Corpus students took on their college yesterday over room rents and rising costs.

150 out of the tiny college’s 250 undergraduates stood on the New Court lawn among accusations that the college is treating them “like children”.

The JCR backed protest was aimed at the alleged “dishonesty” and “incompetence” of college authorities.

One JCR source told The Tab: “they do not consult us, or they consult us and do it anyway, or they lie and say they have consulted us when they haven’t.”

The complaints stem from the college’s handling of drastic financial cuts. In the last 3 years Corpus has been hit by losses of £1,600,000 last year £1,850,000 in 2008 and a whopping £2,050,000 in 2007.

The minutes of a meeting between the Bursar and college bosses admit that “information about the deficit…could lead to press comment on alleged mismanagement of the College’s affairs”.

150 Corpus students gather in New Court despite the protestations of the lawn sign (front right).

News of the colleges financial troubles will surprise many as Cambridge folklore has long had it that Corpus is the richest college per student in the university.

Oliver Rackham’s 2002 book Treasures of Silver at Corpus Christi College documented the colleges unrivalled collection of rare wines and ports, silver and medieval manuscripts. Rackham also claimed the college possesses “a thirteenth-century drinking vessel made of the horn of an extinct animal”.

The massive deficits have forced the college to make deep cuts. Corpus has frozen salaries as well as allegedly sacking staff in the Porter’s Lodge, Bursary, Housekeeping, and Catering department. A recent college report admits that “Staff morale was very low in some areas”.

Students yesterday complained about a 10% hike in room rents and even having to eat breakfast in the bar area using disposable wooden cutlery.

Corpus JCR representatives hold a placard with CUSU President-elect Rahul Mansigani and current President Tom Chigbo.
 

A leading JCR source was keen to press that the gathering on New Court lawn was not a “protest” but rather an "event". One particularly dapper gentleman was even keener to insist that the event was not “left wing”.

“I’m not left wing – God no.  But I’m here for the College.”

Outgoing JCR President Patrick Farmbrough told The Tab that the college authorities were guilty of “systemic miscommunication”.

He continued: “Today isn't about pushing a particular agenda or picking a fight with anyone. It's about showing that we care about our college, and that we want to be fully involved in the decision-making process. I think the fact that over a hundred and fifty students from such a small college showed up says it all.”

The college have not yet replied to our request for a comment.

Reporters: Simran Singh and Guy Kiddey.

Stewart Lee, Monday 8th March – 10pm @ The Junction

I’m very tempted to give this no stars – this man cannot become popular. I don’t think I could tolerate his version of alternate, alternative comedy suddenly entering the mainstream. He’s too good for that. We don’t deserve him.

Then I remembered this review won’t be making the front page of The Times (you self-centred prick, Ollie! (Note: ‘Ollie’ NOT ‘Olly’); Yet far more crucially, Stewart Lee’s latest offering is a piece of unrivalled genius.

It was a tour-de-force in the art of stand-up. A scathing, monumental attack on us – the fucking public. An attack on our pitiable loyalty towards the painfully scripted Top Gear and Mock The Week; our pathetic acceptance of pear cider and high-street coffee chains; our desperate desire for alternative observational comedy, with their convenient routines that relate to our insignificant and boring little lives.

“I’m not like Michael McIntyre, spoon-feeding you warm diarrhoea,” Lee warns.
Stewart doesn’t care about our tedious day-to-day. Get over it.

Lee performed the same show twice that evening. Quite a feat, considering there was no warm-up, and the set was refreshingly long. (For any other touring comedians potentially reading this, if I’m paying money to see you, give me more than a 45-minute act, you lazy shit. Or get your mephed-up, Bristol Uni drop-out writers to get on the case! And Lee Evans, stop singing at the end of your shows. Seriously – what’s wrong with you? Stu did it – but he did it for a reason.)

The 10pm was always going to be the trickier slot of the two, and Lee knew it: “You lot are the 300 who weren’t quite as keen as the first 300.”

It was an admittedly tense start. One particular douche in the front row made for a hasty toilet break within five minutes, then another at the ten-minute mark. Lee quite-rightly flipped: He chased after him into the foyer, kindly shouted at him not to return, and then threw four actual, physical chairs in his direction. Then he called him a cunt. I think everyone was in agreement, he was a cunt. A cunt who had the shits, apparently.

