic track record (this time, not allegedly) with racism in football. Argentina fans hurled beer bottles and abuse at the Cape Verde and Egypt players during their knockout matches (per Al Jazeera). Two years ago, Enzo Fernández apologised to his Chelsea teammate Wesley Fofana, for his “uninhibited racism”. When you are beating England at racism in football, you have to be pretty bad.

This is why the 2026 World Cup feels different to the major tournaments of the Southgate era. Dating back to 2018, we have never truly been underdogs. We were never plucky, we were always a well-oiled contender that everyone knew would go far but never win. At this tournament, we can now win or lose every game, and are proportionally successful according to the strength of our opposition.

The British underdog is not solely a sporting story. As the introductory sentence to this entire article suggests, British history is littered with underdog stories. The final, and most culturally relevant one that Britain is currently experiencing, wants to make Flake 99s cost 99p again. Nigel Farage thinks that he is the underdog, bravely squaring up to the oppressive establishment of meanie journalists who are reporting on his donors, and the MPs who are calling him out for it on the political stage. Having resigned, in order to trigger a by-election and briefly pause the enquiry into his finances, Farage framed this battle as “people vs the establishment”. He is, however, so obviously the establishment representative that it does not warrant explaining. There is, in this tale, one plucky British underdog who is putting himself forward, with limited parliamentary support, to quash Farage and his associated far-right nationalism. Enter Count Binface. The underdog that British politics deserves.

Unfortunately for Binface, I think that he may be the British underdog that finally falls short. Yet the media coverage he is experiencing, and the fact that I need to even assert an opinion that he probably won’t win, demonstrates that you can never count out that British underdog. No one is particularly talking about Laurence Fox, who is also running in Clacton, or Mr Fishfinger (Independent). Facing almost impossible odds, we know that the magic of the British underdog might take over, and soon the House of Commons dress code may need to be relaxed when it comes to headwear.

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Who is the greatest British underdog of all time?

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‘Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears.’ (Julius Caesar, III, ii) ‘In an orator … we demand the acuteness of a logician, the profundity of a philosopher, the diction of a poet, the memory of a lawyer, the voice of a performer in tragic drama, the gestures, you might almost say, of an actor at the very top of his profession. Here, then, are some of the reasons why a first-class orator is one of the rarest things in the world.’ (De Oratore, I, cxiii) In the post-pager, post-party line, post-universal grey centrism era, it has become increasingly uncommon to see politicians who are great orators. Yet increasingly common that those oratory skills translate directly to success.

Last year for the New Statesman (shameless plug), Steve Richards wrote an article entitled: ‘The lost art of political oratory’. In 2023, the Prospect editor, Phillip Collins (who was Tony Blair’s chief speechwriter, some irony in that) wrote a piece with a similar sentiment: ‘The decline of political speechwriting’. Collins’ piece, which of course deserves more consideration because of his prior role, argues that political speechwriting (or oration in shorthand) has been nullified by the nuance of modern politics. It is too difficult to unify under individual causes, which is compulsory for a really good speech. The reality, three years later, is that Collins was both right and wrong. Grand unifying causes are as important as ever, but slightly easier to come by.

If you will allow me, I want to travel back in time. On June 18th, Zohran Mamdani took the stage at the New York Knicks’ championship parade to give a speech. What would follow is a speech that will be eternally memorialised in edits, reels and TikToks. Mamdani focuses on the fourth game in the NBA Finals series. Down big in the third quarter, the Knicks are an almost impossibility to win the game (statistically). They are given just a 0.4% chance at victory. Mamdani skilfully twists this statistical anomaly into a round characteristic of the city as a whole.

In that 0.4%, the city ‘goes to work’, and Mamdani stretches out this perseverance into Knick-based anecdotes: Jalen Brunson taking a pay cut, OG Anunoby soaring from about the free-throw line to tip the ball in as time expires to win, Mikal Bridges being ‘worth every draft pick’, Josh Hart was also there too. His was half-heartedly related to pulling in rebounds. Jose ‘Grand Theft’ Alvarado, the only born and bred New Yorker on the team, gets lost in the middle of Mamdani’s list (I think it might be better served at the end personally), but having been raised in public housing in South Williamsburg, he offers the perfect image for Mamdani’s grand design. Housing concerns and borough unity were central to the Mamdani image, and once his player list is done, he turns back to his own political aims: ‘Most of all, it’s in that 0.4% that the Knicks do what New Yorkers have always done. When we are told something is impossible, we find a way.’ Mamdani cleverly converges the ‘them’ and the ‘you’ (and the ‘me’) into ‘we’, the pronoun necessary for unity and shared responsibility.

Mamdani is such a good orator precisely because he understands the same principles as Collins, but also how it has now been adapted as a skill for the modern age. Collins, and especially Richards, both lament the 15-second soundbite that plagues modern oration. You cannot encapsulate grand ideas in 15 seconds, it is simply not possible. You can only get pithy sentiments of one or two sentences that sounds snappy but have no nuance or depth. Contrary to the persistent narrative though, the consumption of social media is not entirely dominated by the 15 second format. It is true that the first few seconds are important for retention, but as TikTok gained popularity, the possible video length would be continually elongated until eventually one hour long ‘clips’ could be uploaded in one chunk.

One hour long speeches on TikTok and Instagram are obviously not popular. Nor do they even exist in any mainstream context. Instead, the new oratory age demands between one and a half, and three minutes of speaking. Not enough to delve into the complexities of the issue you’re addressing, but essentially long enough to lay out something akin to an ‘introduction’ or ‘conclusion’ (in writing terms) that appropriately summarises the important aspects. Mamdani subtly hits on his major points while ostensibly being up and down, and praising the Knicks in a total of eight or so minutes. The snippet taken from ‘If you allow me, I want to travel back in time’ to ‘now we’ve won’ is a hair over four minutes.

The most important aspect of modern oration, in the era of social media, is the aforementioned retention. If the apathetic scroller will only give you a mere few seconds of thought, you need those few seconds to encourage them to watch another few. Then another, until the sunk cost fallacy sets in and they watch it all. Mamdani’s Knicks speech can be commonly found reposted with Jay Z and Alicia Keys’ ‘Empire State of Mind’ playing in the background, and clipped highlights of the Knicks themselves taking over the visual entertainment once the bridge is over. We already understand the importance of multimedia in the contemporary political spaces, why are we lagging behind on our conception of a kind of oration that is compatible with the same thing.

Mamdani’s speech and the social media adaptations merely prove that political oration is not dead, it is just revitalising. It is true that we have suffered through one of the most dull oratory political ages, but with revived youth and energy (as well as technological understanding), we will see more great orators like Mamdani that can do both the old and new kinds of oration. One that fits for three and a half idealogical hours, and one that can compress itself into four minutes of rap-backed Instagram video.

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In April 2025, I decided that I would write my dissertation on Geoffrey Hill. Ever since then, whenever people asked what I was writing about, I entered into this bizarre ritualistic song and dance that sounded like this:

“Yeah, so like, he was poet laureate for a while (he wasn’t I have gotten that wrong repeatedly), professor of poetry at Oxford (that is true) for a bit. I think one of the best poets from, like, the 21st-century, apparently, I mean, like, basically unintelligible but occasionally, you know, he comes out with some absolute gems but you’re just trawling through a sort of philosophical crap for a while to find it. Pretty grumpy guy, as well, I think but, like, who knows, you know, I didn’t actually know him myself, I didn’t even know who he was before he died so how can I actually tell? But like, yeah, fairly big name in criticism for a while as well, yeah.”

“Coooool. Would you recommend me any of his work to read?”

“No.”

10 years ago tomorrow, Geoffrey Hill died. The quasi-obituary that I usually come out with when asked about his writing didn’t seem fitting. Equally, I’m not capable of an actual obituary of his personal life, having never met him. The unfortunate truth is that outside of the academic world, he has lost some relevance. Around my current office, he’s a lesser known name at best, and completely unfamiliar to most. The best obituary I can write is how his legacy came to me.

In sixth form, I realised that I was pretty good at English. Going into my final year at school, I could have picked any of my A Levels to do as a degree. Leading the pack, by a narrow margin, was the Philosophy and Spanish courses offered by a handful of decent universities that I thought I had a shot at (and Oxford, which I didn’t). Going into my final preliminary exams, that would determine the predicted grades I would use to apply, that joint honours course was the front runner. After slightly struggling with Spanish, I thought it best to rule it out, no matter how much I enjoyed it. This left a few options. Stick with philosophy, but this time on its own. Politics would have complimented it nicely, I could always have a crack at PPE, even though I had little to no interest in economics. Or, lurking in the back, was English. Frankly, there was so little to separate my interest in each one that I went for English as my best subject at the time. With that decision made, I could settle into my last year with a clearer picture at least, and go through the motions. Then came Hill.

