Director: Jon Turteltaub

It’s times like these when I can begin to comprehend the utter hatred that about half the population seems to harbour against Nicolas Cage. I myself am quite a fan. But in his latest outing, Disney’s ‘The Sorcerer’s Apprentice’, there was, I’m certain of it, a series of audible (and justified) cringes from the audience I sat with throughout every second of his screen-time.

Granted, most of this venom should be directed against the costume designer. Why oh why oh why does he need those fingerless gloves? And what’s with the long, straggly, so-greasy-it’s-a-shade-darker-than-normal hair? The look, we can tell, is trying to say, ‘Check me out, I’m cool and rugged. Like Aragorn.’ Instead, what we’re hearing is, ‘Big Issue, anyone?’

Despite this, ‘The Sorcerer’s Apprentice’ is a great summer romp. It follows the adventures of young physics nerd Dave, played charmingly by Jay Baruchel – though can anyone decide whether that voice is endearing or simply painfully annoying? I’m still straddling the issue. After a traumatic childhood run-in with sorcerers Balthazaar Blake (Nicolas Cage) and the brilliantly evil Maxim Horvath (Alfred Molina), Dave is forced to realise ten years later that he, in fact, is the descendent of Merlin and subsequently the only one capable of defeating the evil sorceress Morgana. As Balthazaar embarks on the task of teaching his young apprentice the tricks of the trade, Dave must embrace his fate and save the world – whilst at the same time, of course, trying to win the girl of his dreams.

All very original stuff.

But it doesn’t really matter too much that all of this has been done before. Many times. It’s the dynamic duo of Disney and Jerry Bruckheimer – though they’ve lost the magic they once had. The glory days of ‘Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl’ ended long ago; with ‘Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest’, in fact. But never mind. It’s still bundles of fun if we ignore Cage’s outfit.

Which, luckily, proves remarkably easy to do. Baruchel really is proving a wonderfully comic find, hitting exactly the right notes of geekiness in all his roles so far. Who needs good looks when you’ve got a voice that sounds like a nasal foghorn? The blond hottie is clearly charmed senseless. Then there’s Alfred Molina, who can do no wrong in my eyes. Yes, it’s cliché that they’ve again classed the goodies as wholesome Americans (though, as I’ve mentioned, ‘wholesome’ isn’t the word that comes to mind when looking at Cage), and the baddies as well-spoken Englishmen. But Molina’s just so damn good at it, that I forgive them completely. It’s Doc Ock with a goatee and a fur coat. It doesn’t get much better than that.

In the end, it should all be wrong. And a lot of it is. But, for the most part, it’s actually pretty fun. So go enjoy it, and just love the little spark of magic that Disney and Bruckheimer have retained. It’s a dwindling fire, but still enough to put a smile on our faces. That’s good enough for me.

Alasdair Pal is former Tab Editor, current Investigations Editor and a third year at Homerton studying Theology.   Lottie Unwin is Associate Editor and an English second year at the same college.   For five weeks they are exploring South India, and subjecting their relationship to monsoons and mosquitoes. Lottie can’t handle anything hotter than a khorma and Alasdair fries in the sun…

Candolim

2/9/10

Moustaches. Tricky, aren’t they? Try one at home, and you’ll get a few fairly predictable insults.

“Paedo!”

“Geography teacher!”

“Bruce Forsyth!”

In India, it’s a different story. Caterpillars crawl on every face, with varying degrees of success. Every adolescent boy, after graduating from a phase I like to call The Wisp, aspires not to designer stubble, but to the bushy regimental beauty sported by more senior members of the armed forces.

But why do they have them? The obvious answer would be as a status symbol, but I thought I would ask anyway.

Ever the fan of ingratiating myself with the locals – I’ve also taken to hacking up phlegm, and urinating joyously in the streets – I sculpted my own, a rather ginger and sad affair.

“You look like a Rolling Stone”, said an obviously disturbed, and probably blind man called Max. On the way to his shop in Mysore Bazaar, the centre of the perfume trade, he told us, quite confidently, “the shave face suits you; on the Indian man, he look like a gay”.

I tried to point out the delicious irony of a rampant homophobe running an essential oils shop, but Max was face deep in ylang ylang.

Later, our rickshaw driver explained the complexity of sub-continent aesthetics.

“It helps to break up the brown, but on you, not so good”.

Hurt and confused, I headed for the barbers. There were two of them, and they looked pretty dangerous. On approach, Bill, the leader, gestured violently at my hair with air scissors. Ben (probably not his real name), looked amused.

In the chair, they circled, flicking water then lathering the thing from the right side. Bill, a natural showman, waved the cut-throat across my neck. Then, in short, deft slices, the skin came up clean and red. Ben dabbed at a cut with an ice cube. After a stunningly painful facial in what seemed to be almost pure alcohol, Bill upgraded his air-scissors to blades. Lottie screamed. He sighed, and settled for a comb-over instead.

AP

Hampi Bazaar, Karnataka

30.8.10

My silence has been real as well as virtual.  I have spent the past 5 days unable to speak or swallow.  Instead I dribble and mime.  Once I had finally signalled “I need to go to hospital” to Ali after a grim overnight train, I was diagnosed with “the worst case of tonsilitus” the doctor had ever seen.  There was lots of head shaking and scary suggestions I had become all consumed with infection.  A chest x-ray, where I was thrust against a metal wall with the simple command “no sicking”, confirmed my lungs weren’t yet ravished, but it had spread to my ear canals.

Ali was presented with the full force of my phobia of needles as I screamed and cried blue murder at the sight of every blood test, injection and drip.  I was asked to give a urine sample: the bottle I was handed was dirty and there was no soap in the toilet.  Our evening’s entertainment was killing cockroaches on the dusty floor.

As instructed by the Lonely Planet I introduced Ali (through a complex series of hand gestures and mouthed words) as my husband, which turned out to be a grave error.  The hospital, ironically in a town called Hospet, saw foreigners all the time.  My doctor did more head shaking – 20 was very young to be married, and took Ali’s Theology degree as a sign of devoutness he seemed unable to reconcile with my short pyjama shorts.  Ashwara, my delightful but illusive nurse, brought more questions with each new dose of whatever it was they were pumping into my veins.  “Ari, do you love Lattie lots?” is one personal favourite, another “Ari, do you like children? Do you want to have Lattie’s children?”.  If I hadn’t been tied by a tube to the bed, I would have run away.

