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Going to prison during the vacation

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The question of “So, how was your vac?” often comes up in hall after a vacation, always from those you didn’t have time to message over the break. “I spent it in prison” is perhaps not the expected response amidst stories of ski chalets and exam lock-ins. But we Oxford students take pleasure in over-burdening ourselves, and those of us who worked during the vacation have much better stories to tell than those who spent it cruising down a black run.

Over 150 hours of my Easter vac were spent inside the sturdy walls of one of His Majesty’s most secure men’s prisons – though fortunately I was able to go home at the end of the day. My job is a varied one: I help to facilitate daily family visit sessions by serving refreshments, supporting family work, and organising activities for children. Many of these children are told that their dad lives on an oil rig or that they’re visiting him at work, and my job is to make the whole establishment – with its search dogs, handcuffs, locked doors, cameras, and austere-looking guards – seem a less daunting place to visit. Wrapped up in a university that provides a college family in addition to my own real one, it is easy to forget that there are those who might only see their dad for two hours a month.

My favourite thing about work is our monthly Family Days, day-long visits where the men get to be dads again: they can get up and play with their children (rather than stay stuck in lines of dull grey chairs), they can eat lunch with their family, and they can finally spend some time relaxing. Seeing a little one yell “Daddy”, running across the visitor’s hall to be scooped up in her father’s arms brings a tear to my eye every time. I will always remember last Christmas, when Santa Claus (played by one of the officers) asked one of the older children what presents he wanted. He said: “I just want Dad to be at home again.”

Those are the highs, though, and I see the lows in equal measure: I see men who are high, unable to speak a coherent sentence. I see children coming to the play area because their parents are ignoring them. I see children who have had no male role model in their lives, children who have suffered. Just this past vacation, I was spat on, punched, kicked, and grabbed by children who know no better, whose parents sit, watch, and silently approve. Seeing this world – one so different from my own childhood – is just as unbearable to watch. Being but a cog in the machine, I can’t help but wonder whether they will grow up to imitate their dads. For the inmates’ loved ones, the worst part is the “second sentence”, the sentence that families have to bear through loss of income and community judgment. And the suffering that families have to bear makes it all the more likely that the cycle of addiction, violence, and neglect will continue.

Most days at work involve living a double life: to the officers, I am the diligent colleague who spends his breaks reading Beowulf (collections revision), but to the residents, I am just another part of the establishment. Not allowed to reveal any personal details (not even my surname), I am simply the “Sir” (or “Miss”, if they’re feeling cheeky) who serves the refreshments. For those who have been there long enough to remember me from the Christmas vacation, I do have to admit that I’ve been at university: “Yeah, I do maths at Bristol mate” is my normal response, dreading the day someone asks me my opinions on Fermat’s Last Theorem or expects me to solve a Sudoku.

But working with the men is the most interesting part. Speaking face-to-face with the people whose headshots have appeared on the news is an intimidating experience – dare I say worse than a one-on-one tutorial – but it does pop the Oxford bubble. From arguing with those who are adamant that university is a waste of money or “just for toffs” to having a serious conversation about a book they picked out from the prison library, I am (or at least I hope) able to have just a little impact on their road to rehabilitation. And though many are happy to have a roof over their head, three hot meals, and all the friends they could need, an equal number are desperate to get out and see their children grow up.

When I’m deep in an essay crisis during term or stressing about an upcoming exam, it is both helpful and humbling to have a reminder of the lives lived outside of Oxford. And, in the world which we inhabit, so full of hate and loneliness, I find some inspiration in my experiences in a prison: somewhere that should perhaps epitomise these emotions. One that sticks with me most is a card written by one of the eight-year-olds: “Dear Daddy, I know you’ve been a little bit naughty this year, but that will never stop me from loving you.” 



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Student Life

The Big Shot: In Conversation with Greg Brennan

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For more than three decades, Greg Brennan has made a career out of being just outside the frame. As one of Britain’s longest-standing press photographers, he has captured royalty, world leaders, musicians, actors and cultural icons, from Queen Elizabeth II to Michael Jackson, Kate Moss and the Osbournes. His new book, The Big Shot, brings together over 100 photographs from that career, but it is not simply a parade of famous faces. Told in Brennan’s own words, with a narrative shaped by his son Dylan, the book reveals the patience, instinct and personal memory behind images that often lasted only a fraction of a second.

When I spoke to Brennan, it quickly became clear that The Big Shot is as much about stories as photographs: the myths that attach themselves to celebrity images, the moments that happen away from the red carpet, and the strange experience of a photographer, usually hidden behind the lens, becoming the subject himself.

For Brennan, fame itself has not changed much. After years spent photographing some of the most recognisable people in the world, he speaks about celebrity with the calmness of someone who has long since stopped being starstruck. “Fame is fame”, he says. “I think that the thing that I’ve taken most from it is that they’re just normal people, despite being famous. They’re no different from us, really”.