Lee’s ingenuity stems from his awareness of his audience, and the range of reactions he can tease out of them, over the course of the evening. I especially thinks he enjoys the paradox between the third of the audience, who are very much on the same page, and the remaining two-thirds, who sometimes ‘get it’, but completely and utterly miss the underlying point.

Before starting his epic 40-minute Top Gear condemnation, Lee had warned us that this part was received with mixed reactions by critics. Good. I don’t really want everyone to love it. We have McIntyre for that.

And the row in front of me certainly didn’t. They were your typical Top Gear fan – balding, and middle-aged. The type who, as Lee had pointed out, enjoyed watching Clarkson be politically incorrect on their behalf – “The bloody French…The bloody gays … ha-fucking-ha.” It made the set even more pleasurable to watch an entire row of ale-drinking, Vorderman-fanciers, slowly but surely, be desecrated by a comedian at the very top of his game.

Stewart Lee’s call for Richard Hammond (“a horrible, shit, little weasel-shit”) to be decapitated and killed, then for his head to be paraded around the Top Gear studio on a stick – too much?

Don’t worry – it’s just a joke.
 

Wednesday 10th – Saturday 13th, 11.00 at The ADC Theatre. £5-6.

Directed by Keith Akushie.

The concept: 3 people are held hostage but their kidnapper’s a pussy. Turns out it’s not even that awkward – they’ve got a surprising amount of common ground to go on.

This play about these people trying to make the most of their time stuck in an office. Which is quite easy, it argues, if you've got some beer hidden in computer monitors and one of you is a mad fabulist kleptomaniac – and they do, and he is. What’s more, repeating bizzarreries (that is a real word) come back to haunt our humble protagonists just as they’d thought they had escaped them. Thus, mysterious, missing, fornicating cufflinks resurface; an old appearance on the ‘MILF Channel’ will never be forgotten; and Katy’s weird ex turns out to be the kidnapper himself.

Oh, and as if this wasn’t enough for you viewers, the whole shebang is actually very funny.

What could have been a hit-and-miss account of fending off boredom turns, under Akushie’s nimble pen, into a mini-epic of the office environment. This is essentially a character piece, and fortunately the acting does justice to a script that’s literally overbrimming with potential.

Obstinately cardigan-wearing Mark Fiddaman makes a great James, the unintentionally camp owner of a pair of fists called Mickey and Minnie. Ellie Ross puts on a strong performance as Katy, reasonable woman with quirks – and that’s saying something – and defender of animal rights: “How can making an animal look sexy be cruel?” – well…

Patrick McBride’s multi-faceted portrayal of Michael, ‘a man who stole all the toilet paper in the office for no reason’ and also a total schizo, was particularly interesting: leaping between personas, he successfully dupes the characters – along with, impressively, the audience – making his character the most puzzling and compelling of the play.

Joe Bannister’s Kidnapper, or rather, failure at life, was entertaining as someone who could be mocked (“holding a gun is a bit like wetting yourself…”, etc) but was not convincing as someone who could have actually kidnapped anybody. He would have probably only sustained the highly credulous.

Arguably, I’m not one to judge. I didn’t write bits of Peep Show. But what I can say is that, pretty damn obviously, Jesse Armstrong was not exaggerating when he said this play was really good. You don’t just win the Harry Porter prize for nothing: Akushie’s writing rises way above your Cambridge canon of student endeavours.

The characterisation is excellent: protagonists are introduced, explored, grow and learn throughout the play. Most of the jokes are enjoyably anecdotal, which means they can flow in and out of the play’s fine structure and allow for the development of the storyline. And for a student script they’ve only had about two weeks to put together, not only in terms of acting, but also of production, this workplace saga really impresses.

Lads love beer, Lads love birds (women), but most of all Lads love lads. Now, I’m not saying we (yes, I am counting myself in this members only club of alpha-males) want to bum each other, but a group mentality is definitely the bedrock upon which the ‘laddish’ attitude is founded. The upshot of this is that you always have a group of mates whom you can wholly rely on, however, it also results in most issues being trivialised (sometimes frustratingly) into ‘cracking banter’, because “we don’t do any of that serious feelings or emotions stuff…we’re Lads!”