Now, with the swelling going down in my right arm that a bend needle had left a truly peculiar shape, we are in Hampi.  After five days of not eating I can spend my days having meals, and then feeling really pleased with myself for managing it and doing a bit of sightseeing in one of the world’s oldest civilisations.  Suddenly, once again, it all seems not too bad.

21.8.10

Ooty, Tamil Nadu

Kumar shows off his wheels

The 50cc auto-rickshaw engine is the hummingbird heart of India. Its tiny tin and tarpaulin frame, like much of the country, seems to defy explanation. They have one of the lowest fatality rates on the roads, which is quite something when you have been in the back of a yellow can, little more than 5 feet high, and slid effortlessly through the gap between two marauding 18-wheelers.

But it is the drivers, resplendent somewhat unwillingly in beige, who make the experience distinct. Two in particular stand out.

We met Lal on the Fort Cochin jetty. It’s connected to the mainland, but surrounded on three sides by listing, grey harbour water, it could not feel more like an island. He found us a hotel – and then, a scam. He would take us to three upmarket shops (the kind where fat German tourists buy overpriced jewellery for their braying wives); we would look interested but leave without buying; and he would collect petrol money for bringing us there. In return, he would drive us round the city for R50 (about 70p).

It worked perfectly. And Lal, perhaps more than anyone we have met so far, seemed to have an intuitive understanding of English. He retold the history of the Fort – a mélange of colonialism, bribery and spices – and the intricacies of the caste system with intuitive ease.

Where did he learn his English, we wondered. In school?

Lal laughed, arching his eyebrows cynically.

“On the streets”, he said.

We tipped double. He had a wife and two young children, and rent of R4000 a month.

Kumar, in contrast to Lal’s quick, wiry demeanor, had broad, rounded shoulders, and a frame that sagged in the middle. His eyes, with dirty whites, narrowed as we rode through the twists and tea plantations of Munnar.

There was no chance of a similar deal. Kumar thought that wild elephants roamed the streets of London, so you can imagine what trying to hold a conversation was like. Still, after lunch, he invited us to his house – a tea worker’s cottage, up a set of flaky flint stairs behind our hotel.

He proudly showed me pictures of his wife. She was clearly a looker, and Kumar knew it. Afterwards, he coerced us into a spice plantation tour for some extra cash. The school fees for his children were coming up, and his wife only earned R130 a day.

Kumar and Lal could not have been more different. But like the whistle of the rickshaw engine, full of life, their hearts were in the right place.

AP

17.8.10

Allepey, Kerala

I would love to be able to recount tales of adventures deep into the heart of India to explain our slack writing. Instead, we’ve been too busy with Kerala’s well-trodden tourist trail to venture to an internet cafe, or anywhere not classed a Lonely Planet ‘highlight’.

On Friday we went on a boat tour across the lake in the Periyar Tiger Reserve.  Big cows (bison, as I am told) wasn’t enough to keep most of the boat awake.  Middle aged Indian ‘lads on tour’ snoozed on the benches in front of us, with ears so hairy they looked like they were on fire.  Ali and I were suitably entertained trying to hug in life jackets.

Saturday, in Allepey, was the Indian booze cruise.  We watched the nationally broadcast Nehru festival boat race on the roof of a house boat among thousands of others.  It was impossible to follow our team of choice, a motley crews of men in tight fitting Minute Maid wife beaters, amongst the hundreds of boats competing in an event we didn’t really understand.

Give an Indian a beer, in a province where Kingfisher is best known as a type of bottled water, and things get loose.  Men wrestled on the tops of the rice barges and danced without music on the roadsides.  Hostel workers pushed drink on us in the hushed and excited tones you are peer pressured into your first cigarette.  Ali had his hair caressed by one and sweet nothings whispered in his ear about discounted prices, while I decidedly did nothing.

We eavesdropped on our companions arranging threesomes.  At least, make of the following what you will:

Heavily tattooed Spanish man in his mid forties: “I am a chef, you know.  I am very good with my hands, very creative” (said seductively)… “She would love it”, gesturing towards his plus one for the day.

Painfully and distractingly attractive Brazilian man in his early twenties (and therefore the perfect age to run away with): “Get me drunk and I would be interested…we should make a date”.

They swap numbers.   “My… are this big”, drawing a generously cupped hand towards his groin.

We were suitably entertained.  A heavenly afternoon in the sun.

Sunday and Monday we left ourselves to our own devices in a isolated guesthouse on the backwaters and, extravagantly, a houseboat here.  The themes are familiar.  Ali tries to persuade me of the merits of food that makes my face swell up, while I insist we make dens by tucking the mosquito net in all the way round the bed.  There is little progress on either front.

LU

It’s Been a Busy Week

12.8.10

Kumily, Kerala

It’s taken a while getting the curried arm of The Tab’s summer blog running, for a few reasons. But after a few attempts – including one with en intarnat cefa thet raplecad all the Es with As – we’ve found internet nirvana on the border of Kerala and Tamil Nadu.

So a summary, then. I made the mistake of falling asleep on the plane. When I woke up, Lottie was busy adding the 93rd leg to a terrifying spider, padding over southern India. This, I later learn, is our itinerary. An Air India stewardess appears; I need a drink for the shock, preferably a triple G and T, or some locally-brewed moonshine. But it’s a dry flight:

“Can I have a coff…”

“TEA! TEA! TEA! YES?! TEA!”.

It quickly became apparent I was having tea.

After few technical problems landing (probably from the pilot redecorating the cockpit with the remnants of what Air India calls a cheese sandwich), we landed two hours late, seemingly missing our connection.

“This will be good material for the blog”, I said cheerfully, crushed up on the stairs. Lottie gave me a look that suggested I was more in danger from her than the machine-gunned soldier strutting on the tarmac.

Anyway, somehow we ended up in Tiruvanumali a few days later, a temple town at the foot of a mountain. Pilgrims circumvent the 14KM road around it every full moon by foot, stopping off at the nine shrines along the way. Someone should really tell them they can get a rickshaw for 50p. Fools.

“What the fuck are you doing?” said my culturally aware girlfriend, as I handed my shoes to the curator back in town. Turns out she thought I was getting my flip-flops shined, the poor thing.

