It’s impossible to not be romantic about football, and by that I mean Romantic with a capital R. Turns out the literary canon of the Romantics and the sporting world share an unexpected similarity: they’re both home to a unanimously agreed-upon Big Six. 

In this day and age being able to discuss both versions with an elementary level of proficiency grants you similar amounts of cultural capital (albeit in very different circles). Think football is the domain of the intellectually challenged? Could you recite the entire Premier League standings but not a single poem? Doesn’t matter – these parallels go either way, and hopefully at least one side of the equation will be recognisable. 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge – Manchester City

Coleridge’s most famous work – ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner’ – works best when read as a summary of City’s journey:

The titular mariner’s ship (Manchester City) gets stuck in the icy waters of the Antarctic (relegated in 2001). An albatross (the United Arab Emirates) appears and leads the ship out of the ice jam (provides an injection of money), into clearer waters and better winds (breaking the British transfer record and spending over £100 million pounds in a summer). Despite things going splendidly as the albatross is fed and loved by the crew (that Aguero goal), the mariner shoots the bird (for cohesion’s sake, read “With my cross-bow / I shot the Albatross” as “With my Abu Dhabi money / I breached the FFP rules” instead). 

To no one’s surprise, this brings down the wrath of spirits and supernatural forces, and the mariner is forced by his crew to wear the albatross’s dead body around his neck as a sign of the burden he must bear. The rest of his crew perish one by one, but the mariner is consigned to eternal life: though the albatross eventually falls from his neck, he’s still doomed to wander the earth, telling his story to those he meets. 

Like the mariner, a shadow the size of 115 charges hangs over City’s unprecedented success – the continental treble and four consecutive Premier League titles. An elephant in the room might as well be an albatross around the neck. One must imagine Pep Guardiola a mariner aboard the golden ship of his club’s crest. 

Percy Shelley – Manchester United 

This is the easiest comparison of all to make. Incredibly divisive among their peers, but indisputably influential in determining the landscape of the era: the man or the football club? Both have famously swung between extremes of ecstasy or despair and experienced prolonged periods of personal crisis: put being expelled from Oxford and eloping with 16-year-old Mary Shelley as a married man up there with paying Ruben Amorim 10 million Great British pounds to leave. 

But the thing that seals the deal is that they both share the same defining narrative: a tale of the ruins of a man who thought himself and his legacy eternal. It’s so fitting you could be forgiven for thinking Shelley predicted the trajectory of Manchester United with ‘Ozymandias’, written a solid 60 years before the club was even founded. I met a traveller from an antique land (apparently Manchester received city-status in March 1853, which places it quite firmly in the realm of antiquity) who told me about a statue with frown, and wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command (Ferguson was already rather old when they immortalised him in bronze, and his visage has a real degree of condescension to it.) 

My name is Sir Alex Ferguson, manager of managers. Look upon what my prodigal players have gone on to be, ye mighty, and despair. The Theatre of Dreams isn’t exactly a “colossal wreck” yet, but what with the well-known reports of rat infestations and waterfalls pouring down through the roof, they don’t seem to be too far off. 

Lord Byron – Arsenal

Cosmopolitan, rebellious, countercultural: Byron gained this reputation from scandals that ranged from bisexuality to a rumoured incestuous affair with his half-sister, Arsenal from being the first English top-flight team to field an all-foreign starting XI and becoming synonymous with a space for black cultural expression. 

It’s probably bold to compare a nobleman playboy who drank wine out of his ancestor’s skull to a white-haired bespectacled Frenchman who dressed like a stern professor, but Byron influenced European Romanticism in much the same way Wenger revolutionised the landscape of English football. Their lasting legacy has come to define them to the layman: Byron with the literary archetype of the Byronic hero – brooding, torn, romantic – and Arsenal with their Invincibles. 

Byron was a connoisseur of leaving and the difficulty and complexity of goodbyes recur again and again in his poetry; of Don Juan, leaving Spain, he wrote: “First partings form a lesson hard to learn […] there is a shock that sets one’s heart ajar”. What he would’ve written about Wenger’s departure. 