Still, there are exceptions. The most surreal moment of his career, he tells me, came at three in the morning, when a newspaper picture desk called to ask whether he could work that night. “I said, ‘depends on what it is, it’s 3am’, and they said, ‘Michael Jackson’s going shopping in Harrods, and they want somebody to accompany him’”. Ten minutes later, Brennan was sitting with Jackson in the empty department store, spending two and a half hours with him as he shopped in the middle of the night. “It was the most surreal thing ever”, he says. “I learned a lot about him that night. The picture that the media portrays of him isn’t who the man himself was. He was very, very different”.

Image Credit: Greg Brennan with permission.

That tension between public and private runs throughout The Big Shot. Brennan’s work often captures people at their most recognisable, but he seems more interested in what is behind the performance. Yet in a profession often criticised for its intrusiveness, he is careful about where he draws the line. “An intrusive photographer, for me, is one who takes pictures of people who are unaware, takes pictures sneakily”, he says. “I tend to not partake in that. You’ll notice throughout the book that everybody sees me; everybody knows I’m there”.

His approach, he says, is built on respect. He has photographed concerts, royal events, street scenes and premieres, but insists he has “never had a bad experience with anyone”. Celebrities, he points out, understand the economy of visibility: “We feed into them, they feed into us, and it’s a trade-off. But being respectful is always the best way”.

Respect, in Brennan’s case, also means context. One of the book’s purposes is to correct the stories that have grown around certain images. He shows me a photograph of Kate Moss seated on a staircase, smoking. Over the years, Brennan says, it has often been misunderstood. “I read all sorts of nonsense: that she tripped over her dress, that she fell down the stairs”, he says. “People said that she was drunk, and that it was 3am, and I scratched my head”.

The reality, he explains, was far less scandalous. The photograph was taken at 6pm, before the night had properly begun. Moss was sitting at the back exit of a theatre, smoking a cigarette, waiting for a taxi to take her to her birthday party. “I was home by 7:30”, Brennan says. “She was not drunk in this picture. So I want readers to get the truth”. The word ‘truth’ feels central to the book. Brennan understands that photographs are slippery things. They can be beautiful, iconic, even historic, while still being misread. But for him, the story behind a picture is part of the picture itself.

This becomes clearest when he shows me his portrait of Queen Elizabeth II. The image is called Stamp of Approval, and it took him twelve years. “The reason it took twelve years is because she’s not sitting with me; she’s sitting in a carriage, riding past me”, he says. “And every year we would do it, I’d get four or five frames”.

In 2015, he finally got ‘The One’. “I took four others that day, but they weren’t the same”, he says. The next morning, he printed a small copy, wrote a letter and sent it to Buckingham Palace. To his surprise, they replied. The photograph eventually entered the Royal Photographic Collection. “The Queen loved it”, he says.

Image Credit: Greg Brennan with permission.

It is the kind of story that transforms the image. Without it, the photograph is still striking. With it, it becomes the result of twelve years of patience. “We can look at an image, and it can be misconstrued, it can be interpreted in many different ways”, Brennan says. “But for me, as a photographer and as a photojournalist, the story is just as important as the picture”.

On the surface, The Big Shot is a book about famous people. But by speaking to Greg Brennan, I learned that it is also about the strange intimacy of photographing people the world thinks it already knows. It reveals both a photographer’s view of celebrity, and a life spent watching closely, waiting patiently, and finding the story hidden inside the frame. 

The Big Shot will be released on 26 May. Greg and Dylan Brennan will be giving a talk at Blackwell’s on 27 May.



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Student Life

May Morning – Cherwell

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Smudged mascara and the curling of coffee steam. Small yawns and the shuffling of boots. Tangled hair plaited by the same girl from first-year, a crumbly pastry shared with her, too. Heads resting on shoulders, tired eyes looking skyward for the song that is coming. Fresh, crisp air and butter-yellow sunlight you could reach out and taste. There is excited chatter of stories from the night before, looks shared. A hush falls. May morning. See what the world can do before sunrise.



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Sunday – Cherwell

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That Sunday could arrive first-class,

Wrapped in tissue and stickers with minimalist logo.

Sent anonymously (from a fan?).

It will be a crisp, sunblushed Sunday.

The first in months without rain or

Export tariff.

Sunday, with speechless morning

and an afternoon

of step-counts exceeded.

Inside, there will be boutiques browsed,

with flat whites from 

an independent coffeehouse, where we know the owner.

We could unpackage this Sunday

Share it and save the tissue

For Christmas giftwrap.

We might duel over whether

we go to yours for the holiday,

Or mine, across the sea.

We might get workaday Mondays, Milky-white Tuesdays, 

dreary Wednesdays, Thursdays with dinner parties,

Two-for-one Fridays, and dancey Saturdays.

It hasn’t quite left the depot

Though,

And you won’t be in to answer the door.



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