She didn’t have much more luck with Partha, our temple guide. Asking him to repeat himself, he replied: “Maybe one day I will come to England for six months and live with you, so my English is good enough for you, eh?” He really nailed the fine line between threat and smooth sexual advance that so many of us long for.

We tried to get to Trichy, nearly ending up in Gingee: Lottie, hilariously, is too private school for anyone to understand her, so I deal with all the rickshaws from now on.

She did have more luck with a septuagenarian outside the Gandhi Museum in Madurai though. After a fairly harrowing tale of the British oppression of India, we exited to… the oldest, shortest man in the world, offering to cycle us 3KM back into town on the back of his bike.

“I would really like your business”, he beamed, thrusting his head forward and bearing his two remaining teeth into a quite terrifying smile. Reaching under the back seat, he showed us pictures of all his previous foreign passengers. Dawn from Porthcrawl did seem to be enjoying herself, and so off we went. We’re still there now. If I don’t make it back before the start of term, someone pick up my mail.

AP

Dir.: Edgar Wright

2010 has seen the advent of the “Nerdbuster” as a big movie player. The rising star of the poindexters has been in the ascension ever since Kick Ass thrilled audiences earlier this year with its tale of superhero geeks battling with vigilantes and their own nerdish incompetence.

Scott Pilgrim Vs. The World is cut from the same graphic novel cloth and aims to prove to Hollywood Studios that funding quirky films is a winner.  Despite having a central plot as flimsy as an A4 piece of paper and one dimensional characters, Scott Pilgrim is two highly entertaining hours of fresh and unique cinema that gets away with problems that other films would be mercilessly slated for by being one key thing: fun, fun, fun.

To begin, it’s worth emphasising quite how badly the plot of the comics translates to the cinema. The six comics that the film are based on revolve around one central plot line that has been changed and reshaped a bit to suit the cinematic format better. Scott, played by Michael Cera, meets a mysterious girl called Ramona Flowers (Mary Elizabeth Winstead) at a party and realises that she is the one for him. After tentatively dating her for a bit, he is forced to battle for her heart by “The League of Evil Exes”, seven super villains who happen to have dated Ramona at some point or another and are headed by her most recent ex, Gideon Graves. The entire plot revolves solely around Scott’s battles with the exes and, as a result, the good idea that had time to blossom in the comics gets crushed down to the bare necessities.

The result is twofold. First, the film is overly linear doing little more than rushing from A to B in the fastest time possible. Second, the characters fail to develop beyond mere caricatures. The exes barely get time to become interesting before they are ushered off screen again, Ramona seems like nothing more than a hot outsider and the genuinely interesting Wallace Wells and Stacey Pilgrim, played to great effect by Kieran Culkin and Anna Kendrick, are not allowed to steal as many scenes as they should do. Ultimately, in two very important areas, the film is average at best.

Yet despite these two major criticisms, Scott Pilgrim is also as much fun as watching a barrels worth of monkeys being taught how to ride on segways. There are three big obvious reasons for this. First, despite the reservations about characterisation and pacing, the script is excellent in injecting a sense of warmth and fun into the entire movie. There are excellent quips aplenty, the dialogue bites with a lovely comedic edge and the visual gags throughout are amongst some of the best I’ve seen in a long time, particularly when Scott seeks desperate measures to escape talking to an ex girlfriend.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=7wd5KEaOtm4

Next, the cinematography throughout is an absolute treat.  From the moment that the opening Universal Studios ident is rendered perfectly in 32 bit, Scott Pilgrim takes on the characteristic of a living and breathing computer game that feels both convincing and non-intrusive. For the geeks, there is a titanic nerdberg of game references to be found within which include, and probably aren’t limited to, Zelda, Super Mario 64, the Dance Dance Revolution series, Soul Calibur, Street Fighter and Wii battler No More Heroes. But if you don’t care about those in jokes, the film doesn’t try to exclude you. Instead, it eases you into the heavily stylised and, at times, dazzlingly exciting world of arcade beat em ups with lots of little jokes about “getting a life” or winning coins after defeating a foe. As a result, the film is stylistically unique, feels totally fresh and yet won’t exclude people who aren’t in on the jokes.

Last, the directorship of Edgar Wright is perfectly suited to drawing all these quirks together. By ensuring the running time is short, only 112 minutes, the constant stream of smaller jokes ensure that you are always smiling and the wonderfully choreographed fight scenes never threaten to outlive their welcome. Wright’s skill in putting normal people with normal lives in odd situations thrives in Scott Pilgrim and as a result the entire package feels like a cinematic version of Spaced: a simple story, well told and done so with the help of some instantly recognisable pop culture references.  He is a perfect fit to the film and does exceptionally well with the material he’s been given to work with.

As a result, Scott Pilgrim’s success is ensured by a director who is capable of drawing the pure essence of fun out of the concept, telling the story well enough to keep it going and then presenting it to the audience in an extremely likeable manner. The weaknesses with the streamlining of the plot and characterisation are ultimately forgotten because the part of your brain that registers fun and humour is constantly satiated.  That is to Scott Pilgrim’s credit. Too often, film makers forget that one of the main reasons for going to the cinema is to relax, unwind and, ultimately, have some fun so it’s a delight to watch a film that actually recognises that. If you are looking for that cerebral, thought provoking number that’ll be troubling the Oscar Shortlists then this isn’t for you. But if you want to go to the cinema and walk out of it smiling then a date to see Scott Pilgrim should be troubling your diary when it comes out on the 25th.

Based on a lovely Greek legend about a hot young fellow called Adonis courted by older men, this society becomes much less creepy when we find out that its based on a group of homosexual fellows and staff members taking gay undergraduates to elaborate dinner parties twice a term replete (according to my insider) with ‘thigh slapping, knee squeezing and innuendos’. So far, so sleazy.

The actual dinner itself is a grandiose five course affair based in Peterhouse. The excitable undergrads are taken first for a drinks reception at a suitably upmarket venue which changes per meal; my dear friend began his night at Hotel Du Vin but for drinks it all depends on how the wind takes the fellows in charge (oooh, bad pun). Dress is black tie, of course, with guests given a pink flower when they enter the venue so you can identify who else will be joining you for the later debauchery. After a suitable amount of networking you’ll be invited by a man dressed in full-on top and tails to go down to dinner. And this is where things get interesting.