John Keats – Tottenham Hotspur

A questionable inclusion in the Big Six for some: during his lifetime Keats wouldn’t have been placed in the company of the others mentioned above. He had a relationship of mutual distaste with Byron in particular, who thought Keats an annoyance beneath his social and literary standing; in turn, Keats simultaneously envied and disliked Byron’s fame and aristocracy, and thought his literary prowess overrated (convinced yet?) Both have had a few distinctly memorable hits: Kane, Son, Ode on a Grecian Urn. 

Most fittingly, Keats coined the concept of “negative capability” – the ability to “be in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any reaching after fact and reason”. Such a phrase has never captured Spurs better. While Keats originally envisioned it as a poet’s ability to sink into the objects or characters he was writing about without fitting them into rigid structures of logic, the absolute incomprehensibility of being Spursy is perhaps the prime example of modern negative capability. 

To be Spurs is to be negatively capable, to be negatively capable Spurs – that is all ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. 

William Wordsworth – Chelsea

A clarity to the earlier years that has become compromised in later life. Wordsworth had a “Great Decade” of life in which he produced some era-defining works, chief among them the poem ‘I wandered lonely as a cloud’ (probably the bane of most GCSE students’ existence) and The Prelude, his great autobiographical work. There was something undeniably beautiful about Chelsea’s older days – their own Great Decade, if you will: Lampard, Terry, Mourinho’s 04-05 side whose record of 15 goals conceded in a season still stands unmatched. 

Every rise also has to have a fall. Later in his life Wordsworth’s decline is mostly attributed to his excessive self-editing; he transformed his lines, once famed for their simplicity, into something more affected, losing the core of his work. Todd Boehly’s Chelsea have spent ludicrous sums of money on squad-building to no avail and fired ten managers in the last ten years (interims generously excluded). Hopefully they can find a force to follow that might provide the same stability Christianity brought Wordsworth in his middle age. 

William Blake – Liverpool

Best known for ‘Tyger, Tyger’, Blake’s work carries a distinct feeling of mystical intensity, of seeing remarkable things in very ordinary places. A creative visionary who crafted a mythology of his own in his prophetic books, you can’t help but think he would have loved Anfield, the domain of a fervent working-class that has become imbued with a fervent mysticism all its own. (Blake should have spoken to Bill Shankly, who once reflected: “It’s a religion to them. The thousands who come here come to worship… it’s a sort of shrine.”) 

That aside, the experience of truly understanding Blake and of being a player under Jurgen Klopp’s gegenpressing system are about as similar as it gets: notoriously difficult to grapple with and incredibly tiring.

Last Michaelmas, as my friends and I were going through our photos from a weekend trip to Bristol, Bath, and Cardiff, my friend said: “When I look at these photos, I feel nostalgia for time that isn’t over yet.” This comment stuck with me, and I have found it to ring increasingly true the more time I spend in Oxford. As my camera roll fills up with photos from formals, balls, BOPs, and ordinary days just spent revising with friends, I can’t help but feel a twinge of sadness every time I go through it. Given that I am only a second-year undergraduate, this melancholy feels premature and out of place. While it certainly still lingers during term time, I feel my nostalgia for Oxford truly reached its peak in the last long vacation, and has only grown as my year abroad draws scarily close. Ultimately, this nostalgia is due to a combination of distance and distorted memories, framed through the lens of social media and selected photos. 

We all know the bittersweet end-of-term feeling, when the last essay has been submitted, your room is packed, and you are ready to go home. When you open Instagram, your feed is flooded with digicam ‘photo-dumps’ captioned  “michael-mess”, “hellary”, or “trinifree”. Swiping reveals a series of formals, parties, and general merriment taking place across a variety of friend groups. Your heart swells at the thought of all the fun times you had last term as you prepare your own ‘photo-dump’. I myself am guilty of the overly sentimental, highly curated Instagram post (though they are often nine months late). Through such colourful carousels, we are offered a highlight reel of the term – a glimpse of only the best moments. When I first post, though, my feelings do not necessarily reflect the version of term I present on my social media. Although I already miss the fun times with my friends, I am also exhausted from the previous term, and thoroughly ready for a break. When I look at my highlight reel in this context, all I can see is the absence of all-too-recent essay crises and deadlines passed. 