You only have to do two pieces of coursework for the A Level English that I sat, and with one already done in the previous year, I was looking forward to this second set. It was always the discipline I preferred, repeatedly swearing off exams that were ‘just a memory test, hardly indicative of any real ability’ (can you smell the copium?). When it finally came time to find out what we would be doing, I was pretty excited. Mr Gibbons came round, and dropped two books on each desk. One, recognisably Cormac McCarthy’s Blood Meridian. The other, appeared more like a leaflet. Not quite sure how I was going to get 1,500 words out of this flyer you got on the street mate.

The ‘leaflet’ was Hill’s Scenes From Comus, to date my favourite of his poems. Class by class, as we would slowly dissect each stanza in excruciating (and what often felt like painstaking) detail, Hill began to slowly unravel. Twisted tongue and rhapsodic rhetoric, dodgy double entendre and rarified referencing. Through the great hymnal poetic tradition of Iceland and back to sociological commentary, we weaved in and out of the three acts, and, like that it was done. I can’t even remember what I wrote my coursework on now. Probably something uninteresting and basic like ‘pain’ with no additional nuance or something like that. It was done, I did alright, and begrudgingly admitted (only to myself) that I actually really enjoyed reading his poems. Probably more than McCarthy (sorry).

I arrived at university, bushy-eyed and ready to take on the world and the English canon. As it happens, it’s quite difficult to cover everything ever written in two, sort of three years. We are now in April 2025, and I must decide what to write my dissertation about. I haven’t touched Hill since that coursework. I take out Speech, Speech. It’s tolerable, not quite what I remember. Trinity term races around and I need an answer for what I’m going to write. Trying to game the system, I decide on Geoffrey Hill - modern and niche enough to easily have a fresh perspective, mostly poetry and essays so should take me no time to churn through.

The reality, with Hill, as you will find if you do read his material, is that it’s all well and good looking at page counts, but that doesn’t factor in for needing to read each page five times over before you even vaguely understand it. Nine months of reading and research would lead me to a ‘[REDACTED]’ and an accompanying dissertation that is as poncy as you may expect by that idea. After graduation, I’ll publish my full dissertation on here (as well as filling the redacted with the actual phrase I used), but I can’t until then because of self-plagiarism rules (booooooriiiingggg).

What then, from spending nine months or so on one author, did I find his legacy to be? Ultimately, understated. Which is obvious based on the register of this piece, and the monologues that I give people when they ask about him. And that is certainly the case of his figure as a public image. No one even really remembers his verbal spat with Carol Ann Duffy. It is only his academic image that persists. Which, to be honest, is fitting, I think. He was reserved and complex, judgemental in a way that was forced introspection and considered thought. He had a great fascination for the world around him, in the most ridiculous corners of the world. He would find meaning in the uncovered, undiscovered, completely unknown elements of life and literature in a way that very few others could, before or after him. To be laid to literary rest as solitary may well have been a rather comforting idea for a figure who was more content with his own truth than someone else’s.

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Brazil contains the largest Afro-diasporic community, and part of the recontextualisation process hinges on reuniting with both the historic and contemporary aspects of living in a diaspora. The carnival attire venerates African patterns and textiles that themselves convey a sense of motion in their fluidity, as patterns stretch from end to end.

The first picture particularly captures the childlike glee at identity expression and affiliation. Untainted by the horrors of violence, it exemplifies the possibility of joy that is masked by a perception of a city that is known to Brazilian tourists as being the centre of carnival culture. In the second, At that same time, casual clothing and statement banners demonstrate an affiliation with the African-American identity, which is a close second to Brazil’s diasporic population.

In the top right, the text on the man’s shirt reads: ‘ENCONTREI MINHA SALVACAO NA CULTURA HIP HOP’ (I found my salvation in hip hop culture).

Taken during the 90s, in which the high top fade (think Will Smith in Fresh Prince of Bel Air) was at its peak.

The practical form of ‘Encontrei minha salvação na cultura hip hop’. It was demonstrably, a deep-rooted diasporic connection and not a fascination for America proved by their reception of Nelson Mandela.

There is, too, a famous photo of his reception off of the plane akin to a photograph shown in the Hurvin Anderson exhibit that I have previously reviewed, but this one above shows a level of support that continues well beyond his political tenure. The most striking portion of this exhibit, and the one that gives this article its name, is a set of studio photography that explicitly casts subjects as aforementioned ‘protagonista[s]’. Montero communicates the aesthetics of anatomy, and the manner in which bodies that were previously conceived of as dangerous or negative, were in fact objects of great beauty, perfectly captured in the medium of 35mm film. Although originally popular in still photography, 35mm has become a favourite of film-makers, and it lends itself to that thematic vivacity that I have previously discussed. It suggests movement to a modern viewer, who is perhaps as accustomed to that quality on a cinema screen more so than in an art exhibition. I have included, too, beneath the photos the description attached to the small red alcove that houses this collection. It bears the city and its citizens in a literal, and metaphorical, quasi-naked form. He attempts to frame them as a kind of postcard, but distances itself from the touristic postcards that represent only the most sanitised aspects of Salvador, and Bahia at large.

It’s World Cup season. Such a cultural behemoth simply cannot be neglected in order for one to remain conversationally relevant until July the 19th. Many hardcore football fans resent the sudden interest shown by casual fans every two/four years (depending on whether you care enough for the Euros). Not I. To be fair, I may not necessarily be considered ‘hardcore’ by football fan perspectives. I usually go and support my team in person 3 - 5+ times a year (depending on term times) and don’t watch the Premier League more than any other week. Other national leagues are somewhat of a write-off, and my opinions on players playing abroad are usually entirely formed by their performance in continental competitions and the collection of clips I get shown by social media. With that being said, however, it does make me much more ‘hardcore’ than the majority of the nation that tune in solely for the sake of patriotism. I don’t blame them, football is underrated-ly boring to watch sometimes (I’m sorry, it’s true: I love it as a sport but it is true). Because it’s boring, then, I also do not blame them for not bothering to learn every rule and tactical insight, just to be able to participate in conversations for the next month or so. Two characters from the IT Crowd understood this perfectly in a brilliantly written scene about Moss and Roy attempting to make friends in the pub. Having understood that caring about football can get them in with the geezers, Moss learns some set phrases to guarantee social capital: famously ‘the thing about Arsenal is that they always try and walk it in’. He has no idea what it means, but it elicits passionate agreement and an ensuing friendship. Let’s modernise it for the World Cup 2026, and give you some easy set phrases to impress your football-mad mates easily:

1. ‘It seems like Tuchel is trying to play to Kane’s strengths more this time round’.

What does that actually mean? Well, ‘Tuchel’ is Thomas Tuchel (the manager) and ‘Kane’ is Harry Kane (captain, all-time top goalscorer). In the last few tournaments, England have fallen short for a number of reasons. A bit of bad luck, more penalty shootout pain. But also, Gareth Southgate’s team selection often revolved around in-form footballing ‘geniuses’ like Phil Foden, and (at the time) Jack Grealish. The hope would be that a significantly improved off-pitch chemistry might translate to some on-pitch chemistry - even more historically, England have suffered as players were unable to get over their club rivalries in the dressing room. For this tournament, Tuchel left a few big-name ‘footballing geniuses’ out of his squad. More specifically, Phil Foden and Cole Palmer (the latter scored England’s solitary goal in the Euro 2024 final) in the midfield/wings, and Trent Alexander-Arnold. Alexander-Arnold suffered neglect for some more reasons than Foden and Palmer. He struggled for game-time in his debut season at Real Madrid, and has since been overtaken by the red-hot form of Reece James for Chelsea. The dropping of Foden and Palmer, instead favouring surprising selections like Noni Madueke represent a desire to play around Harry Kane’s unique abilities. Despite being the England striker, he often drops back into England’s midfield to unlock defences with his passing. Picking players like Madueke over Foden or Palmer and Djed Spence over Trent Alexander-Arnold demonstrate that Tuchel will not be bullied by the English press into taking the 26 most-talented players, but rather a squad that he thinks is capable of winning the World Cup.

2. ‘Rio Ngumoha was electric in that friendly against New Zealand, Tuchel should have taken him for the squad!’

Is this true? Not even necessarily. But, it signals to the hardcore fan that you are more switched on to recent results and the World Cup buildup than they once thought. Rio Ngumoha is a 17-year-old winger who gets regular minutes at Liverpool and was taken as one of the four additional youth players to the United States, although these four youngsters cannot join the squad, unless there is an injury. Hence the latter part of the set phrase. Insert generic adjectives about his Man-of-the-Match performance to show you really know your stuff: ‘direct’, ‘electric’, ‘tricky’, ‘exciting’. Do you need to be able to say what he specifically did well? Absolutely not.

3. ‘I like what Djed Spence gives us defensively’

Djed Spence, our backup, backup (intentionally repeated) fullback was a rather surprising pick for the squad. Part of a torrid Spurs side, it was a bit of a shock that he was selected over both the aforementioned Trent Alexander-Arnold and Newcastle’s Lewis Hall. Lewis Hall more so, who was exceptional in the Champions League (Europe’s premier continental competition), especially defensively against Spain’s Lamine Yamal, one of the best players on the planet at the moment. Once again, it can be asked whether you even agree with this take. It doesn’t matter. Just acknowledging that Spence’s game, and his selection, revolves around his ability to defend rather than going forward like many modern fullbacks is enough to guarantee some contemplative or appreciative head nods.