Seated student-fellow-student-fellow, there is plenty of room for back scratching, contact making and shameless flirting. A smoking break between main and dessert provides the first opportunity for some ‘hands on’ experiences. Outside it’s pitch black so that only the tips of lighted cigarettes are visible, while some more adventurous members of the society disappear into the bushes for a little further education. There’s a seat rotation on return to the dining hall to save any red faces after those few, ahem, beautiful moments in the shrubbery. It’s when the coffee is served that those who had a less enjoyable smoking break get a second chance. Lights are turned off in favour of candles; you can still see, but should you wish for some privacy all you need to do is blow gently, and your corner of the room will be plunged into darkness. I’m told within minutes more candles were blown out than left on, and though no one mentioned it, it was beyond clear that a lot was going on in that room.

For some undergrads the whole experience is just too much; for example, one fresher who drank too much to cure his nerves was found at 7 am the following morning by cleaners, having collapsed in a toilet the night before. My friend, however, was much more competent, making his way back to a fellows’ apartment with four other dinner guests. There’s no happy ending however as a chance meeting in Sainsburys’ later that term led to awkward glances and shuffling off by both parties.

Aside from these twice termly dinners, the May Week champagne breakfast is supposedly the most risqué of the Adonian events. In the words of my insider, ‘scrambled eggs and blow jobs’. Interesting combination. Also interesting is the rumour of one former conservative MP and ex-Adonian, whose name I’ll spare for legal purposes. Legend has it he lost his virginity to a man at one of these dinners, a mere three doors down from a room in Peterhouse where he lost his virginity to a woman. And they say cabinet ministers are boring. Disclaimer: note the word RUMOUR there, heard purely on the grapevine, so no defamation actions please.

So if following this expose you’re keen to attend such an event, forget the stories of notes in your pidgeonhole. It really is all about knowing the right people, so Tuesday LBGT night at Revs- network, network, network. You’ll never know where you might end up. It costs £50 to attend an Adonian dinner but lets face it, it’s not something you’re likely to be able to experience anywhere else any time soon. But then maybe you wouldn’t want to. I’m not one to judge.

Pro footballer Tom Adeyemi has turned down an unconditional offer from Cambridge to pursue his career in League Two.

The 18-year-old bucked the trend that all footballers are brain-dead by bagging himself A*s in Biology and Chemistry and an A in Maths.

But Adeyemi, who signed a pro contract with Norwich back in 2008 and is currently on loan at Bradford City, turned down Cambridge’s advances and said football was his “main priority”.

Although he scored on his Bradford debut, Adeyemi’s arrival at the Yorkshire club has been greeted by a mixed response on the fan site claretandbanter.com.

“He used his brain against Stevenage…thought f**k it and disappeared for 90 minutes,” commented one contributor.

Whilst another sceptic chipped in with: “F**king swot. Get rid!”

But most Bradford fans seemed delighted to have a player in the media spotlight for all the right reasons, especially after striker Jake Speight was given a 12-week jail sentence in July for assaulting his girlfriend.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=4Xdsfekg5Hw

The midfielder gained his top grades from Norwich School, whose notable alumni include Admiral Nelson, Lord Ashcroft and DJ Tim Westwood.

Speaking of his A level success Adeyemi said:

“I was obviously very pleased because I had put a lot of hard work in to pass the exams.

“It was difficult concentrating on my studies while juggling the football at the same time.”

But despite shooting to the top of the class, the soccer star isn’t planning on hitting the books again any time soon.

“I want to give football a proper go. It’s my full-time priority. Maybe my academic side is something I could fall back on further down the line.”

Adeyemi has lived up to the expectations of his former Norwich manager Glenn Roeder, who had tipped him for academic success from an early age:

“My son goes to the same school and the headmaster told me if Tom decides at any point he doesn’t want to play football he can go back to Norwich School, get his A levels and end up at Oxford or Cambridge, and I don’t think he means their football teams!”

Adeyemi might be unusual, but he isn’t the only footballer to succeed academically. Steve Coppell didn’t join United full-time until after he had completed his economics degree at Liverpool university.

And in 2008 Notts County midfielder Neil MacKenzie showed off his brain power by making it to the sixth round of TV show Countdown.

The new rugby season will begin with the ‘big three’ colleges all playing each other in the opening weeks, the new fixture list reveals.

Reigning champions John’s will take on Downing at home in a massive opening-day encounter, with the Red Boys hoping to continue their unbeaten record going back to 2006.

John’s won the league and cuppers double last season, although their close fought 12-10 victory over Downing in November might give hope to those eyeing an early shock.

Old rivals John’s and Jesus will face eachother again on October 26th, after two bad-tempered encounters last year.

The season’s curtain raiser also sees the Division 1 new boys Magdalene and Queens’ clash, while last year’s joint runners-up Jesus take on Trinity at home.

Jesus then face away trips to Downing and John’s in weeks two and three, after which the pattern at the top of the table could already be clear.

Jesus captain Jaimie Miller told The Tab he wasn’t concerned by having big matches early on: “John’s traditionally make a slow start to the season, with most of their players more focused on matching the red of their dank jumpers and 80s tracksuits with this autumn’s trendy shades of lipstick.”

“As for Downing, we’re filthy we didn’t get to play them in the League last year. Maybe if they’d been able to hang around in Cuppers a bit longer…”

The fixtures in the lower divisions have not yet been confirmed, owing to the fact that the final promotion place  for Division 2 and Division 3 Pool A have not yet been finalised. There will be a  play-off between Emmanuel and CCK (Clare, Corpus and King’s) to determine who is promoted to the second division in the first week of term.