Take for instance, sex.  At best, two people who wish to express the intensity of their love, doing so in the most intimate way they can. At worst, it could merely result in the provision of an amusing story the next day. The lads congregate, drinking pints of water and tea in an attempt to nurse a hangover, whilst merrily reminiscing about the night just gone to a soundtrack of 90s ‘club bangers’ and intermittent Spotify ads. In this instance, last night’s ‘romantic’ endeavours are in aid of reputation and plaudits from the rest of the horde.

Even after an unsuccessful ‘night on the tiles’, and in a bid to uphold one’s Laddishness, shouting “Darlin’…Noiiice!” at any female straggler, stumbling home from an ARU night is also sufficient. However, in reality, the only ‘noiiice’ things this ‘Lonely Lad’ has to look forward to are a kebab and a blurry eyed wank. Nevertheless, the result of this petty attempt to salvage the remnants of his night is a tale of harassment and chauvinism. Job done, cue “Wheys!” and pats on the back the next morning.
 

Now ladies, please don’t over-analyse this and create the mental image of Neanderthals in society ties. Before you shriek with horror at such a picture, we are not simply sexist arseholes who constantly have a finger or two shoved up said nether region (apart from a few). Need I remind you of your tuneful mantra: “girls just wanna have fun!” – well  for Lads it’s quite the same, the only difference being that our mantra is a monotonous, shouty, one-word, self-referential tricolon: “LADS, LADS, LADS!”

 The reality is that many of us are nicely brought up boys from middle-class families, hardworking and genuinely approachable (or something non-threatening along those lines). It is just the case that when we gravitate towards each other we feel the need to re-enact some Guy Ritchie movie, starring Danny Dyer, Michael Caine, Vinnie Jones and other well known generic ‘wide-boys’. They shag lots of birds…but then again they shoot lots of people. That’s beside the point; the ‘Lad’ has replaced the ‘Gent’.
 

At a deeper, psychological level, it may be argued that such behaviour is an ironic rebellion against the very real possibility of owning a wardrobe full of suits and a shooting stick in the near future. However, despite viewing ‘Laddish’ behaviour as mere pretence, it is an escape from the Cantabrigian model of manhood, that’s why it’s so much fun. Who wants to read GQ when, for now, we can read Nuts? Who wants to woo the ladies when we can ‘schweff on birds’? Who wants to be a Gentleman when, for these final years, we can be LADS?
 

Last week CUTV hit the national press with their naked antics in a film entitled 'Naked News': an amusing (and very naked) concept, unfortunately not fantastically executed. Since then they have cleaned up their act, got a tripod and (most importantly) removed the underwear from Jane Doe. The sound still leaves a little to be desired, but who is really listening to what they are saying anyway? Check it out:

To check out more from CUTV visit www.cu-tv.co.uk

Most people are flagging a bit by Week 8, as were Team Tab in the style stakes.

Let's start with Joshi, outgoing (clock that double entendre) Editor. Not only is he a big-time journo, we hear he's a fairly good rower and plays a bit of rugger. An impressive résumé to say the least, so it would just be depressing if he also managed to dress like a would-be fashion stylist. As it turns out, he hasn't. There's nothing wrong with his outfit per se, especially given that the occasion was but a casual Sunday evening at Tab HQ.
His outfit is distinctly… average. Jeans, hoodie, scarf (which we're not sure really goes with that hoodie), (admittedly nice) coat: all pretty standard fare. Which is fair enough.

Leonie, Features Editor, is an established fashionista and we're loving her stylish monochrome top-cum-dress. It's nicely paired with a statement necklace, and cleverly dressed down a bit with that grey slouchy cardigan. However, we're not so sure about the purple tights. A welcome change from ubiquitous black, or simply a mismatch?

Coloured tights: a recurrent fashion dilemma, but one my brain is struggling to solve while in a typical end-of-term state. Come to think of it, those extra faded jeans worn by Joshi could also be considered a slightly contentious choice (albeit not quite as controversial as yellow chinos, featured earlier this term in Tab Team Style). That being said, the items individually do look good so maybe they just need to be teamed with different pieces in order to make them really work. I'll leave you to ponder the divisive items in question (if you feel like doing so, you may well not) while I hang up my editorial shoes.