On reflection, it seems that these types of posts have the greatest impact on me a few weeks into the long vacation. Once the dust has settled, and I have fallen back into my daily routine at home, I find myself spending more and more time staring longingly at my term-time photos. Originally taken in the context of Oxford chaos, they now stand independently, as images of a more exciting time with friends, and the nostalgia this evokes is only exacerbated by the warm, familiar glow of the digicam. These photos look older than the ones taken on my phone (I am a shameless digicam leech in my friend group), and thus, almost feel as if they come from a more distant time. Not only do our digicamposted memories recall the best, hand-picked moments, they do so in a way that covers our experiences in a romantic haze. It is no secret that Oxford lends itself extremely well to romanticisation, and the combination of distance, lack of context, and blurry analogue media only serves to heighten this longing. It seems that, as Oxford becomes more remote, my feelings towards my university experience become less accurate. The breakneck speed of term is forgotten in favour of remembering the times spent ignoring work in favour of more lively pursuits. In short, as soon as August hits, my rose-tinted glasses are decidedly on. 

I have spent some time contemplating this feeling as I prepare to leave Oxford for a year. This looming departure makes this the last term my college wife and I will spend as students together, and my last overlapping term with many of my closest friends. As I feel the same nostalgic emotions swelling up much earlier this time around, I really start to feel that the depiction of Oxford in the photos I post is misleading. I wonder whether, in my preservation of the best parts of Oxford, I have done my real experience an injustice. While I love and cherish the fun and beautiful parts of Oxford, it would be a lie to say that the stress and challenges were any less of a fundamental part of my experience here. When so much of my time is spent at a desk in a library, it almost seems unfair to my past self to forget those moments. The rose-tinted glasses seem to have selective blinders attached to them. 

Yet I think the solution to my problem might come in the form of better documentation. While my camera roll provides ample material for yearning, my saved snaps with my sister offer a very different version of the term. There, I can observe a museum of library sessions, essay crises, and the generalised academic chaos that accompanies the term. Without concern for external perception, these photos are taken live, and offer far better contextualisation for the ups and downs of Oxford. Although I sometimes expect to be brought down by the resurfacing of such memories, the resulting feeling is surprisingly much more optimistic. In forgetting the chaos of term, I think we tend to also forget our achievements within the eight-week period. The sudden shift in circumstance, environment, and sometimes even time zones can often distract from the challenges that we each managed to overcome, and the projects we’ve completed within such a short period of time. Distance from these varied experiences, combined with a more accurate recollection of them, has allowed me to appreciate what I have learned, and achieved, throughout my time here. I can cherish my weekend trip to Wales with my friends, recall the stressful week of catch-up that ensued, and appreciate the increase in my writing speed that I gained as a result. Thinking about all the times I have scrambled to finish writing before going out for the evening has allowed me to value the balancing act of managing work and fun that Oxford demands, and makes me excited to continue this in my final year. 

Of course, this isn’t to say that compilations of happy memories stored on digicams or posted online are always harmful to us. As I mentioned, I love to dump digicam photos of myself at balls on my Instagram (what else is the app for?). However, I do think that recontextualising my nostalgia, and reflecting on the more challenging times of term, when I have more space and time, has been incredibly beneficial to my relationship with Oxford. As I look forward to the last two weeks of term before I set off on a year abroad, I want to preserve these slightly challenging and conflicting feelings. I think they are what allow us to cherish our true experience of Oxford.