Look out for The Tab’s upcoming rugby season preview…

—————————————————————————–
Last season’s Division 1 standings

Pos			Team	Pld	W	T	L	Game Points	Pts
1	•		St. Johns	10	9	1	0	0	38
2	•		Downing	10	6	2	2	0	30
2	↑		Jesus	10	6	2	2	0	30
4	•		Trinity	10	3	1	6	0	20
5	•		Girton	10	2	0	8	0	16
6	•		St. Catz	10	1	0	9	0	11

Provisional Division 1 fixtures

(Michaelmas term only)

Tues 12th October

John’s v Downing

Jesus v Trinity

Queens’ v Magdalene

Tuesday 19th October

Downing v Jesus

Trinity v Queens’

Magdalene v John’s

Tuesday 26th October

John’s v Jesus

Queens’ v Downing

Trinity v Magdalene

Tuesday 2nd November

Trinity v John’s

Magdalene v Downing

Jesus v Queens’

Tuesday 9th November

Queens’ v John’s

Downing v Trinity

Magdalene v Jesus

Tuesday 16th November

John’s v Queens’

Trinity v Downing

Jesus v Magdalene

Tuesday 23rd November

John’s v Trinity

Downing v Magdalene

Queens’ v Jesus

Tuesday 30th November

Downing v John’s

Trinity v Jesus

Magdalene v Queens’

During my pre-teen years, ‘girl band’ always meant ‘girl power’. The Spice Girls and TLC were always telling us wide-eyed, My Little Pony-wielding, light-up trainers-wearing girls to be strong, sassy and to buy their branded figurines. These groups were strictly for girls only: any boy found to have a secret crush on Baby, Ginger, Scary, Sporty or Posh was ridiculed in the playground. They were our dominion. They spoke to us. Girl-group The Saturdays hold no such ideology, and consequently everyone from Lily Allen to my 17 year old brother has been spotted bouncing around to Up and Just Can’t Get Enough.

I spoke to Mollie King (AKA ‘the blonde one’), one fifth of The Saturdays. The Saturdays have always been a band of the moment. They were formed in 2007, and their latest offering, Headlines, released on 16th August, is a mini-album of eight tracks designed to capture the sound of Summer 2010. ‘These songs are really current and so we thought we’d release them now,’ Mollie told me.

Behind the giggles and the cutesy slang (she calls her agent ‘silly’ when recalling how she was sent to the wrong audition), there is real steel and determination in Mollie’s answers. Gone are the days when girl band members lived together, braiding their hair and waiting for the powers that be to tell them what to sing. When asked about The Saturdays’ approach to the band, Mollie explained, ‘we do try and have fun with it; we’re serious in a way that it means everything to us and we work our butts off to make sure that it works, but we also have a laugh at ourselves.’

If that sounds a bit like an X Factor auditionee’s plea to the judges, you’ve guessed right: Mollie in her pre-Saturdays career auditioned twice for Simon Cowell’s endlessly-milked cash cow; once as a solo artist and once as a part of a girlband called Fallen Angelz. Both times, she didn’t get any further than the boot camp stage.  However, she is still an advocate of the reality show format: ‘I think that X Factor culture is really good because bands who are trying to make it don’t really know how to go about doing it. X Factor is a really good way to get into the business, and it’s a great TV show as well. Simon Cowell is a genius.’

www.youtube.com/watch?v=0znVBrsZnnQ

Ego, as performed by The Saturdays on Radio One’s Live Lounge

The Saturdays are part of a new generation of girl bands: a collective of hardened auditioners (two other members, Frankie and Rochelle, were in S Club Juniors), who haven’t been bought by the dream of ‘recording studios paved with gold’. Forget Pop Idol. Think Junior Apprentice. ‘I would like the band to be around for as long as it can, and to maybe crack a few more countries. We went over to Asia last year, which was incredible, and I’d like to go over to Europe and America as well,’ Mollie said confidently.

Yet, despite the kind of confidence that only comes with perfect hair and a pair of killer heels, there is none of the arrogance seen so often in other bands – no claiming to be the next Jesus here – instead, there is a rapacious and almost endearing desire to learn and emulate. The most successful enterprises come from taking cues from the competition; and this is exactly what The Saturdays have perfected.

I asked Mollie who inspires her. ‘I love Britney,’ she enthused, ‘she’s such a good overall performer as well as a singer. Everyone always talks about the fact that she mimes, but I don’t really care about that, as she puts on a great show.’ At the time, I resisted the desire to snort derisively, but when I returned to Mollie’s comment, I realised its pertinence. Whereas I thought of Britney as slightly annoying and ubiquitous, Mollie saw her as a model for global success.

When I asked her what kind of input The Saturdays had in their music, I nearly said ‘product’ instead, since their brand of pop seems so shiny and packaged. However, Mollie’s answer was full of possibility and wonder: ‘We get a lot of say in what we do. Everyone imagines there’s this big boss who tells us exactly what to do, but we have a lot of input, and I think that’s really cool and makes it a lot more exciting. We’ve also been writing, we haven’t written any of the new ones, but have lots of writing in progress, such as the B-sides and our next album.  We do other things as well, we help with the album covers, we choose the songs, and we always have a big meeting to discuss how we’re going to do the videos.’

So why The Saturdays, when Clea, Liberty X, Hear’Say and countless others fell off the cliff and drowned in the sea of musical oblivion? ‘We weren’t put up on a platform like the X Factor singers were. We had to work really hard behind the scenes,’ explained Mollie. ‘We had time to make sure everything was right and plan the singles. I think with the X Factor, a lot of the time it’s quite a quick process and there isn’t that much time to plan the direction you want to go in.’

Reality shows like X Factor are still selling the beautifully packaged illusion that if you sing loud enough, wear some pretty dresses and have your own banner in the audience, Simon Cowell will wave his magic wand and you will instantly turn into a ballad-wailer of Mariah-like proportions.

Unfortunately, Simon Cowell is no fairy godmother. The Saturdays, however, know that there is no fairy dust involved, and this lack of delusion is the key to their success. They are unashamedly ambitious, unashamedly driven and most of all, unashamedly pop.

With Easter term fading into distant memory, livers beginning to recover from the drunken antics of May Week, and the majority of us having forgotten what a proper hangover feels like, it’s high time to get a couple of drinks in.

A quick glance at The Tab’s recent articles would suggest that the majority of the Cambridge undergraduate body is country hopping in the Middle East, saving orphans from the jaws of evil bankers in Africa, or sampling the ‘delights’ of the Thai nightlife, so these cocktails are perfect for sipping by a pool somewhere halfway round the world. Alternatively, if, like me, you’re enjoying a classic British ‘summer’, then these drinks do a commendable job of masking the feelings of hate and jealousy you get when reading any one of The Tab’s summer blogs.

Mango and Elderflower Collins

The Empire was built on Gin (probably, though I have some historian friends who disagree), and since two years in Cambridge has left me sickeningly bored of G&Ts, I reckon this is the perfect cocktail recipe to take out to the colonies.

