Yes, I am Still a Student.

photo by: Bronndave

It's been cracking weather in Oxford of late. I enjoyed a massive day in the sunshine on Saturday, amongst a lot of flesh and lycra, at Summer VIII's - the biggest intercollegial regatta here and a good excuse for everyone else to get together, have a few Pimms and overpriced burgers and and run along the banks screaming for our College crews. Only lowpoint for me was hearing a bunch of short men talk about how the other Colleges did not have as much money as theirs (by the looks of their equipment etc) and point out women who they thought "should not be wearing Lycra". Unfortunately, it was so humourless that there was not much to do with it live. You can't really work with that material (so instead I will report on them here).

photo by: winkyintheuk

After a full day by the River, rowers and fans slowly made it to a nearby pub to toast various things. A few of us then grabbed some take-away and went to Uni Parks for wine and stories, then back to College for group hugging and dancing (and a strange bike riding competition between two gingers who had not hopped on bikes for 20 years). As usual, the DJ wanted to play trendy club anthems. I told him that I hoped he had not been misinformed, but that the remit of a College party is pretty much cheese. He told me, with his eyes fixated on his computer screen and refusing to take off his headphones, that he did not know what cheese meant. I listed a few songs and said that he might just have to let go of his vision in the name of getting some people on the floor (I was mildly less bratty in real life). He snarled and it was only a few tracks later (some spectacular doof doof) that he obliged us with some generic RnB and wedding classics. As a mate reminded me today, we could always threaten DJs with a Spotify playlist or even just use one and pocket the cash.

photo by: Laura Sauls

So, yes, it's true, my life's still very much the student deal. Although, that also means I am off to Italy this week with two lovely ladies. I won't be online. I plan to be be caught up in this.

I will have to wait til after I return to tell you about (former Australian Prime Minister) John Howard's visit to Oxford last Thursday and my awkward "sorry dad" interaction (for a quick glance at the man in action, click here) and possibly, if the themes can settle in my mind, yesterday's Synechode, New York cinema experience. (What a trip! What a fantastic mess! Meaning of life, death, love, sexuality, relationships, the value of art and the artistic life, the boundaries between reality and illusion, and the routine lenses of health anxiety disorder, narcissim, depression, and, at times, a certain type of maleness all cobbled into one extraordinary movie, and one you're never sure really works as a movie...Perhaps this is enough right here and I shall wait for Alice's tidy review.)

In any case, have a nice week!

Oi coxing, keep your grubby hands off my Ch'i!

Jesse Crockett

I have just returned from a morning on the Isis, coxing. It was mild. The sky was white spray-painted pink. The trees along the banks were bare and still, but the moss and grass were gently glowing - there is something child-friendly about the winter now. There was only one other boat out on the river, now dark green. We were joined by chubby geese plonking in from the banks.

I feel more like my cloudless, pre-write-up self today. I recognised the difference when one of the crew members complained to the coach half way through the outing that my calls were not aggressive enough to push their stroke. I cared enough to get a little more race-crazy in the second half, but I felt detached, like I was watching myself, and barely a trace of shame. Oh, appropriate detachment, you truly are lovely! Please stay.

Even when rower-woman apologised to me at the bike racks (it is bad form to criticise a cox in front of the crew, something about needing to maintain his or her veneer as top dog so that other crew members don't decide not to listen just as their heads are being knocked off by a short bridge) and even when another crew member said to me on the ride back to College "How bullshit was that comment?", I just didn't engage and it didn't require any vein-swelling suppression either. I have considered that my body is trying to help me out, to save my pep, my vim, my Ch'i, so to speak, for the battle with Little Bastard (although, probably relatedly, we've agreed on a few issues lately. We're not quite meeting for Christmas in the trenches, but we're OK).

It's fascinating to me to observe how strikingly the morale of the rowers diminishes by any drag of the boat, or indeed any sense that there is not enough power or a steady rhythm. These seem like big things that should be alarming, but they're made up of very small things that each person in the boat can work on. When the boat just doesn't feel right (like rowing through cement or as if it's sitting on a rolling pin), and then, god forbid, the cox hesitates or makes an incorrect call, most rowers tend to become terribly gloomy or snippy and very quickly. This then dominoes creating more devastation among all but the very few (Zen rowers, they're called). Then once focus is regained (usually by one short, sharp call) and there's a spot of long, strong gliding, the boat lifts, spirits lift, and the cox is the hero once more.

Yes, ladies and gents, it's a fickle, sometimes cruel world, this coxing business. You can be spat at (rather than "out" - they're desperate to keep coxes) quicker than you can say "Next stroke, stern six to three quarter slide. Go."

I wouldn't want to suggest that rowing is a microcosm or anything so ridiculous, but it certainly dramatises a form of mania. My emotional state, however, is drawing a clear, straight line on the top end of the spirits graph. It's been a good few days.

Plus Kate luvvy Winslet has finally bagged a Golden Globe and, as Oprah says, she has real boobs that do what real boobs do.

Am I a True Boatie?

I experienced my first race as a cox on Saturday. It was the Nephthys Regatta on the Isis. I was in the cockpit for a women's novice crew and, quite stunningly, we made it through four races against various other Colleges to reach the finals (only to start a mexican wave of crab catching and lose by half a boat length).


The races themselves were pretty thrilling, and the outcome was clearly positive for the College boatie comunity. It was a lovely, bright day on the river and a really nice way to spend time with some new friends I have made.


But, (and I bet you knew that was coming), not gonna lie, I am still unsure of my status as novice cox. Do I want to hand my identity over to the boathouse? Subject myself to hierarchy, hugs and hand gestures?

Plus, it can be a pretty angry sport, the old rowing. In fact, I found the rage of the marshals the most challenging part of the day. Having been waiting politely out of the way, and now well and truly past scheduled start time and with the chill setting in, they would suddenly megaphone things like "[College] cox spin now or you'll be disqualified!" "You have to move now!" as though somehow you had been insolent and incompetent. They would then repeat these commands over and over until you were so flustered that you managed to get yourself sucked into a current of death (for instance) and instant disqualification seemed merciful and even fair.


There are more races this week. I think if I could be airlifted or otherwise transported to the start of the race, and thus by-pass all the nonsense involved in getting the boat out of the boathouse and to the start line, I would be perfectly happy to be a boatie for a while.