4. ‘That French attack might be too good to contain’

Moving away from Anglo-centrism this time, this is an absolute classic. The French squad are completely overloaded with top-tier talent that will likely blow other teams away if they click. Comprised of last year’s Ballon d’Or winner (the award for the best player in the world), Ousmane Dembele, perennial World Cup superstar Kylian Mbappe (who scored a hat-trick in the 2022 World Cup final), as well as the likes of Michael Olise (a candidate for the Ballon d’Or this year), Rayan Cherki (arguably one of the most technically gifted players in the world) and the Parisian duo of Bradley Barcola and Desire Doue (both young starlets who have won back-to-back Champions Leagues at Paris Saint-Germain with Dembele), this an absolute indisputable classic. Bonus points for taking it any further: ‘will they get in each other’s way?’; ‘will Mbappe be willing to do his defensive duties though?’ (he doesn’t for his club, Real Madrid).

There are plenty more you could pull out, but rinsing and repeating these phrases amongst different company could almost have you sorted for the whole competition. If all else fails, there is always the nuclear option offered by Gary Lineker that might get a few subdued chuckles, that wouldn’t have thought to be playable anymore, but after a certain result the other day, it might be back on the cards: ‘Football is a simple game. Twenty-two men chase a ball for 90 minutes, and at the end the Germans always win’. A 7-1 win for Germany against minnows Curacao might make that true once again.

While queuing to take a ferry to the island of Ilha Grande (a tautology, I’m aware), myself and my two European friends willingly paid the local ‘tourist tax’ of R$60 which is equivalent to £8.67. It makes sense - arbitraging foreign tourists who could use enough reais notes to form a paper aeroplane fleet capable of winning the Battle of Britain. We feed back into the local economy beyond our premeditated spending on accommodation and living costs, everyone goes home happy. It was somewhat surprising then when we were told that two people living on Ilha Grande had burned down the machines that receive the tourist tax payment, and many more were currently blockading all ships carrying tourists as protest against the imposition of this tax.

Eventually, it was carefully explained to us by a ringleader of the protestors that the reasons were twofold. First, it has dissuaded tourists. Maybe not us, but as reported in multiple other articles since, it had drastically affected the willingness to visit the island. Some businesses reported cancellations on up to 60% of their bookings. The second, that those local to the area, but not to the island, were not exempt from this charge. Although the fee is somewhat reduced as long as you weren’t staying overnight for specifically residents of Angra Dos Reis, the neighbouring city, to R$28pp (£4.04), it is not much compensation. Besides, it’s not R$28, it’s that plus the 12.5% ‘service’ fee required for the middle man. So R$31.50. Decontextualised by the Angra Dos Reis minimum wage that sits at R$54 per day, that’s a rather expensive trip. Relative to the British minimum wage, that’s the equivalent of about £59 per person. Brazilian domestic tourists, let’s say from Rio, are even worse off. The minimum wage may be marginally higher at R$58.96 per day, but the R$60 cost per person is even more insurmountable in a country where the richest six people have the same amount of combined wealth as the bottom 50%.

The issues with this specific tax continue on with gripes about municipal inadequacies, accusations of squandering (or at worst even embezzling through corruption) the money are levelled by members of the protesting group. What it highlights, though, is the sweeping generalisations made about tourists as a homogenous entity. There are many foreign tourists, naturally, but the $167.6 billion Brazilian tourism industry is heavily reliant on domestic tourism, which made up 90% of trips taken by Brazilians in 2019 (BRIC Group). It also accounted for $112.3 billion in spending in 2024 (WTTC). Pricing out $112.3 billion in spending is not good for business. Obviously this is somewhat facetious, the Angra Dos Reis tourism tax is obviously not preventing a significant chunk of that income, but it represents a more ominous theme about pricing out as a whole. Around the increasingly popular, and increasingly gentrified, southern cities, there is a general feeling that for the foreign tourist, everything is too cheap. R$25 chicken yakisoba (there’s a huge Japanese population in Brazil), R$15 caipirinha that’s 50% cachaça, Ubers for the same price as an international transaction fee. Conversely, for the domestic tourist, these prices are still somewhat unattainable. In a nation plagued by wealth inequality, the foreign tourist reaps the same rewards as the Brazilian bourgeois while unknowingly saying: ‘can you believe how cheap it all is’.

Shock of the century, young person finds out about spending power. That is not the fundamental crux of this issue though, as the Angra Dos Reis tourist tax demonstrates. The issue is that the gap between the foreign and domestic tourist is dramatically expanding, while simultaneously the former is absorbing the opportunities of the latter. So perhaps it does make sense that they are chanting: ‘Não a Taxação’.

As of last Thursday, I have officially completed the anglophonic canon. ‘Alexander wept, for there were no worlds left to conquer.’ Three years of a bachelor’s degree is notoriously plenty of time to read and evaluate every piece of notoriety written across the last ~1,400 years. Oxford is unique in the sense that it is (I believe) the only remaining university in the country in which the studying of Old English is compulsory, and as such we’re uniquely positioned to be able to comment on the canon as a somewhat cohesive whole. The earliest texts I have studied, while almost impossible to date with the impossibility of manuscript history, precede even Chaucer by a fairly inconceivable margin. We are closer to Chaucer now than he was to the texts from the very beginning of my oldest paper. Anyway, with the newfound freedom after completed finals, my lovely girlfriend and I were discussing this question. I think we both already knew it would end up here in a matter of days. It is time to reflect upon the content of my degree as a whole for the very important purpose of deciding what is the greatest literary period of all time.

Here are the terms: it would be almost impossible (and entirely subjective) if the parameters are left too wide. We are going for a stretch of ten years only as my interpretation of a ‘period’, though it need not necessarily be a defined decade (i.e. 2010-2020, but also 2009-2019). I could do wider literary movements e.g. Romanticism, Postmodernism, Renaissance etc. but that is, quite literally only personal preference. ‘Greatest’ is my unnecessarily reductive term that is substituted for ‘best’ as I don’t necessarily want to get into a close reading of the key texts. This is supposed to be published 01/06/2026, not 01/06/2086. Each ‘period’ will be adjudicated based on its top three ‘greatest’ texts (that really is subjective), as well as the remaining seven to form a top ten. This will hopefully reward both landmark texts as well as depth. I’m afraid I do not care for literary ‘culture’ or ‘reception’. This will not necessarily punish periods that experienced a rich literary ‘culture’, but authors being friends does not carry any weight for me, sorry. I’ll list the ten texts/groups (one author only) I’m considering (with top three emboldened), followed by ones that DO NOT COUNT, but demonstrate perhaps what could have bolstered its case. Final caveat - anglophonic only. I love foreign literature, but I would be also be entirely hopeless in any attempt to assimilate it together with the texts in English.

Here. We. Go.

Honourable Mentions

1623 - 33: Shakespeare’s First Folio (1623), Ben Jonson’s Eight Masques and Three Plays (1626/29/32), John Donne’s Poems (1633), The Duchess of Malfi (1623), The Anatomy of Melancholy, Second Edition (1624), Complete Essays of Francis Bacon (1625), Il Penseroso (1631), Epitaph to Shakespeare’s Second Folio (1632), The Jew of Malta (1633), The Temple: Sacred Poems and Private Ejaculations (1633).

Headlined by (arguably) the most important piece of publicised literature, and certainly the most continually relevant over the past four hundred years, it is perhaps somewhat of an upset for the greatest ten years [of drama] to miss out on top spot. Lack of generic depth amongst the heavy hitters is its downfall. There is Bacon’s collection of essays, and the two incredibly important collections of poetry that sneak in the end, but it is the domination of drama that is both its greatest strength and its biggest weakness. The Anatomy of Melancholy is a slightly controversial inclusion considering the first edition was published in 1621, but it is the second (and subsequent) editions that are primarily used for reference and modern editions, so I’m counting it in this decade. Moving it one year earlier would also get Middleton’s The Changeling, but I don’t think we needed more drama at the cost of Herbert and Donne.

1810 - 20: Shelley’s Annus Mirabilis (1819), Don Juan (1819), Jane Austen’s run (1811 - 1817), Guide to the Lakes (1810), Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage (1812), Fairy Tales (1812), Waverley (1814), Biographia Literaria (1817), Frankenstein (1818), The Songs of Robert Burns (1820).

But also: The Giaour, Queen Mab, Christabel, Lectures on the English Poets, The Vampyre, Ivanhoe.