Ingredients: 2 shots Gin, 1 shot Elderflower Cordial, 1 shot Mango Juice, 1/2 shot of lime juice, Soda Water

Directions: Bung the Gin, Elderflower, Mango and Lime into a glass and mix them together. Add a couple of cubes of ice, and top up with soda water. Fly to the caribbean, find a nice beach, lie back, and enjoy.

Pros:

• Perfectly refreshing poolside cocktail. Great after a hot day exploring a far flung city.
• The mango masks the unpleasantness of even the cheapest gin. Sainsbury’s basics all the way.

Cons:

• May be diluted on contact with rain.
• Flights to the Caribbean can be expensive. For a cheaper alternative, try Butlins, although this could lead to an unpleasant aftertaste.

Daiquiri

Personally, I feel that sugar is an unfortunate by-product of the rum industry. Fortunately, this classic rum cocktail finds a use for the stuff. With a 2:1 Spirits to Boring Stuff ratio, it’s pretty potent, so if you’re feeling dull you can mix it with fruit juice to make a refreshing long drink.

Ingredients: 2 shots white rum, 1 shot lime juice, 2 heaped teaspoons caster sugar. Optionally, juice of some sort – it works really well with innocent smoothies.

Directions: Either mix the rum, lime and sugar vigorously over ice until the sugar has dissolved, or, if you have a cocktail shaker, shake over ice until your fingers start to freeze to the shaker. Pour it into a cocktail glass (without the ice), sip, and wait for the alcohol to hit you. For something with a bit less kick, bung it all in a tall glass, and top up with some tropical fruit juice.

Pros:

• You can get rum, lime and sugar almost anywhere in the world. It’s a shame the same can’t be said for such luxuries as fresh milk.

Cons:

• I actually have no idea how the name is meant to be pronounced. Da-keery? Die-queery? This does seem to matter less after I’ve drunk a couple of them.

Tropical Mist

Piña coladas are the quintessential tropical cocktail, and no summer cocktails article would be complete without some mention of them. Unfortunately, the only recipe I’ve found that’s any good is a complete pain to make (it involves a blender), so here’s a cheap and cheerful alternative, with the added bonus that it’s an absolutely vile blue colour.

Ingredients: 1 shot Blue Curacao, 1 shot Malibu, Pineapple Juice.

Directions: Chuck everything into a glass with a couple of cubes of ice. Mix until it becomes a nice consistent colour.

Pros:

• With a cocktail this bright, you’ll never lose your friends in a bar.
• Quick, easy and cheap. Much like a mail order bride.

Cons:

• There is absolutely nothing classy about this drink – it’s sweet, tacky, artificial goodness.
• If you’re male, then drinking this makes you look about as effeminate as Gok Wan sporting a pink tutu. Not a look I personally go for…

Passionfruit Margarita

This cocktail divides opinion – if you like something sweet and refreshing, it’s probably not the one for you, but it’s got a good kick and a great passionfruit taste. If you use fresh passion fruit to make it, it definitely counts as one of your 5 a day.

Ingredients: 1 shot Tequila, 1 shot triple sec or cointreau, 1 shot lime juice, 1 shot passionfruit juice. (If you can’t find passionfruit juice, squeeze the contents of about 2 passion fruit through a strainer.)

Directions: If you have a cocktail shaker, slam everything into it with a handful of ice, shake hard, and strain into a cocktail glass. If not, mix it all over ice until it’s really cold, and then pour the liquid into a cocktail glass, leaving the ice behind.

Pros:

• A couple of glasses of this should keep you going from lunchtime till sunset, wherever you are in the world.
• Lots of people don’t like it. If you do, then there’s no need to share.

Cons:

• Unless you can find passionfruit juice (I couldn’t), it’s a bit of a pain to make.
• Lots of people don’t like it. If this is you, can I finish yours off?

Spiced Apple Pie

This is a really good, simple cocktail. If you’ve got nothing better to do with your time, you can make your own spiced rum – chuck some vanilla, a stick of cinnamon, a handful of cloves and some nutmeg into a bottle of cheap dark rum and leave for a few days, until it tastes good. Alternatively, if you’re really lazy, just omit the ‘spiced’ and use plain old dark rum.

Ingredients: 1 1/2 shots of spiced rum, apple juice, ginger beer (not ale)

Directions: Chuck the rum into a long glass, add a handful of ice cubes, and top up with a 50/50 mix of apple juice and ginger beer. If you’re feeling poncy, try sprinkling a bit of ground cinnamon over the top.

Pros:

• Really easy to make – just bung everything together.
• Tastes great – everyone should love it.

Cons:

• It’s not that alcoholic. Enough said.

Tom’s handiwork

Gary Lineker has gone on the offensive against a new Cambridge A-level after his son failed to score the grades he needed.

The Match of the Day presenter has fired a volley of abuse at Surrey public school Charterhouse, where George Lineker has just finished.

George failed to net the hat-trick of B’s he needed to secure his shot at Manchester University, and Lineker senior reckons he has paid the penalty for the school’s decision to switch to the new Cambridge Pre-U system.

The former-England striker blasted: “We don’t know what’s going on with George at the moment. He did the Pre-U and they seem to have been marked much harder than the A-Level papers.”

George Lineker with former Big Brother contestant Sophie Reade

Having attended the prestigious £25,000 a year Charterhouse, known for its high churn-out of ‘A’ grades, Gary is livid  that his boy has not followed its tradition of returning top marks, and thinks the school’s decision has rebounded on his prospects.

“It’s all a bit frustrating, as it is the first year the Pre-U exams have been used, so George has been used as a guinea pig.”

The Cambridge Pre-U exams have been substituted for the conventional system in a handful of top private schools, including Dulwich, Winchester and Eton. It is considered to be a more difficult alternative, with the top mark being worth 5 UCAS points more than the new ‘A*’ in the conventional A-level system.

There have been suggestions that George Lineker’s ‘celeb lifestyle’ took his eye off the ball at school. On top of dating ex-Big Brother contestant Sophie Reade earlier in the year, he also took a week-long holiday to Tenerife just weeks before his exams as well as visiting his dad during the World Cup.

A source told The Mirror: “George got caught up in the celeb scene this year and it’s really affected his results.”

