A statement by the Dean of London Road Business School
We were shocked and saddened to learn that one of our students was arrested under suspicion of offences set out in The Terrorism Act.
As a Business School we condemn all acts of terrorism. It is our hope that the charges against the suspect will be changed to lesser offences under The Public Nuisance Act.
Nonetheless we oppose all forms of law-breaking and wish to see justice served. The suspect is a vulnerable and impressionable young man who has been exploited by those ideologically opposed to strong and orderly governance in Oxford. However, and whilst we sympathise with his personal predicament, we sadly have no option but to terminate his studentship.
At London Road Business School we believe in pursuing a path of innovation, opportunity and growth. We particularly value our partnerships with world-class construction companies, and we stand ready to contribute to the Magdalen Gate project and other modernisation projects that will help Oxford continue to be a vibrant and optimistic place to do business.
Statement ends
—
The punt turns round in a perfect, but unintentional, arc and despite the frantic backward paddling of the little boy at the front of the boat, crashes with a creak and groan of long-suffering wooden planks into the bank.
Right in front of where Jak and Ped are sat cross-legged eating their packed lunches.
The man stood at the back, in baggy shorts and a collared red t-shirt, drags the long punt through the water behind the boat and swears under his breath. His daughter, sat just in front of him, giggles. Her mother shrugs her shoulders, adjusts the brim of her sunhat and returns to looking at her phone.
“Need a push?” Jak asks the worried looking boy and starts to stand up.
“No,” shouts the man at the back of the boat, “I can lead us round and into the main water stream.”
“Okay then. Give us a shout if you need a hand,” offers Jak and sits back down again.
Jak and Ped watch on as the man instructs his daughter and wife to lean over and push against the bank, while he shoves the punt into the mud at the bottom of the river to try and prevent the stern drifting any further in, and the boy uses his small paddle to try and steer. The effect of three quarters of the family all going to one side of the boat is to rock it vigorously. The little girl screams as river water splashes her face. The woman calmly moves to the centre of the boat, reaches over, picks up her daughter and puts her on her lap. She wipes the splashes away with a tissue.
Ped struggles to contain his laughter.
“Shoosh,” whispers Jak, “I think they’re Americans. It’s not their fault.”
Eventually the American family manoeuvres the boat so it is at right angles to the bank and the man, now flushed from exertion in the midday sun, calls out, “which way are the University Parks?”
“Dunno mate,” calls back Ped, “never been there.”
“Upstream,” Jak waves her right arm to indicate which way is upstream.
“That’s the direction we’ve just come from,” complains the man.
“Well,” Jak can’t help herself laughing slightly, “maybe, but that’s where the Park is.”
They watch them turn the punt round further and zig-zag away back upstream.
“Is it that way?” queries Ped.
“Yes. See that…” Jak points to a bend in the opposite bank, “you can’t really see from here but there’s an island in the river. Maybe they’ve been going round and round it.”
Ped laughs, “Ha ha, stupid Yanks! How come you know so much about the river?”
“Mum took me punting with her friends when I was a kid. Enjoyed it. They had a few drinks, got a bit silly, started throwing fruit at each other. I paddled us back to the boathouse.”
“How old were you?”
“Oh, about nine or ten and more grown up than any adults I knew,” Jak shrugs her shoulders indifferently, “it was ages ago anyway.”
“I’ve never been here before.”
“What, the river or just this bit of it?”
“No, I mean Oxford, like you know, the centre of Oxford.”
“Oh I see. Not even when you were a kid?”
“No,” Ped shakes his head, “not worth the bus fare, my mum reckons. Stuff’s cheaper at Cowley Centre.”
Jak shrugs, “fair enough I suppose. Do you want to go to Oxford, you know, over the bridge?”
“I want a go on a boat, it looks fun,” smiles Ped, “we can take turns to row. You being an expert and that, you can show me how to do it.”
Jak smiles to herself, “maybe. But right now I gotta get back to work. Really don’t need a late dock. Wanna go Otmoor on Saturday?”
“Yeah, or before then,” nods Ped enthusiastically, “where’s Otmoor?”