Ellie Goulding – Lights

Ellie Goulding already has her name written in lights.  Winning BBC sound of the year and the Brits critic choice award this album had a lot to live up to.  It is an album to tear opinions in half though.  Many will praise her song-writing and her voice (mainly radio one daytime listeners) and will herald her album.  Others however will think its nothing special and that’s its mostly been done before, and I’m afraid this is the side of the divide I fall on.  There’s nothing hugely wrong with the album, but with its electronica and her voice it sounds like a combination of La Roux and Little Boots, which for a sound of 2010 winner, is just a little bit too 2009.  Singles Under the Sheets, Starry Eyed and This Love (Will be your downfall) are the catchiest songs on the album, and will attract pop music lovers.  Aside from these though there are tracks such as The Writer and Every Time You Go with its acoustic guitar and piano that attempt to meld folk music and pop, and for this she should be commended.  If only the rest of the album sounded like this and had not aimed at commercialism, it might have been more worthy of its critical praise.  In what it likely to be the battle of the new female solo artists, round one goes to you Marina. CB

5/10

Two Door Cinema Club – Tourist History

Kitsuné don’t mess about.  Having taken previous electronic indie acts La Roux and Delphic under their wing, they know talent when they see it.  Two Door Cinema Club are the latest act to emerge from them and they have produced a debut album that is nothing less than stunning.  Consisting of catchy and punchy tracks varying from 2 minutes to 4 minutes in length the Northern Irish trio sing about joyous youthful experiences.  Opener Cigarettes in the Theatre sets the tone, whilst the pulsating I Can Talk id sure to be a dance-floor filler later this year.  Something Good Can Work is as equally catchy but Undercover Martyn has to take the award for best track.  Opening with Foalsesque scratch guitars it then bursts into life with its electronic effects.   It may not be in the same musical and creativity league as Goriallz’s absolute genius offering this week, but it remains as one that will please all indie-electro fans.  Best debut album of the year so far. CB

8/10

Enter Shikari – Tribalism

Given that ‘Tribalism’ is a hotchpotch of new songs, B-sides and remixes, one would not expect a coherent collection; unfortunately though, it manages to cram everything that is wrong with this band into one long hour. If their route to success was refreshing – an almost relentless touring schedule, coupled with a refusal to sign a conventional record deal – their music is far from it. Acts such as ‘Battles’ and ‘Errors’ prove that there is nothing inherently wrong with dance/rock crossovers; however, plundering the worst of both worlds is inevitably disastrous.

Their new material showcases the only ‘evolution’ of which Shikari are capable – they have changed their gimmick in order to reflect Dubstep’s infiltration of the mainstream, replacing synths with sub-bass wobbles in the token ‘beatdown’. The title track sees vocalist Rou defiling the memory of The Streets’ Mike Skinner, offering painful social commentary in Cat in the Hat rhyme, whilst an embarrassing approximation of rap-metal stutters in the background. The rehashes recall the trance/hardcore Enter Shikari cut their teeth on, minus the admittedly catchy choruses of old; most damningly, the samples merely deflect attention from the skeletal composition.

The remixes are sub-Pendulum, which is surely some kind of achievement, and the live cover of Faithless’ Insomnia is highly instructive; when most of the crowd don’t even recognise the song until the iconic synth line appears, all becomes clear – their baffling large following of 15 year olds don’t actually like dance music, allowing them to revel in its mindless debasement. JB

2/10

Wednesday 10th – Friday 12th, 8.00 in Robinson College Auditorium. £4.

Directed by Oliver O’Shea

Firstly, a shout-out to Tom Adams who, as the Guard, stood on stage for almost two hours – in silence. His moment in the spotlight was when he got to step forward and inhale. What was clearly a gripping test of acting skill was managed very well.

In fact, he was the cherry on top of a solid cast. Brid Arnstein slipped between condescending medical professional and tortured loner with eerie ease. Some of the most absorbing scenes were between Arnstein and George Johnston, playing her medical subject, as it became clear that the madness was not solely concentrated on one side of the dialogue. Johnston gave a consistently excellent performance, balancing menace with an unnervingly compelling soul. Ayoola Alabi, as the mother of Ralph’s last victim, shone in moments of creepy intensity and frustrated anger, although at times her emotional reflections felt stilted.