After scoring his academic own-goal, George ranted on Facebook: “didn’t get into a uni… cheers school u massive k**bers!”

A fleet-footed friend replied: “Just cos ya father is a celeb doesnt mean u go there automatically.”

Another photo of Sophie Reade in case you missed the first one.

Understadably the school have gone on the defensive. Headmaster the Rev John Witheridge said he was “delighted with our pupils’ excellent results this year.”

With less than a month to go until most freshers weeks kick off, it remains to be seen whether George will get another chance to go to university or whether his mis-firing revision has left him permanently on the sidelines. 

Here it is, the final installment of The Tab‘s Cambridge A-Z. Firstly, if you’ve only just clued up -- check out A-H, and I-P.

Q is for Quidditch

Prepare for tenuous link numero uno. But, wait! Before you scoff at The Tab for being supremely mentally-limited (“Pah! Who can’t come up with something for Q?”) -- may I remind you of the Catz (= St Catharine’s) students who believe that quidditch ought to be considered a sport and -- mildly disconcertingly -- don’t seem to be the lone maniacs in a sea of rational minds? Thank you.

Muggle Quidditch in action the USA

Now, on a more conventional note… Ultimately, if you want to play sport in Cambridge you will be able to do so at some level or another. Your college will have sports teams -- sign up at your college Freshers’ Fair -- and depending on the size of the college and the popularity of the sport, there may well be several teams. Other colleges are better provided for than others -- Catz has an astroturf hockey pitch, John’s has vast playing fields, Jesus just seems to have endless nets, courts and goal posts. And there’s plenty of space on that freezing cold river for the rowers.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=-Cy32PszpoA

Oh go on, you want to see them playing Quidditch, don’t you

Those who are really good at their selected sport may be selected to play for the university, which is called being a Blue. Male Blues will then acquire a blazer, a reliance on thrice-hourly protein shakes, and an army of Blue-Tack -- a Harem of variable looking girls who want to shag them purely because they play sport (and not at all as a result of any deeply-seated self-esteem issues).

Blue-Tack -- stop salivating. The laptop keys are sticking together

For those of us who are not particularly interested in sport, or rather, whose interest in sport extends only to the fact that we’ll never find a boyfriend if our arses are halfway down our thighs, then Fenners, the University’s gym is only £40 per year for undergraduate membership (same cost applies to post-grads). Check out the website here.

R is for Revs

Revs is Vodka Revolutions. “Wait! They’ve got one of those bland, slightly overexpensive chain bars in my town!” Yeah? Well I bet yours doesn’t have a roof terrace. Revs is a favoured swap location for the 2-for-1 food deals and features an alluring series of ‘shot sticks’ will seem like a really good deal in fresher’s week until you realise that they are, in reality, not.

S is for Sundays

There are two Sundays on which your immediate concern upon waking up is not, “who’s heading to brunch?” but rather, where’s that bottle of Glen’s vodka? We speak, of Caesarean and Suicide Sundays.

Caesarean Sunday is an event about three weeks into Exam term (see: E, Part One) , and is seen to demarcate the last day of boozing before exam hibernation begins. (Those who carry on after this explosion of revelry are considered Massive Lads in public, and The Walking Damned in private). Caesarean Sunday is when many drinking societies choose to initiate new members (see D: Part One) on Jesus Green, a verdant spot which, within a matter of a few short hours, bears some resemblance to the Battle of the Somme. Even if you are initiating, it is likely you will be as drunk as your initiees. After initiations, most of the university crowds around the Girton Green Monsters and the Jesus Caesareans, who then do gruelling battle until one is crowned victor. Following this, everyone piles off for a tactical nap (one possible explanation for the popular nickname for the Caesarians -- ‘the snoozarians’. There are others), and then normal Sunday rules apply: another battle to squeeze through the doors of Fez and Life and a hangover that leaves you sweating booze for three days afterwards.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=imzSxlShHnc

The Caesarians and Green Giants do ‘battle’ in 2007

Suicide Sunday was, traditionally, the day upon which Finalists received their exam results. It is, however, post-exams and marks the beginning of May Week and therefore is a day of exuberant celebration and often tabloid hysteria. On Suicide Sunday, various drinking societies host garden parties -- The Wyverns being the most notorious of them all, so notorious indeed, that the university no longer permits these Magdalene gentlemen to actually hold their garden party in the town itself - one of which you are bound to attend, and some people manage two or three. These parties are characterised by abundant alcohol, boys in chinos, blazers and drinking society ties and mildly-offensive portaloos. Some boast music, or bouncy castles, others assume excessive booze is sufficient -- it is -- but expect to leave unable to stand. Another tactical nap, and then it’s out for your usual doze of Sunday night entertainment, except this time, no Monday morning supervision, but rather the glorious freedom of May Week.

T is for Townies

Strictly speaking, there is a strict townie-student apartheid -- unless you choose to frequent Wetherspoons, which you very well might since it’s cheap, and rather like The Mahal, rather hard to get kicked out of or barred from. However, in calling it Wetherspoons, or Spoons, as you indubitably shall, you expose that this apartheid is more complicated than preferred drinking locations, for no townie would call it Wetherspoons, instead opting for ‘The Regal’. And even if you go to Wetherspoons, you definitely wouldn’t go on a Saturday night. The apartheid remains.

An epicentre of Town vs. Gown apartheid: Spoons. Or is it The Regal?

This apartheid means that townies and students can coexist quite happily -- because separately -- and without any awkward altercations in which the former call the latter “toffs”, and the later retort with something horrifically classist that does nothing but strengthen stereotypes about Cambridge. Ultimately, us Cambridge kids avoid townie nights out because you don’t have to be a pussy to go here, but it helps. However, The Tab, ever heroic, ventured out one night, even daring to take a video camera. Watch the Tab TV footage below.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZdCr-0sbN0s

U is for the Union

Going down the union at most other UK universities usually involves four spirits for a pound, Cheesy Pop Wednesdays (!!) and an ex-member of S Club 7 performing a weak rendition of a 90s classic. But that is union-with-a-small-u. The Cambridge Union is a members only affair; less cheesy pop and nauseous childhood pin-ups (the girls anyway; the male members were never names you’d draw hearts around in bubblegum gel pen in your homework diary); more pomp, circumstance and an ancient debating chamber.