“Nature reserve a few miles away. Can bike it there. Meet Headington Roundabout, elevenish on Sat? Patch of grass in the middle, though the subway?”
“Yeah, great.”
—
It’s been a frustrating day at work for Sylvie – waiting for replies to emails that don’t come, taking calls for colleagues who should be there but aren’t, a security system that needed three attempts to scan her eyes, the same eyes it’s been scanning fine for nearly four years, and then informed her it would only attempt one more scan before locking her out and logging an ‘incident’.
She is glad to slide into the driving seat of her car and flick the engine on. It hums expectantly. Sylvie steers round and down the three-level car park, and joins the daily four o’clock queue to merge onto the road.
At least here, her mind is her own. She can say what she likes. And she knows it won’t be that long until she’s back home – the old days of traffic jams adding hours to the working day passed with closing off the city centre and abandoning schemes to deter car driving.
“Okay Charles, check my personal socials. No media, just messages.”
“Yes, your ladyship. Ruthy Babes says, ‘Picnic time on Suns’, picnic hamper, champagne glasses, excited face. She appears to be excited at the idea of having a picnic with alcohol.
“Polly Maguire says, ‘Ohoh. Diary clash. How about Saturday?’. She is suggesting an alternative day. It is unclear why.”
“Ruthy Babes says, ‘Okay yeah suppose.’ She is agreeing with the alternative day, but possibly reluctantly.”
“Polly Maguire says, ‘Great! Mind if I ask a few people along.’ Thumbs up, excited face. She is pleased that Ruthy Babes has agreed to her suggestion and maybe trying to assert her control of the event. This interpretation is based on previous behaviour.
“Andy Simples Simkins says, ‘Yay picnic with Polly’s weirdo mates’, laughing face. He appears to like the idea but is jokingly mocking Polly Maguire.”
“Ruthy Babes says, ‘Ok then. One o’clock, Flo Park?’ She appears to be retaking charge of the organisation of the event.
“End of conversation.”
“Thanks Chaz, can you post to the thread for me please?”
“Of course, your ladyship. What would you like me to post?”
“‘Sunday at one is great,’ a thumbs up. ‘How about Bury Knowle Park? Easier to get the car close,’ a picnic hamper and oh, I dunno, a drooling face. Got that Charles?”
“Yes, your ladyship.”
—
Fresh Jazz: @LetsTalkLRBS You should be proud of students who stand up for their community. Not condemning them in the language of fascists. What happened to speaking truth to power? ✊🏾
Cheerful Charlie: Stand firm @LetsTalkLRBS kick out woke crap👊
Barry Barry: @FreshJazz fuck off poof or we,ll shutya
Alice in Chinos: Good for you @FreshJazz Shame on you @LetsTalkLRBS 🙈🙉🙊
—
Sylvie puts the kettle on as soon as she gets home. She double-checks the picnic thread, ‘it’s not that I don’t trust you Bills, honest,’ and then checks for media from friends.
Another Dr Messina video shared by Polly. Dated today, just ten minutes ago, ‘oh Polly, you’re such a fangirl.’
“Good people of Oxford, on this St John’s Day, as in so many years past, we celebrate the glorious and bountiful English summer. We celebrate the soil we have grown from and the fertility of future generations.
“We celebrate Cronus, the harvest god, and Apollo, the sun god, whose divine motto is ‘know thyself’. Wise words. And we embrace Dionysus, every Englishman’s favourite Greek god,” he laughs, “so I advise you to join us and stand up for what it is to be English, what it is to be you. Embrace and enjoy it.
“For too long you have been told that your birthrights should be given to others and your customs scorned. Look around you, this glorious midsummer, and rejoice that Oxford now and in the future will dance to the music of Merrie England.
“This night is yours, have a ball. I know I will,” Messina smirks at the camera as a young woman, wearing a plain white dress and with a garland of flowers on her head, offers him a wooden bowl of liquid, “no retsina for me today, Ealswitha, a cup of mead gratefully received, thank you. Cheers!”
The kettle boils. Sylvie puts a teabag in her cup and pours the water.