However, my hesitation about this play lies in its lack of originality. The plot panned out like a dot-to-dot: murder – forgiveness – remorse – zzzzzz. At one point during my note-taking I scrawled ‘TRITE’ across my page, which apparently is my knee-jerk reaction to dialogue which runs in the vein of: ‘Where does it hurt, Ralph?’ ‘Here.’ Cue hand on heart. ‘That’s remorse, Ralph.’ Oh. He has heartache. To be fair, Bryony Lavery’s style has a lot of potential: certain scenes are beautifully paced, and her successful handling of the disturbing and the cold makes up for weaknesses in expressing softer emotions.

The use of sound effects was somewhat curious. At one point, Johnston’s character spoke of having his mouth washed out with soap. In case the audience was having difficulties understanding this obviously incomprehensible image, the sound of a droplet of water was helpfully blasted out of a speaker. Um, thanks?

During the interval, the audience member next to me walked out of the auditorium. The play was better than that, if only as a vehicle for three clearly talented actors. Go and see it. Or read ‘The Lovely Bones’, or something.

EMILIE FERRIS proposes that ‘All in all, “Frozen” is a satisfying and rewarding piece of work’:

‘Can we maintain that certain crimes are unforgivable even when they are beyond our control?’ Lavery seems to be asking.  But, with the sudden inexplicable abundance of serial killer themed plays such as Max Barton’s No Magic in Cambridge, the subject matter of murder and its consequences appear surprisingly quotidian and repetitive.

In spite of this, Frozen relies not upon its inherent plot, but the expertise of its actors who arguably bring a somewhat defunct intrigue to life. Johnston raises hairs as Ralph Wantage, delivering a fantastic performance as victim turned abuser, singular in its riveting presence as he commands the stage entirely. He works well with Arnstein’s Dr Gottmundsdottir who seemingly effortlessly sinks into her role of psychoanalyst. Ayoola Alabi’s delivery as Nancy Shirley, the bewildered mother, was at times spot on, conveying the exact mannerisms of a mother oscillating between despair as a slummy mummy to the proprietarily attired Capable Woman.

Nonetheless, perhaps due to latent influences within the script, Alabi’s Nancy occasionally appeared to fluctuate perplexingly between irreverence and inherent dislike of her children to hoarse grief, thus rendering it unclear as to her proper state of mind. Alabi does, however, conduct the familial setting very professionally as she re-enacts conversations with a pleasing natural inflection.

However, on a purely practical level, the very opening scene was unconvincing and rather weakly staged. With its sudden and unexpected bursts of emotion, it provoked uncertain titters from a nonplussed audience.  The props were rather crude and unsophisticated, but, it's a low budget show.

All in all, Frozen is a satisfying and rewarding piece of work. There are occasional awkward moments on stage, particularly as silences, designed to generate an awed atmosphere, fail to produce the desired effect, but the performances by the three main figures are strong, each of the individual traits of their character brought out to fantastic effect.

Dear L and L,

I’ve got a weird wanking problem. I just can’t help copping one off to cookery programmes. And please, don’t tell me I need to date a fat bitch who wants food in the bedroom. That stuff freaks the fuck out of me-I like clean sheets and in all honesty, I just don’t have the time to deal with some high maintenance princess. So it all started with that whore Nigella. When she licks icing off her fingers like a slightly overweight slut, I can’t help but get rock hard and throbbing. When she basted that turkey for her Christmas special I spaffed before you could say “domestic goddess”. I thought I could handle it, but things quickly got worse. Next it was Delia and her hard boiled eggs-I thought it might be ok because she’s into football and shit but the 2 Fat Ladies soon followed. Don’t get me wrong I HATE fat chicks but the sight of Clarissa skinning a rabbit got my pulse boiling. I’ve now resorted to breakfast television live cooking sessions-that stuff is cheap, rushed and the camera angles are all wrong. Blending, dicing, braising, giblets-it all gets me weak at the knees. Even the thought of Gordon’s cavernous face makes me want to go and grab a tub of Vaseline…please help.

Raw of Robinson.