Incredibly unlucky to miss out. Considering the fact that two of the primary three are really collections of works, rather than individual ones themselves, this is the decade’s greatest strength and biggest weakness, akin to the over-concentration of drama from 1623 - 33. It does, however, boast much better variation across genre than the unofficial third place stretch. Grimm’s Fairy Tales are vital in the construction of folkloric influence in future literature (think Angela Carter’s The Bloody Chamber), Frankenstein introduces early science fiction, Coleridge’s Biographia Literaria covers non-fictional prose, and builds upon metatextual writing. The rest is almost self-explanatory, across extended/semi-epic poetry with Shelley and Byron, political didacticism (also Shelley) and probably the greatest novelist of all time, when considering the quality of each individual work. ‘Nuff said.

The Winner

1912 - 22: The Waste Land (1922), Ulysses (1922), The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock (1915), Pygmalion (1912), Sons and Lovers (1913), The Lost World (1912), Mountain Interval (1916), Wilfred Owen’s Poetry (1920), The Age of Innocence (1920), Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus (1922).

But also, Babbitt, Jacob’s Room, The Meaning of Relativity, Tales of the Jazz Age, The Story of Doctor Doolittle, The Economic Consequences of the Peace, My Man Jeeves, The Thirty-Nine Steps, and Tarzan of the Apes.

Often co-opted by the ISOLB (International Society of Lit-Bros), the 1920s is now culturally synonymous with the Parisian ‘Lost Generation’. I too love Hemingway and his band of merry men, but I think it’s somewhat disingenuous to look forward rather than backwards. Starting with the highly underrated Pygmalion, this decade stretch truly has it all. George Bernard Shaw’s text covers drama, T. S. Eliot simply owns poetry (although is ably supported by Wilfred Owen and Robert Frost), Joyce, Wharton and Conan Doyle are revolutionising the novel[la], meanwhile Wittgenstein is re-engaging the philosophical conversation about metaphysics and the very structures of language. Such is the range of this era, that I very nearly dropped any of these ten to make room for Einstein’s Meaning of Relativity, albeit it was a series of lectures first, and the Lit-Bro’s beloved F. Scott Fitzgerald misses out with Tales of the Jazz Age. I think this stretch had not only the breadth, but the variation of author and genre to blow the others out of the water. It does not rely on a few individuals, or a popular trend in form.

Also side note, but in briefly researching for this piece, it became incredibly clear that the more specific version of this question (which individual year rather than ten year stretch) is much easier to answer. 1922 had those three heavy hitters from the top ten, but also the first four of the unconsidered texts. All completely different authors. Baffling.

Let me know what you think in the comments: whether I’ve had a stinker, or whether I’ve under/overrated any of the listed texts. Apologies already to those medievalists, but there just wasn’t enough stuff kicking around pre-printing press to have a sniff at any of these three.

EDIT: the source for Metamorphosis’s publication history confused original publication with the translation in English, so I have doctored that decade. It doesn’t change the winner.

Born in Handsworth, Birmingham in 1965 to parents of the Windrush generation, Anderson identifies with the collection of people who feel caught between a historic and personal experience. Having investigated the idea of embodiment and representation amongst Black-British and African-American playwrights in contemporary drama for a piece of academic coursework in December, the simultaneous disillusionment with his upbringing, and relation of the continuities between the two sides of his identity was immediately reminiscent of an artistic movement that has a lot of momentum at the moment. Once it’s no longer counted as self-plagiarism, that coursework may well find itself on this platform. It should be noted that Anderson himself told the Guardian that he was ‘always nervous about the word identity’, but it seems to be that this is largely due to the complications he has around personal belonging and articulating his own identity and all the nuances it carries.

The inclusion or omission of detail in Anderson’s work helps communicate a difference between personal and collective. Take, for example, his depiction of barber shops over time (I apologise for using the term hairdressers in the title, it had to start with an ‘H’ for my tricolon):

The individual on the left is given a completed face, but sits alone. His sole company is his own reflection (which itself is reflected), which only gazes back at him by scientific necessity. He does not look around, he is not waiting for someone. Rather, he is transfixed in both thought and temporality. His expression and posture suggests a stillness rather than motion. Comparatively, there is a connection between the barber and his client in the chair on the right. The client is completely featureless, save for only an ear necessary for the outline of his head - even then he only gets one. He has little, or even no, hair despite the attention from the barber. The barber does get the benefit of fingers, eyebrows, a modicum of hair and shadows that gesture towards the possession of eyelids. The relevance of the barber shop is well-documented across all forms of media, and the exchange depicted in Anderson’s work continues the sentiment that it goes beyond service and into the formation of community and collective identity. Some would argue that the dissolution of features is reductive and generalist of a human experience that varies so widely across nation and history, but my interpretation is that Anderson is not attempting to generalise, but rather offer a blank canvas - befitting of an artist whose primary medium is paint - so that those like him, with a mixed personal experience, can identify with what is presented to them.

The purpose of this second piece, then, is to both reiterate that sentiment while documenting the passage of time. Now client-less, the barber is afforded a nose, mouth, glasses, and both colour and texture in his hair. Once again, the individual on the left represents stillness, the next isolated moment in the history of this building and institution. Behind him, the same monstera plant has lost some vibrancy and features more grey and fading green than the intensely dark leaves of the first painting. The geometric and detail-less decorations from the first piece have gained distinctive messages and people. Black-and-white photos surround a [comparatively] modern sound system that has come about with technological and fiscal development, and the Red Bull-patterned can and famous photo featuring Tommie Smith atop the 1968 Olympic podium help date Anderson’s snapshot. Smith, flanked by fellow American John Carlos both receive full colour (although there is little room for features) while Australian Peter Norman becomes an empty tracksuit, filled in only by a white anatomical outline. To be fair to Norman, he was playing his own, minor part in the protest by sporting a, ‘Olympic Project for Human Rights’ button, but understandably he is not relevant in Anderson’s message.

In the final room of the exhibition, two series of paintings are positioned opposite each other as modern and historical iterations of the same scene.

Above is the modern version, and its sailor fits the title of the piece. The ‘rafters’ are aboard their pedestrian vessel with intention, but their journey is unserious and devoid of necessity. His bargepole pushes to and fro aimlessly as if writing - or painting. Their clothes are detailed with folds and shadows to reflect the comparatively ‘high-definition’ of modernity. In contrast, the ‘drifters’ below and uniform in colour and shimmer like the water beneath them. This sailor’s bargepole is positioned, deliberately, despite what is suggested by the title of the painting. This only suggests to the viewer that their journey, while intentional, is nomadic. Perhaps they cannot afford to be at rest, at risk of persecution.

The omission of details and features for the mapping of a collective identity expands beyond the realm of the barber shop and into his individual portraits. Depicted below is an early print of the subject masked by a conventional wallpaper pattern:

You will recognise it again later along the exhibition as ‘Mrs. S. Keita’:

In the first instance, the lack of contrast in colour between the print that covers her clothing, and the print alongside it, obscures her and her identity, as if enrobed by shadow. In the second piece, not only does she gain an individual identity by virtue of a name and facial features - rather than simply being a representative of many - her clothes become a stark contrast that helps embolden her character beyond her background. In the first piece, the intention is to depict a scene that many would be familiar with, it starts in a domestic position. In the second, Anderson is recreating the portraits that would be sent back home to reassure relatives of good health and prosperity, symbolised by the cutting-edge box television that Mrs. S. Keita rests her hand upon. It suggests, implicitly, the collective. The subject is in one place, and the viewer, by necessity is in another. The omission of detail in the first piece is symbolic of fading memory, that has become generic not just through the multitudes of people who relate, but also over the passage of time. The portrait of Mrs. S. Keita, like those in the barbers, shows one specific moment isolated from the passage of time.

Anderson uses obscurity to visualise a fading memory in that instance, but for a time it also represented exclusion from familiar spaces. As a subversion of the assimilation of Caribbean families into the UK, the intrusions upon the Caribbean islands by colonial settlers are represented in the barriers they use to keep local people out. Pictured below is ‘Country Club: Chicken Wire’:

Hurvin Anderson’s debut solo exhibition is a fantastic and thought-provoking display that continues popular discussions while propelling them into a newer, more nuanced direction.

I’ll leave the photos I took of some other pieces below, despite not discussing them (I didn’t want this piece to get too long!).

I’m getting on the hype train early. Charlotte Regan is an absolute genius. When I saw her BFI sponsored film Scrapper in 2023 with my mum, I walked out of the tiny Saffron Walden cinema thinking that I had watched something genuinely new and original for the first time in years (not aided by a COVID lockdown, admittedly). It is also no secret that I am somewhat of a Loyle Carner superfan (see Offcuts #2 and #16 respectively). Finding out the two had collaborated on a crime-romance show that spans just under four hours was almost too good to be true.

Despite the multitude of fantastic performances from the cast, it is certainly Regan’s genius. Emma Laird is incredibly capable of being a leading lady (although I was never particularly convinced that she was 22 years old, as the show would have you believe), and Benjamin Coyle-Larner is outstanding in his debut. It helps that he was essentially playing himself, but sometimes that is still no mean feat. I’m just glad for his sake that he was not forced into a Scottish accent like the rest of the actors - that might have been his undoing.