Medieval mystery plays are something of a lost art today. Born of an era of limited literacy – and when ‘literacy’ meant a basic understanding of the scriptures, calculus, and how to write your own name – they were part of a broad arsenal of tools to instil belief in the laity. Such biblical stagings were part of the rich visual culture of medieval and early modern Christianity, a staple of religious holidays and festivals and a clear, succinct way to communicate the core meanings of faith to a population preoccupied with survival. Mystery plays have not had an easy ride – whilst they are still performed in parts, it is almost in homage, a respectful acknowledgement that, yes, in ye olden times, before the advent of such wonders as the Kindle and the megachurch, the best way to speak to the unordained masses was through the stage. It is for that reason – the sheer scale of attempting to transmute an English mystery play into a modern black box theatre – that I respect the director, Meryl Vourch, for adapting this medieval theme, The Harrowing of Hell.26, for the stage. It is running at the Burton Taylor studio from the 2nd until the 6th of June, with curtains drawing at 9:30pm, and then in Week 7 at the crypt of St-Peters-In-the-East, from the 9th till the 11th of June, beginning at 8pm.

The atmosphere upon entry into the BT is heavy, the air is still. In an unfortunately sparsely populated audience, several literally ashen-faced cast members sat amongst us, before the play burst to life. Its opening section, with Satan, played by Thomas Arensen, contorting and struggling before a harsh cry pierces the air, is the most gripping section of the entire play. Its wordless appeal, Arensen’s impressive physicality, and the sudden shock of the shriek all meld perfectly to entrap the audience. The sound design and lighting were dynamic, lending themselves fittingly to a haunting depiction of hell, with the whispering of lost souls and the particularly striking sight of Christ’s silhouette behind a thin pall. Simplicity was the motto of the costume department, as The Harrowing of Hell.26 deliberately eschews ornate decoration to maintain focus on the performance.

The basics of the story, of Adam and Eve suffering in Hell at the hands of Satan and his devils before Christ rescues them from it, are performed well. The two devils, played by Elizabeth Henderson Miller and Sonny Fox are, again, incredibly well portrayed, with both giving everything to the role, including some manoeuvres that looked rather painful. Caleb Silverglied and Anastasija Vidjajeva both deliver strong performances as Adam and Eve, respectively, two wretches imprisoned in hell for so long that, despite their desire for salvation, they cannot bring themselves to take the steps towards it once proffered. Equally impressive is Patrizia Hinz, an authoritative narrator who holds the play aptly in her hands and maintains faithfulness to the nature of a mystery play. The bare space of the Burton Taylor, sparsely staged for the production, further lent to the unappealing afterlife depicted on the stage – save for an impressive demonstration from Arensen when he splits an apple in two.

However, despite the fine acting and good production quality, the play has a deep thematic flaw: it can never seem to decide on whether it is a modern take on a mystery play, or a faithful recreation of one. The former can be seen most clearly in its Paradise Lost-like Satan – who is not a total entity of evil but rather an individual with their own mores and desires – and keenly in its depiction of Christ. Whilst Jesus did cry out on the cross and doubted before his arrest, by the time of his earthly passing in the scriptures, he appeared to accept his sacrifice as necessary for the salvation of man. Yet the play’s Christ, played by Ian Machalek, lacks this acceptance. Instead, he wails and protests as if he has not already gone through his Passion. Once Machalek steps beyond the pall and confronts Satan, his Christ appears a curious blend of Son of God and Jared Leto’s Joker. The play resolves with a clear indication that Satan has lost, but is equivocal in its conclusion on the emancipation of man from eternal damnation. This issue is particularly heightened because of those elements of the play, the torturous nature of hell, the pestering demons and the clear indication from the narrator that Satan’s loss is a victory for good, which stick to the traditional mystery play framework.

It is not a bad play – it does not arouse any real upset or moral objection. As stated, The Harrowing of Hell.26 has many strong points, and the work of its cast and crew can’t be doubted. But after the enthralling first ten minutes, the play simply bored me. To bore an audience is worse than to offend or to shock – at least there lies engagement. Spending the remainder of the performance counting the minutes made it hard to enjoy.

Fundamentally, The Harrowing of Hell.26 is a finely acted, well-produced play which was enjoyable enough to watch, but its conclusion is unsatisfying. The play ends with an abrupt jolt – so abrupt that it cuts itself off before it can actually decide what it is saying.