L and L will not hear a word against Nigella. It doesn’t matter how many made-up adjectives she uses in her confusing books. We like her Boden-bedecked children in her Habitat-furnished, pleasure-mansion. It doesn’t matter about her fictional ingredients only found in Hades and grown by toothless Swedish orphans, because that lady has got some rack. She’s 50, but if L and L ever were to run out of shelving space, we’d know where to place our ornaments. Want to be beautiful and ageless like Nigella? Eat exclusively cake. And be born beautiful. But, baps of fury aside, let’s be serious here. You’re ill. Gravely ill. L and L can make you better. First, limit yourself just to watching the programmes, don’t ‘cook along at home’ unless you are a total fuckwit. L and L don’t want to hear you’re caught in a garlic press or that you’ve whipped your own man-cream. Second, watch the Hairy Bikers. Sure, they’re funny, they’re northern, they’re loveable, their recipes are no-nonsense, practical and tasty, but they’re an absolute mood-killer. Check the S&M forums if you want: they love leather, they love the Hairy Bikers, they love sex, but they’d never put them together. Just think about it. Even if Si King (The Geordie one that doesn’t make shit jokes) is licking cream provocatively off his index finger into a raunchy camera angle, nothing is going to be rock hard down there. Nothing. You’re always on standby in case the other one (and his shit jokes) whips his belly out again and they both go skinny dipping for the third time that episode. There’s always that fear, especially when they’re using goose fat. It’s akin to waking up to find Paul and Barry Chuckle going ‘to me, to you’ with your scrotal sac. You should after these two steps, be cured. If, after all that, you’re not, there’s one final solution: chop your cock off. You don’t deserve to have one.

L and L

Dear L and L,

So, yeah. Everyone’s, like, talking about your feature, so I just HAD TO write in. I can’t believe we’ve not met yet, we should like TOTALLY go for coffee. We could even go to that Indigo place if that’s what you indie kids like. I’m just, like, dyyyyyyyying to get to know you and add your number to my BB. So like, I’m totally having trouble finding a man. I want a real man, you know? Someone throbbing with the common touch, if you know what I mean? I want someone who’s experienced real life, got a few girls pregnant, worked down a mine or has a mental disability – I mean whatever it is they do at a comprehensive school to get their GNVQs. I just want one. He’s got to be from Newcastle, ‘cause I just love that Yorkshire accent, yeah? And a rapper, but they’re all rappers, aren’t they? All the men on council estates are rappers, I’m sure someone told me that. I’m sick of hunting, I’m sick of poetry readings, I just want to try a kebab. Anyway, where do I find a man like this? I’ve been searching everywhere: The Union, the Pitt Club, St. Johns’, Kambar, Classics Faculty, the Shop, you know, everywhere where anyone who’s anyone is. All the guys there are all so normal. They’ve all got names like Edmund or Jozef, it’s so dull. I want a man with a real name like Dave or Trent. But, just where are they? So, like, yeah. Help me out.

“Common” from Christ’s

L and L would like to applaud you on your strong desire to branch out of your comfort zone. It is really very brave and admirable of you. Well done. After all, poor is cool. First of all, you’ve come to the right place; L and L are common as muck. One of us sat our GCSE’s beside a pregnant chick. Fact. The other used to play ‘buy one, get 16 free’ after school, or as you would call it: ‘stealing’. Another fact. Did you know that Cambridge University is actually full of Northern folk? You might have even sat beside a Scot or a Welsh boy in one of your lectures. Yet another FACT. So we recommend that you start your search a bit closer to home. Try hanging around the kitchens in college – real kids actually have to cook for themselves. They can’t justify a midweek trip to Midsummer House (taxi there and back, darling, it’s so far it’s almost rural!) so you’ll probably find them rustling up some Sainsbury’s Basics pasta and cheese on a Tuesday night. Alternatively, try and convince your drinking society president to swap with a college football team. Everyone knows that football boys are massive chavs. L and L guarantee that half the team will have flat vowels, west-country burrs or speak English creatively, and you will definitely spot a few diamond earrings. Plus football boys have EXCELLENT sex lines, any rugby boy would be dead jealous. If you want to go the whole way and get an uneducated bloke you’ve got to get a bit more extreme. Ditch the Barbour, block dye your hair, get a tongue piercing and use daddy’s money for a fuck-off boob job. Pikeys love trash. Once your velour, diamante-encrusted look is complete, spend your Saturday night in Spoons, drink pints of Strongbow and get your vag out.

L and L