While watching Mint, I could not help but be reminded of Baz Luhrmann’s 1996 masterpiece adaptation of Romeo and Juliet. Luhrmann’s film came out 30 years ago, and aside from the backdrop of gang violence and the presence of two star-crossed lovers, the two films have a lot of commonality in their reception and intention. Both are beautifully stylised in their own way. Luhrmann was more concerned with palette than Regan, whereas Regan’s lighting - more specifically the sparkler effect - works as a motif for pivotal moments. Crucially, Regan’s style is most tasteful and part of her personal style. Anyone who has also seen Scrapper will recognise the surrealism and dreamscapes that Shannon encounters. Compared to other hyper-stylised television shows pitched (and made by) younger people, it feels like it has intention. Simultaneous to Mint’s critical success, another hyper-stylised show, Euphoria has lost its sense of taste and creativity that first attracted young viewers, swapped out for tenuous allegory. ‘The show has lost its zeitgeisty edge’ says Caryn James.

Comparatively, Regan’s themes are considerably more compelling. It is precisely because she abandons certain conventions that this is the case. Rather than lean towards inspiration, she leans away from it and creates something that feels - for the first time in a long time - new. This is why it reminded me so much of Luhrmann’s Romeo And Juliet. Modern productions and interpretations of Shakespeare are ten-a-penny, and bringing the classic texts into different periods in history does not count as innovation (think Richard III, 1995 - only one year prior to Luhrmann’s R+J or Fiennes’ Coriolanus, 2013). I cannot speak too explicitly about what Regan does or doesn’t do to subvert audience expectation in this section, but will do so under a spoiler blocker below.

Successfully abandoning conventions are not for everyone. Plenty of critics despised Luhrmann’s interpretation of Shakespeare, and were close to calling it blasphemy that the original playwright should be included in the full film title. In the opening episode, Mint gets a needle-drop of Charli XCX’s ‘Track 10’ from the 2017 album Pop 2. It is a perfect song that sounds exactly how you would visualise Regan’s dramatic sparkling effects, as the scattered synth that rings out behind the synthetic vocals that pairs beautifully with what can only be described as a blend between an organ and an angel marking the chord progressions. It’s well-chosen, well-timed and well-placed. As an unfortunate counterpart to Regan’s use of Charli XCX and smartly converted subversions, Emerald Fennell’s recent interpretation of Wuthering Heights reminds the viewer of what happens when a directorial process is under-thought and ill-considered. Fennell’s attempted subversions were scrutinised because it detracted from the fundamental intentions of the original material. That is why Regan and Luhrmann’s works are masterpieces and Fennell’s is not. If there is source material, you simply do not have the right to completely subvert it. Despite what some said at the time, R+J was not a subversion of Shakespeare, but a modernisation. The only conventions that Regan has to be concerned about were those of her genre, and those rules are made to be broken.

The rest of the piece will now be written under a spoiler blocker. The points do not all have spoilers in, but the argument is only really cohesive as a sum of all parts. If you do not plan to watch it (which would be a shame), do read on. But equally I would implore you to watch it, and come back after.

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Aside from the visuals and the performances, one of my favourite aspects of Mint was the perfectly curated and intentional soundtrack. 10cc’s ‘I’m Not in Love’ bookmarks the show in the first and final episodes and the sentiment in each instance changes subtly each time. At points, a metaphor for Shannon’s emotional journey, and other extracts verbalise the emotions of characters like Dylan and Arran beyond their physical capabilities - whether that is a personal block, or in the case of Arran, a result of his untimely murder. In fact, you could map an aspect of a character or the show to every word of the lyrically-limited song (limited in word count, not impact).

It opens:

‘I'm not in love, so don't forget it
It's just a silly phase I'm going through
And just because I call you up
Don't get me wrong, don't think you've got it made’

At the beginning of the show, it gestures towards the trivialities of Shannon’s love life before Arran. She doesn’t deny it, as 10cc do, but the ‘silly phase’ extends to the various suitors she has seen come and go in the past. The latter two lines then become her perceived indifference to Arran’s advances on the phone and at LiAngelo Denson’s garage. Verse two carries forward that sentiment while also alluding to the forbidden nature of their love:

‘I like to see you, but then again
That doesn't mean you mean that much to me
So if I call you, don't make a fuss
Don't tell your friends about the two of us’

The use of music as an extra-visual allegory or mise-en-abyme is what first drew me to R+J as a comparison to Mint despite all the notable differences. Luhrmann’s examples are much more self-explanatory: ‘Young Hearts Run Free’ by Candi Staton and ‘Lovefool’ by The Cardigans (which came out the year of R+J’s release) map themselves neatly onto the classic tale of naïve young love. Similarly ‘You and Me Song’ by the Wannadies does not require a great deal of scrutiny to discover why it was used - the chorus repeats:

‘And it’s always you and me

Always and forever

You and me, always forever

[…]

But it’s always you and me

And we’ll be together

You and me always and forever.’

Aside from the musical similarities (and music gets plenty of airtime on this Substack as it is), there were some stylistic similarities that brought the two together in my mind. I have previously discussed Luhrmann’s palette in comparison to Regan’s lighting as a contrast between the two, but it’s more a question of priority than exclusivity. Upon rewatching R+J, I was reminded of the hall of lights that form a path within the tomb for Romeo to approach Juliet as she is unconscious. Made up of mostly bright, white, LED-esque lights, it is not entirely different to Regan’s sparkler effect. The only difference, then, is the uncontrollable patterns of Mint’s light. It sounds about right that the genre-bending romance should be uncontrollable - or at least unpredictable - and the ‘most famous love story of all time’ should be more regulated. R+J was obviously innovative in its modern grounding, but the tale and the script remained (largely) the same. It intrinsically cannot have the edge that Mint does.

The culmination of events brings the two together [but apart] to conclude the pieces. Although R+J has its compulsory ‘moralitas’ epilogue, both see the female protagonists use firearms to finally, for once, become the agents of their own destiny. Juliet’s is heard but not seen - a distant bird’s eye shot prevents any real detail - and Shannon’s final blow on Sam watches a muzzle ignite, but the 10cc does not stop to allow the gunshot to lay the show at rest. In fact, in a show that has the vicious, cyclical violence of abusive relationships at its core, perhaps the lack of epilogue for Shannon and gang is a beginning of her own journey towards the same fate as her father. Just one episode prior she witnessed, in a hybrid past-present hallucination, Dylan be forced to take the same action: killing out of fear.

In that final scene, the references begin to get a bit uncanny. Even as Shannon returns to the room after a cigarette to steady her nerves, she is perceived in the door frame through the glass and water of a fish tank. It’s not quite the full aquarium in the famous love-at-first-sight scene of R+J, but come on. It’s in these similarities that the differences are then exacerbated and understood. Rather than the love-at-first-sight of R+J, this is Shannon’s final look of hate upon Sam and all that he represents in her life. Instead, her love-at-first-sight is framed by the very instruments that allowed Romeo to perceive his beloved, dead. The beginning and ends of both are switched.

The job of a referee (or umpire) is a thankless one. All of the responsibility, all of the abuse, and nobody likes you by the time the final whistle goes. Who could possibly be attracted to such a job, especially at the highest level where the stakes are higher and the scrutiny is at times international? Egoists. Not entirely, obviously, but it has become apparent recently that many sports are blighted by partiality and emotion. This is obviously a generalisation, but across a multitude of sports, it seems to be the case that the role of the referee has expanded far beyond enacting the rules of the game. And the statement that titles this piece (that can be found shouted from the front row of any EFL League Two game) seems to be increasingly relevant across the global sporting sphere.

As Al-Ahli took on Al-Fayha on Wednesday 8th April, the former came into the game just a few points behind league leaders Al-Nassr but closing in after seven league wins in their last eight games. At 1-1, in the closing minutes of the game, they swing the ball in and Englishman Chris Smalling’s clearance goes askew and inadvertently hits the arm of a fellow defender. As you can see from the photo below (just about), the arms of the second defender are not in the most natural position. In football, this normally constitutes a penalty: if the ball makes contact with a defender’s arm in an unnatural position, whether it was an accident or not should not make any difference in the decision.

The Al-Ahli players rightfully protest to the referee who waves it off indifferently. After the game, in a fit of outrage, another Englishman - Ivan Toney - is speaking to the fourth official, who is responsible for video review, and said official tells him to ‘focus on the AFC’ (the Asian Champions League). Ivan Toney is the Saudi Pro League’s top goalscorer, and during his time in the English Premier League often topped the penalty conversion statistics. It’s not unreasonable to think that he scores that penalty and Al-Ahli close the gap to eight points with four more games still to play. Al-Ahli go on to post a lengthy club statement about the lack of integrity in the game. I suppose if you were looking for integrity, perhaps the Saudi Pro League isn’t the competition to take part in.