Aforementioned ancient debating chamber

It is not an exclusive members only club: any undergraduate at the university can pay to become a member, but unlike your JCR (see, J), you are not automatically a member of the Union by default of being a member of your college/the university. The Union attracts big name speakers to its sometimes contentious debates and holds various ents (including the innocently-named Pole Fitness) throughout term. Budding politicians: apply here; a position at the Union is likely to look good on any political CV.

V is for Varsity Ski Trip

Now, we’ve already made our feelings about Oxford very clear (See: O, Part Two). However, some Cambridge students are sufficiently charitable as to offer these Oxford students a glimpse (just that, mind you -- you can look but don’t touch) of how much better university would have been if they’d only been slightly cleverer and been able to attend university with the likes of us. We give you, Varsity Ski Trip -- in other words, a ski trip for both Cambridge and Oxford students.

The biggest student-run ski trip in the world, this year Varsity Trip is going to Val Thorens, in the French Alps, between the 4th and the 11th December -- just after Michaelmas (first) term ends. The trip is pretty affordable -- £299 for the first 299 people, and £319 thereafter. By all accounts, Varsity is a blur of apres-ski parties, with a bit of skiing thrown in for good measure -- both of which, no doubt, we’re better than Oxford at doing too. Booking opens on the 5th October -- if you’re interested, check out the website, since we’re promised this year’s trip will, “blow us away”. Furthemore -- we are also assured that total beginners are absolutely welcome. Whether this welcome is the sort of welcome that means we will actually be shunned by those who spent a Gap Yah on the slopes has not been ascertained, but how hard can skiing be anyway.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hy_tELPFelI

Recognise the voice?

W is for Work

Much of this alphabet thus far has focussed on how mental we all are, with our drinking societies and out ski trips and our shite clubs. We’ve managed to keep a -- studiedly -- cool face on until W. But let’s face it, we all got in here because, we are a bit nerdy. Not unacceptably nerdy -- well, most of us -- but nerdy enough to want to come and study at Cambridge, which isn’t a walk in the park. Earlier on in the year, The Tab‘s Opinion Editor Ollie Kay made the -- rather contentious -- point that we could have all gone to Bristol and come out with a slightly less valuable degree but had a bit more of a laugh.

First thing’s first, work at Cambridge has its own lingo.

Lecture = easy one to start you off. Sit in big hall with many others across the university who also do your subject. Someone far more learned than you will ever be speaks at you for an hour. You take some half-hearted notes and regret this lacklustre engagement come exam term.

Historians: prepare to be dazzled by the architectural aberrant that is the Seeley Library

Seminar = Either inter- or intra-collegiate affairs, small groups (probably about twelve maximum) of students and a supervisor, in a room. Good news -- in these sort of set-ups, one pompous, sickeningly well-informed compadre will take the reins and basically talk for an hour and a half, while you probably won’t have to proffer more than a grunt. Bad news -- you will probably have to deliver a presentation at some point, at which point your negligent attention span will be duly noted.

Supervision = The most scary affair, very small groups (often one-on-one) with a supervisor. In the most utopian of worlds, you are given a reading list a week before supervision, spend three days reading, one day gathering notes and thoughts, and two days leisurely crafting your opus, submitting before deadline and enjoying a cheeky day off -- during which, obviously, you crack on with next week’s reading. This never happens and leads ultimately to one of those supervisions during which you can see the supervisor’s opinion of you dropping from ‘responds with a start to swift movements’ to ‘possible vegetable’.

As for degrees: a Geoff Hurst is a First, a Trevor Nunn is a 2:i, a Desmond Tutu (sometimes referred to as a ‘cheeky Desmond’) is a 2.ii, a Douglas Hurd a third, and a Dan Quayle is a fail.

X is for X-Rays

The student diet is not a healthy one, and you are likely to feel pretty lousy quite a lot -- especially in the first few weeks, when like everyone else in the place, you will succumb to Freshers’ Flu, which is because you grotty little beasts have come from across the country bringing your various germs with you and infecting us all (because, unfortunately Freshers’ Flu is not exclusive to Freshers). Not to mention the fact that we all start copping off with each other. Just keep yourself going, like everyone else does, with a Berocca breakfast and a Pro Plus dinner, and you’ll live. If not, Trumpington Street medical practice is particularly central (just opposite St Catharine’s), as is Trinity Street Surgery, which is opposite Gonville and Caius college. And there’s a Boots in the Lion Yard centre, and a Superdrug on Sidney Street -- the same road as Sainsbury’s, where you can feed your cold with self-prescribed sweeties.

Y is for Youth

There are two colleges exclusively for graduate students (Clare Hall and Darwin) and four that admit only mature students (those over the age of 21 at the start of their studies) or post-grads: Hughes Hall, St Edmund’s, Wolfson and Lucy Cavendish colleges. Lucy Cavendish is a women-only, mature students college. You may be supervised by post-graduate students, but the nightlife is dominated ultimately by undergraduates -- probably because it can’t be that fun overhearing snippets of conversation about the 2010 A Level Geography paper. Nothing makes mortality rear its ugly head like the realisation that you are ageing swiftly away from your own demographic. However, by all accounts, the grad lifestyle is louche and has it’s own exclusive ‘scene’ which remains largely mysterious to The Tab.

Z is for Zoom Lens

Of course we copped out at Z. The Tab only has so much imagination, and X and Y were taxing and sufficiently tenuous as to leave us despairing of our vocabularies. Remember, we resorted to Work at W. What do you mean, “Zoom Lens?”, Tab? Well, remember, that one day, theoretically, this Cambridge degree is supposed to make you the ultimate in employability, capable of rising, phoenix-like from the ashes of the current graduate market and into a position to pay back a debt that increases with every pound you squeeze out of your unarranged overdraft. So for God’s sake, de-tag. Because no doubt, there are going to be some particularly incriminating photos of you emerging at some point in the next three years. The Tab‘s albums are merely glancing at the tip of a pernicious iceberg. At least there are clothes in these ones. So you have been warned. Don’t say The Tab doesn’t look out for you.

So. We hope the Cambridge A-Z has been of use to you new-faced, eager freshers. Well done to you, we look forward to bumping into you at some point, and do remember The Tab is always looking for new writers so get in touch if you’re keen. email editor@cambridgetab.co.uk -- no experience necessary.