Bad decisions happen all the time, and are part of the game. However, many have speculated that this incident was to help keep Al-Nassr at the top of the table. Cristiano Ronaldo, the poster boy for the league, plays for the league leaders and has often been used as a diplomatic face for the country, including a visit to President Trump accompanying Mohammed bin Salman. Beyond the integrity of the sport, it calls into question how referees and officials are used as individuals who can affect the game easily. Paying eleven players to throw a game is much more expensive than paying an official to turn down those kinds of decisions.

Halfway around the world, the Major League Baseball season has begun in the United States. This year, they have implemented a digital challenge system - teams can now ‘review’ plays in which they believe officials have made the wrong call. This technology has existed for many years in other sports - cricket and rugby have had the ‘third umpire’ and TMO since 1991 and 2002 respectively - but due to a particularly strong union of professional ‘umps’ have ensured that the humans have been entirely in charge until this year. It has already changed the game drastically although teams are feeling a strain to police the games themselves as opposed to having the challenge as a last resort.

There has been a growing sentiment that these baseball umpires had let their standards slip with such strong job security, and as a graduate trying to break into journalism I can appreciate the fear of having technology stealing your job. However, these umpires are also incredibly notorious for the influence their egos have on the game. In baseball, umpires can throw players or managers out of the game, and many do so on ever-so-slight whims when they feel intimidated by an assertion from either team. As a result, the challenge system has somewhat exacerbated the tension between the umpires and those they govern. Previously, they could shut down claims of foul play or mistakes as only those with the liberty of a replay were able to scrutinise properly. Now, they can be proved wrong in real time. The sample size is too small to determine whether there has been a change in the rate at which individuals are ‘thrown out’, but it appears likely that the big characters behind home plate will soon have their tempers flared by a chippy comment about how much they get wrong. On the 28th March, CB Bucknor (who has 26 years experience in the big leagues) called Eugenio Suarez out on strike three. Only it wasn’t. Suarez challenged and the call was overturned. On the very next pitch, the exact same happens. Suarez eventually grounds out to second, but the psychological damage is already done.

Two days ago, the NBA Playoffs began (with a win for my glorious Denver Nuggets). In another sport defined by the temperament of referees and their capability to stay impartial, I wouldn’t be surprised to see the trend continue. Let’s hope that the games are decided by the basketball rather than by a series of whistles.

In 1796, a Member of Parliament published a novel - with no pseudonym - about an incestuous monk who commits matricide. Admittedly, the first edition was done by initials but the second came out the same year with both his full name and MP title attached. No spoiler alert, it was published 230 years ago. You could have read one and a half pages per year and be done by now. Many would hardly blink at that kind of content anymore, although it being attributed to an MP would still be somewhat shocking. Even then, it’s probably about on par with getting caught watching pornography in the actual chamber. Twice. At the time though, it was obviously considered a tumultuous scandal - it was one of the first culturally-relevant pieces in the canon that flipped those virtuous members of the brotherhood into villainy, and some villainy it was.

I recently re-read Matthew Gregory Lewis’ The Monk, and although dressed up in the fanciful language of a 20-year-old who went to Westminster and Christ Church (some things never change), the content still makes your skin crawl two centuries later:

‘[…] he had torn open her habit, and her bosom was half exposed. The weapon’s point rested upon her left breast: and oh! That was such a breast! The moonbeams darting full upon it enabled the monk to observe its dazzling whiteness. His eye dwelt with insatiable avidity upon the beauteous orb.’ - p. 60

Let it be said plainly that Ambrosio’s ‘insatiable avidity’ is well-satiated in horrific fashion eventually:

‘He stifled her cries with kisses, treated her with the rudeness of an unprincipled barbarian, proceeded from freedom to freedom, and in the violence of his lustful delirium, wounded and bruised her tender limbs. Heedless of her tears, cries and entreaties, he gradually made himself master of her person, and desisted not from his prey, till he had accomplished his crime and the dishonour of Antonia.’ - p. 293

This is an extreme example of what would have been considered shocking historically. Perhaps the closest thing we have left is Cormac McCarthy: The Road and Blood Meridian. But in the era of film, it hardly holds a candle to some modern content. Let it be said that: whether or not you consider it good, all film and literature is in its most intrinsic sense, an art. Therefore, I won’t be changing terms. In 2006, David Edelstein coined the phrase ‘torture porn’ to describe recent releases Saw (2004) and Hostel (2006). This was a renaissance of the feelings previously directed towards Lewis’s The Monk. Although there had always been art that has been shocking to some degree in those 210 years between Lewis and Edelstein, it was the sheer scale of gore and horror (in the Radcliffean sense) that was now capable with the development of visual and special effects in post-production that enabled a piece as shocking as its predecessor. 20 years on from Edelstein’s piece, it is no longer revolutionary to reproduce torture porn in such a capacity. Slashers will be slashers, and short of coming up with alternative methods of corporal punishment, it feels as if the needle cannot be pushed any further. We are desensitised.

We had already seen this in more traditional ‘art’. Caravaggio and Goya were well-ahead of the ‘torture porn’ curve. David with the Head of Goliath (Caravaggio, first below) is attributed to 1609-10 and Saturn Devouring his Son (Goya, second below) was one of the fourteen ‘Black Paintings’ painted between 1820-23.

With artists beaten to the punch for gore and horror, the new method of being ‘shocking’ is to just be provocative in some capacity. Jackson Pollock, the standard-bearer of being provocative amongst artists of the 20th or 21st-centuries, understands this most clearly. In a piece written by Mike Pinnington for the Tate, he says of Pollock:

‘His pioneering work though, proved shocking to many […]’

Shocking, perhaps, in simplicity and consequent discussion of what the pretenses are for something to be art (although not ingenuity, I am not a Pollock-sceptic), but not by the metrics on which I am measuring the different art forms. Instead, it is post-colonial and performance art that still proves to be shocking in the same manner as Lewis, Goya and Saw. Santiago Sierra’s 10 Inch Line Shaved on the Heads of Two Junkies Who Received a Shot of Heroin as Payment (2000) is one such example. An extreme but illustrative critique of the perils of late-stage capitalism and its victims, it is still some 26 years since that kind of shock. A Subtlety, or the Marvellous Sugar Baby by Kara Walker, while less immediately shocking than Sierra’s black-and-white image, is no less shocking when viewers are forced to confront the horrors of slavery that well exceed the fictional horrors of the canon that feel trivial in comparison.

In a somewhat different fashion the musical world is much the same. In an inspired piece on the counterculture of the Beatles, talks about the dissatisfaction with the ‘parochial and cosmic, hallucinogenic and pastoral’ tracks on Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. As if that wasn’t enough, he goes on to mention how:

‘Blake invited the band members each to pick a number of famous figures they would like to include on the cover. McCartney chose Stockhausen, Aldous Huxley and Fred Astaire, among others. Harrison named a load of obscure Indian holy men. Lennon, ever the bore, chose Hitler and Christ, before being persuaded not to, but still got Edgar Allen Poe, the Marquis de Sade, and Oscar Wilde. Ringo famously said he’d be happy to go along with whomever the others chose.’

It was, as Barrie points out, shocking in its novelty:

‘[…] it’s essentially impossible to experience something as new as the Beatles would have sounded to a Kidderminster housewife in 1966. For a teenager in the 1960s, to listen to Revolver would have been as if to taste sugar for the first time; in 2026, our diet is only sugar, and from an early age.’

Barrie arrives at a similar conclusion as I, although using it to different effect. If ‘our diet is only sugar’ in the sense that our era of globalised music allows for the influence of essentially everything, then many other art forms are experiencing (or have experienced) very similar fates. The Monk is a bag of Haribo, and Saw is a bag of caster sugar. Where do we go from here?

Image Credit: Astronimation.

This piece is somewhat a follow up on last week’s commentary on AI in filmmaking.

Looking across the list of films due to come out this year, the prospect of more franchise-slop (it’s not all slop obviously) looms over the cowering film critic like a Scream villain. Or the seventh one. Scream 7 is the most extended franchise with a film coming out this year (unless you count the Mandalorian film, although since it really follows the TV show, I don’t), but the rest of the list doesn’t get much better. In descending order by quantity of titles, we have Toy Story 5, Avengers Doomsday (I’m only counting Avengers titles, not the whole MCU), 28 Years Later: The Bone Temple, ironically Mortal Kombat II, Dune III, Devil Wears Prada 2 and The Super Mario Galaxy Movie. The lack of originality in Hollywood is a well-rattled cage amongst fellow franchise sceptics, but unlike those sceptics, I have faith in its return for one specific reason. A quarter-century cycle of original material, not just ready-made musician biopics or series of next-times.

The history of film somewhat reinforces this. Going back 25 years to 2001, we had the first instalments in multiple notable franchises: Harry Potter, Fast & Furious, Spy Kids, Shrek, The Lord of the Rings, Ocean’s Eleven and Monsters Inc. 25 (or so) more years prior, we had the first Rocky and the original A Star is Born in 1976 and A New Hope just one year later in ‘77. It’s very easy to look back on those years and reminisce on what once was and gloss over the fact that recycling safe Intellectual Property [IP] has long been part and parcel of Hollywood. In that glory year of 2001, we may have had The Fellowship of the Ring, but we also had Jason X, which predictably was the tenth instalment in the Friday the 13th franchise, many more than even the Scream series putting out its seventh this year. The Twelve Tasks of Asterix (1976) was the third Asterix film out already by that point (there are now 15 in total) and Carry on England (also 1976) was the 28TH FILM IN THAT SERIES. In essence, then, it is not simply the case that the problem is solely the relevance of franchises in Hollywood. Rather, the original content can be undermined at the box office. Only six films that are reboots or sequels have been nominated for Best Picture at the Oscar in the last decade (that’s out of 101 by the way), so it is clearly not critical apathy, but spectator based.

So why then has this narrative been created? The large majority is clearly consumerism. The franchises dominate box offices as they can be highly-anticipated, with well-established fanbases and are therefore obvious safe commercial bets. The MCU will continually line Disney’s pockets as long as 10-18 year olds exist. It extends much further beyond that though. There is a mandatory waiting gap between franchise instalments that allow for producers to gage reception, and for leading actors and directors to pursue other projects to gain notoriety, while remaining tethered to the sequel. There is no Iron Man without Robert Downey Jr, there is no Luke Skywalker without Mark Hamil. It is a factor that establishes fanbases and builds anticipation, but no more so than a dedicated literary fanbase - novels, graphic novels or otherwise - or the prospect of a reboot of a fossilised but beloved series.

Continuing from last week’s scorn about the poisonous presence of AI in Hollywood, I was increasingly sceptical of and frustrated by that list of films coming out this year. Like an LLM, it seemed as though the industry is now training itself on old data sets, and is only capable of regurgitating them in some way that only minutely veers off course. However, that 25 year cycle of originality seems to glimmer as hope did in Pandora’s Box. It is not about eliminating the franchise perpetuations, but weathering the storm until the original content shines upon us once again.

Guernica Mural, Papamanila. CC BY-SA 3.0.

Heaven forbid, but you may not be able to see your pug reimagined as a detective anymore. Just under a week ago, OpenAI announced that it was shutting down Sora, one of the most popular platforms for homemade AI-generated content, and with it came crashing down their deal with Disney that would have seen the beloved franchise ‘Sorafied’ into ‘memeslop’. I think I would have gone for ‘a four-fingered hellscape’ but I am a self-identified AI-sceptic. The use of AI in creative fields is supposedly a very contentious topic at the moment - not just in the Disney animation sense, but even within journalism. On March 26th, WIRED reported on a tech writer called Alex Heath who publishes on this platform. Heath uses Claude to write his first drafts, having dictated his notes into the platform for consumption. It sparked discussion, hence I call it a contentious issue but with some restraint, as I don’t think it’s actually very contentious at all. As WIRED rightly point out, many independent writers are using it. Others, like myself, are grounded in the technological Bronze Age of poly-tabbed Safari windows and manual laptop keyboards. Tailored prompts and AI dictation feel an Industrial Revolution away. The division is clear and well-established. I don’t believe the use of AI is contentious because either you subscribe to it, or you don’t. Thankfully, for the moment, Hollywood appears to be on the manual side of history.

The collapse of the Sora-Disney deal is perhaps an industrial response to an anti-AI sentiment that is brewing amongst those creatives. Crucially, it is not Disney that ought to be praised. As covered in the Hollywood Reporter’s analysis, Disney seemed quite bitter in their response to the news that OpenAI would be decommissioning Sora. However, it can be difficult to ignore that growing support for human authenticity amongst the people actually making the art. At the Oscars just a few weeks ago, Will Arnett declared while presenting awards for Best Animated Short:

“Tonight we are celebrating people, not AI. Because animation is more than a prompt: it’s an art form, and it needs to be protected. Am I right?”

Conan O’Brien had his own fun as well:

“Tonight, I am honoured to be your last human host of the Academy Awards. Next year it’s going to be a Waymo in a tux.”

But Arnett, O’Brien and all of their anti-AI kin do still face some opposition in industry. Unsurprisingly, lead proponents of the ‘pro’ side include the founders of Moonvalley, which is a generative AI tool that is supposedly ethical since it pays for footage from filmmakers, rather than the typical plagiarism. Your honour, I can’t have robbed him. I asked nicely. They employ the same arguments, inspired by second wave feminism, as an excuse to peddle their company:

“Artists should be at the table,” he says, adding that it’s better to build the tool for filmmakers rather than get “rolled over by big tech corporations.” - ‘AI was enemy No. 1 during Hollywood strikes. Now it’s in Oscar-winning films’, BBC.

What Bryn Mooser (Moonvalley co-founder) says is a truism. That situation is obviously better. But no one was clamouring for an ‘if we can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em’ resolution. Deconstructing and regulating those big tech corporations when it comes to generative AI is surely better than making a version that artists are forced to accept as clemency from those profiting off of their work. Mooser goes on to argue that his product would allow for filmmakers with smaller budgets to get their starts in a notoriously difficult industry to infiltrate. That, again, is another truism with mal-intent hidden behind it. True, smaller ‘filmmakers’ - Mooser clearly only understands this term to be directors and actors, and the author of the article lists finding the next ‘Quentin Tarantino or Martin Scorsese’ - will be able to realise their visions at a fraction of the cost. What it leaves in its wake, though, is a plethora of videographers, SFX artists, makeup and practical effect artists, audio professionals and animators who are wondering what happened to all the small projects they used to be able to do while building up to blockbusters. But I suppose they don’t count as filmmakers. Language and dialect coaches don’t matter when you can win Best Actor with AI altering your Hungarian accent.

Although the Sora dissolution marks an industrial response that lost the genuine money backing it, it serves as a lightning rod for the disgruntled artists that have been overlooked in the name of technological progression. Just two weeks prior to this piece (March 16th), the BBC were covering the race for the monopolisation of a human certification label, akin to the Fairtrade or Certified B Corp labels. If it is the case that generative AI runs rampant within creative industries, then perhaps a mark like this would be the antidote that consumers can use to choose their alliances. I’ve run out of Claude prompts now though, so I don’t know how to end this piece.

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‘Trump’s wars are made for TV’ writes Simon Kuper for the FT last week. He goes on to justify that claim with Trump’s aspirations from his earlier life, wanting to study film. It certainly makes sense: Kuper’s point that Trump’s actions serve as ‘ratings’ boosters mimics a series of Mad Men where Don Draper cheats on his wife for the millionth time to stir up some more drama. Perhaps Trump sees himself as a Draper figure, smoking Lucky Strikes pensively with his feet up in the ‘situation room’ while Pete Hegseth hyperventilates maniacally and Eric Trump gets his hand stuck in a Pringles can because he can’t seem to get the last few out. The idea that war and domestic terrorism has been gamified is obviously terrifying, but as Kuper points out, ‘American audience ratings are negative’.

Perhaps the more interesting element of Kuper’s piece is a throwaway comment about the ‘post-TV influencer-politicians like Zohran Mamdani’. He continues to say that Trump and the White House have failed to recognise the importance of viewer retention and watch time, citing the State of the Nation address as proof. That is not the issue, but rather that their concept of tone is beyond even delusion into something inconceivable. On March 12th, the official White House X account published a video entitled UNDEFEATED. as clips of missile strikes are inter-spliced with Wii sports footage over 52 seconds. At the time of writing, this post has over 100 million views onsite, and has been viewed many more times over the various outlets covering it. 52 seconds is well within the TikTok scope, the dopamine-farming cutoff. Understandably, though, the reaction has been largely that of disgust and bewilderment. The US government clearly appreciates and understands the relevance of short form content in the current media climate, but they simply cannot replicate the humanity and personality of those ‘post-TV influencer-politicians like Zohran Mamdani’ or even Britain’s biggest populist, Nigel Farage.

This would explain why the latter has fallen out of favour with POTUS recently. Farage, despite being closer to Trump’s age and era than Mamdani, still represents effective ‘clip-farming’, a phrase now recognisable as a result of Louis Theroux’s Manosphere documentary, but long understood by those navigating content creation on social media. It also makes sense in the context of Trump’s psyche. To constrict oneself is to limit, including a limitation of time in the limelight and relevance. Trump cannot do shorter form because he cannot stand the idea of only giving himself 60 seconds on his subjects’ screens. Raised in the reality TV era, that would make him a side character, which simply will not do. Perhaps that is why Farage has drifted away from his American right-wing counterpart, Farage is the Gunther of Trump’s Friends, the seventh friend who awkwardly waits to the side, in vain hope of recognition and more invites to Mar-a-Lago.

As midterms loom on the horizon, we can only hope that those ratings fail to rebound as the White House continues to struggle to visual themselves outside of their fantasy and humanise the victims of their regime.

‘Mom, I just won an Oscar.’ Ke Huy Quan fittingly squeezes between tears as he accepts his 2023 Oscar for his supporting role in Everything Everywhere All at Once. It was Mothers’ Day yesterday (admittedly in the UK, rather than the 10th of May for the US where the Oscars took place), yet no acceptance speeches seemed to match that of Quan. Speeches are just the surface of the nonchalance epidemic that loomed like Jacob Elordi’s Creature over the night as a whole (or maybe just Elordi the man, he is 6’5 after all). Between ties and no shows, it’s become frustrating to watch as it feels like those responsible for the historic awards are seemingly disinterested in the results.

One problematic half of the nonchalance epidemic that reared its ugly head at the ceremony came as Singers and Two People Exchanging Saliva shared the award for Best Live-Action Short film. The fact that it was a tie is not the issue. Although rare, there have been plenty of ties in the history of the Oscars (with the most recent being in 2013). What is difficult to swallow though, is why it has happened, why this category specifically, and why it will probably become increasingly common in the future. As of this year, all of the Academy who were eligible to vote were required to declare that they had watched all of the nominated films. There is obviously no way of ensuring that, but it’s an honour based system. Many voters opt out of categories in which they haven’t viewed enough of the films, which is the right thing to do by that point, but there surely needs to be additional reform to the voting system to ensure that complacency and nonchalance does not begin to derail the legitimacy of the awards (or what is left of it). Turnout numbers are never published, but I don’t think it would be shocking to find out that Best Live-Action Short had a lower turnout than Best Picture or Best Actor. With lower turnout, the likelihood of a tie increases. As such, this tie between the two shorts shows that most of those 10,000 people don’t care about the industry beyond the tip of their nose: the Best Pictures or the Best Actor/Actress pieces. It certainly makes Chalamet’s comments about ballet and opera not being relevant resonate a bit stronger.

Apparently, the reason for this spurning of smaller categories is that: ‘[…] time is far too valuable to spend watching movies I know I’d never vote for’. Not much excuse for skipping out on the Best Live-Action Short category though, is it? The combined run times of all of the films from that category was one hour and forty-four minutes. Train Dreams was the only film nominated for Best Picture that had a shorter run time than those shorts put together. By two minutes. Although we can appreciate the relevance of having actors, directors and musicians as those with appropriate experience to judge these films and their merits, what is the point if they simply can’t be bothered? That quote about the use of time simply serves to prove that there is a severe issue where those within the film industry choose when to care, and when not to as it suits them. When interviewed by Letterboxd, suddenly they’ve watched every film in the canon. Yet when they are forced to decide which of two people deserves to be awarded with the highest honour available for their field, it is boring and time-consuming.

It was, at least, a night in which many more stands were taken (if softly and indirectly) towards political issues about which speakers clearly cared deeply. For those who took the time to use their platform, the opportunities were not spared as Javier Bardem’s simple ‘No to war, and free Palestine’ was headily supported by the crowd and Conan O’Brien’s ‘Has a Small Penis Theatre’ joke about Trump was one of the most successful throughout the night. Other issues addressed included the killings carried out by Immigration and Customs Enforcement (David Borenstein), school shooting victims (Gloria Cazares), anti-AI sentiment (Will Arnett) and the invasion of Iran (Sara Khaki). After the consistent censorship, mishandled situations and misarticulated talking points, it was encouraging to see a presence of people who seemed like they cared. Which leaves the ones that didn’t. There were many people who missed the Oscars for valid reasons - Hailee Steinfeld is having a baby, and Thomas Pynchon simply doesn’t make media appearances. I respect that based on the Academy’s previous actions, boycotting the Oscars would be logical. That being said, being Brad Pitt and being too cool isn’t a great excuse, even if it is sort of true. Aware that F1 was only likely to convert on one of its four nominations (Best Picture was the only category that would have Pitt to thank in any way), he likely just didn’t fancy it. This isn’t particularly respectful to those others that have spent their entire careers trying to reach this pinnacle though. If everyone who didn’t think they were going to win stayed at home, it wouldn’t be much of a ceremony. Just as there is necessary press around the release of a film, there should be a necessity to see through the commitment, and respect your intra-industrial colleagues beyond your own work.

Sean Penn’s no-show is more interesting though. He was boycotting, having previously felt stifled and censored by the academy. Fair enough, allegedly he was not permitted to speak about the Russian invasion of Ukraine in 2023. That being said, I’m not sure what meeting Zelensky in Ukraine is doing to help in that conflict (unless he picked a lot up from the set of OBAA). For once, coming to the Oscars and using his platform to continue perpetuating his message may have been the more apt choice. At least with this method, many people like myself are talking about it and engaging with the topic, albeit at a surface level. Regardless, I don’t think I approve of the level of disinterest that is creeping into what is supposed to be the defining moments of the lives of others.

The cult of personality that surrounds Anthony Bourdain as a posthumous cloud has seeped into the heart of travel journalism. The average male 23 - 29 year old food blogger can probably recite this passage off the top of their head:

‘Eat at a local restaurant tonight. Get the cream sauce. Have a cold pint at 4 o’clock in a mostly empty bar. Go somewhere you’ve never been. Listen to someone you think may have nothing in common with you. Order the steak rare. Eat an oyster. Have a negroni. Have two. Be open to a world where you may not understand or agree with the person next to you, but have a drink with them anyways. Eat slowly. Tip your server. Check in on your friends. Check in on yourself. Enjoy the ride.’ - No Reservations

and cures his hangovers with aspirin, coke (a-cola), a joint and spicy Szechuan food. His television shows, from which that block quote was taken, are the visual tutorial on how to behave like a local, rather than a tourist. No Reservations topped out with an episode rated 8.9 on IMDb, beaten only by Top Gear for top ratings amongst filmed travel journalism - admittedly there’s no shame in losing out to the Vietnam Special. Since the Bourdain Renaissance and his ascendence into mythology rather than reality, there is a hereditary gap left in his wake. For they who will assume the role of local rather than tourist. Who will take up the this burdensome mantle? The answer is Darren ‘IShowSpeed’ Watkins Jr, a 21-year-old online streamer from Cincinnati, Ohio, with more than 46 million followers on Instagram and 50.8 million subscribers on YouTube.

In an era of hyper-consumption led by Jimmy ‘Mr Beast’ Donaldson and his Beast Games, Watkins (better known as just ‘Speed’) reinforces a more positive image of visual media and attitudes towards cultural appreciation. Not to say that Donaldson’s series is inherently negative in some capacity, but there is something slightly twisted in the reality TV-based philanthropy, and the reference to the murderous Squid Game in the title is ominous to say the least considering the format. Speed’s world tour faces its own criticism - in a BBC article covering the recent conclusion to the African leg of his tour, a Reddit user by the name of Bakyumu is cited saying:

‘“Seeing the local crowds deify him feels tragic because it highlights a desperate need for escapism.

“This isn’t meaningful cultural exchange. It is a momentary distraction from systemic misery,” Bakyumu says, referring to things like poor housing and unemployment that millions in Africa deal with every day."'

Bakyumu does highlight a persisting issue, but the function of these streams is to indirectly help addressing these issues. As an embodiment of globalisation and diaspora, he bridges the gap between the West’s perception of other nations (obviously USA the most, Speed is the most popular English-speaking streamer) and addresses Orientalist expectations of ‘dated’ societies that lack technological advancement. When Jonathan Harker travels east in the beginning of Dracula, note the devolution of technology. The trains are late, timetables are wrong, and suddenly horse-drawn carriage is the only way of arriving at his destination. As Speed stands atop the 209.3-metre-tall Commercial Bank of Ethiopia, the camera pans to the skyline, and he proclaims Ethiopia’s urban beauty (and that of Addis Ababa by extension). His trains run perpetually on time. Perhaps in that case, IShowSpeed is the thinking child’s Edward Said, rather than Anthony Bourdain.

As well as exposure to the realities of technological advancement, the streams aimed to highlight the beauty and idiosyncrasy of regional tradition across continents. On the African leg of the tour alone, he joined the Benna tribe in Ethiopia, danced Zaouli in Côte d’Ivoire, was stunned by the Xhosa language in South Africa and became the first person to livestream from within the Great Pyramid in Egypt. First to livestream next to Pharaoh Khufu and first to break the firewall to livestream in China for a Western audience, backflipping on the Great Wall and rode a flying car in Shenzhen.

Each of these experiences are rooted in a genuine curiosity, which is what viewers find intoxicating. Although the Bourdain Renaissance caused a spike in ‘being a local’ travel philosophy, it also saw a resurgence in subtle fetishisation and semi-colonialist attitudes to travel and travel. Instead of the kind of obnoxious British/American tourist who disregards local convention, the new breed of travel tourist has an air of self-importance and righteousness at ordering a bowl of pho in Vietnam. White boy stuns locals by ordering in fluent X. Take your pick. This isn’t the fault of Bourdain, his was an earnest interest rather than a desire to be seen as ‘cultured’ for experiencing all of these ‘exotic’ and ‘alien’ cultures and customs.

Put down the Kitchen Confidential, young man, switch off No Reservations. You are unwittingly being led down the wrong path. Instead, get on YouTube and watch a 21-year-old tell you to spam Ws in the chat.

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