2013-06-20T05:39:28-04:00 Anna Sheinman http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/author/index.php?author=anna-sheinman Copyright 2008, HuffingtonPost.com, Inc. HuffingtonPost Blogger Feed for Anna Sheinman Good old fashioned elbow grease. tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1653543 2012-07-08T19:00:00-04:00 2012-09-07T05:12:12-04:00

Anna Sheinman http://www.huffingtonpost.com/anna-sheinman/
But there is another phenomenon brewing on this fire, slower burning but equally chilling, in the way that unpaid internships in the media may come to shape our political map.

Newspapers, magazines, television and radio are probably second only to the arts sector in their blatant, repeated abuse of young people in this way. One friend has been offered a six month internship in New York at a renowned international publication - unpaid. Another is spending a month writing copy at a newspaper, and isn't getting travel expenses. Many others not only receive nothing, but learn nothing, spending their hours, often over many months, tidying fashion cupboards, answering phones, making sure the photocopiers haven't run out of paper. Media internships take 'making the tea' to the next level.

And the people who can afford such protracted spells without pay? The rich. And so, after six to 12 months of said gratuitous hard graft, they are the ones who finally get offered a junior position. Or they take Route B and shell out £9,000 for a post-graduate journalism course and are generally employed at the end of it. Either way, jobs in the media go to the well-to-do. But the worst is not over, because then, they start to write. Or edit, or produce or present. Yes, the future of our media is in the hands of those whom, at the age of 21, have - factoring in living expenses - around 15 grand to blow.

They will be writing our newspapers, dictating our TV schedules, picking the guests on Women's Hour. People who have never encountered the dole, council housing, or been affected by rising food prices will be at the helm of by far the most powerful political lobbyists in the UK: the media.

Even as one of those privileged few, I believe that this shift will diminish the ability of the media to uphold some of its key aims. How can authority be held to account, when, like it or not, all of those writing are essentially members of the establishment? Or its work represent the views of society, when members of the fold only come from its upper echelons? Unpaid internships are not just abuse of young people, everyone will suffer.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1210985 2012-01-19T19:00:00-05:00 2012-03-20T05:12:01-04:00

Anna Sheinman http://www.huffingtonpost.com/anna-sheinman/ the quaint dining traditions of Cambridge University are certainly unusual, the truly outstanding aspect of 'the bridge' is, of course, its academia. I hear our world ranking has a lot to do with publishing papers and research, but at undergraduate level one very important part of achieving this excellence is the supervision.

By this, I do not mean childminding. Well, not entirely. The Cambridge supervision or 'supo' is something akin to a private lesson, for an hour, a few times a week, with someone very, very clever. I speak in such general terms because supervisions come in all shapes and guises, from ASNAC to Zoology, from seven students to just you and them.

The supervisors themselves are sometimes 'just' Cambridge PhD students who study your field, but sometimes they are so called big names. Some you will have heard of. Germaine Greer supervises English (but refuses to mark essays), Simon Blackburn philosophised until quite recently, and in an interesting turn of events, Lloyd Grossman, of pasta sauce fame, supervises History of Art.

But the names that get us geeky Cantabs going are not household names. They are the experts in their fields, the guy that wrote the textbook, the one they read just tonnes of at school. Prof Feldman, constitutional lawyer; Dr Lillehammer, ethicist; Prof McKitterick, Carolingian historian. And we have the part pleasure, part ordeal, of having these academic heavyweights rip apart our essays, grill us on our facts, and just sometimes, buy us a pint.

I am a lawyer. Actually, I study law, but we're an arrogant bunch, so we call ourselves lawyers, and the history students historians, etc. Lawyers are, true to form, pretty dull; in supervisions of three or four we go through the set material, maybe talk about an essay, and work through an exam question or two. But other subjects have more fun.

While most of my supervisions take place in fellow's offices, lined with books and filled with sofas and leather armchairs, others venture further afield. Medics have their own 'crazy cat lady', who holds supos at her home, which is half an inch deep in cat hair. Cats get priority seating, and she is known to pause the session for 10 minutes at a time to feed the moggies.

Also amongst the animals, zoologists have supervisions in the zoology museum, and one group spent time last term in the (closed to the public) insect room, looking at some of Darwin's specimens. This is only to be topped by my friend Jon's Natural Sciences (NatSci - pronounced Nat-Skee) supervision, which was held in the pub.

Spending so much time in quite close quarters with a superior is a mixed blessing. While one friend couldn't wait to tell me about his "incredibly hot" reproduction science supervisor (I got a First in that subject!), and a philosopher friend tended to have sessions with her Director of Studies over brunch, lunch, wine, it doesn't always go to plan. Already becoming stuff of legend was the biochemist last year who opened his laptop to show six attentive students a document, and instead they learned a lot more about his taste in adult entertainment.

Even when keeping it strictly academic, supervisors can be a lot of fun. Speaking about one of the most eminent members of the faculty, a law graduate said "I particularly enjoyed the way he drew circles around his eyes with the legs of his glasses whilst pondering a question, one foot resting atop the bin, which was often sent flying across the room when reaching a particularly exciting point of his monologue. And all whilst being watched by the framed caricature of himself hanging on the wall."

I greatly enjoyed time with my criminology supervisor last year who opened her first session with: "Let me put my cards on the table here guys: I'm a feminist anarchist, with a touch of Marxism."

It being a small town, the supervisor/supervisee relationship isn't confined to office hours. A former school friend was "sold a rather nice bottle of Italian red" by his Chemistry supervisor. A member of my college recognised his supervisor from a "slightly off the wall Greek play". "It turns out he's an actor and in a steampunk band/musical troupe in his spare time". And another Downing student was supposed to be working for a science practical, went out dancing instead and saw two of his demonstrators "making out in Cindies" (Cambridge's best known club).

Of course it is not just the supervisors providing the merriment. Most students have a story of turning up to a 9am after a big night, still drunk. One friend got through a whole Physics supervision with vomit in his hair, another excused herself during a Law supervision, went to the loo, performed a 'tactical chunder' and calmly returned. I am no exception, having told my (incredibly important, widely respected) supervisor, while still a little tiddly that I thought one of the options for the cover for his new textbook was "well, a little phallic".
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Anna Sheinman http://www.huffingtonpost.com/anna-sheinman/
Formal hall is a year-round feature of Cantab life. It's a fancy, smartly-attired meal at least once a week in a college's main hall. But come the end of Michaelmas (Winter) term, formal gets ramped up a notch. Each of the 31 Cambridge colleges host two or three seasonal extravaganzas, seating up to 300 students at a time, resulting in upwards of 80 formal but festive feasts - all, due to our ridiculously short terms, in late November. At the top of this prematurely Epicurean heap is the St John's College undergraduate Christmas banquet. And this year, I was invited.

On asking the porter for directions to our pre-drinks, I was amused to discover it was not Sainsbury's Basics wine in someone's room, but St John's own Champagne served by a French waiter in a waistcoat in some sort of drawing room. John's is one of the richest colleges, and has a reputation for doing things the expensive way. This doesn't always win its members friends: "I'd rather be at Oxford than St John's" is a favourite rugby chant, although it rings slightly hollow since most of those singing would have, only a few years earlier, been delighted with a place at either.

Bubbly duly consumed, and academic gowns pulled over suits or dresses, we were ushered across the cobbles of the grand First Court into a magnificent wood-panelled hall, buzzing with hundreds of students. More waistcoated servers lined the entrance, trays of drinks in hands, as we took our seats. As guests of the Junior Combination Room (Undergraduate) President, we sat front and centre in the shade of a towering, tinsel-strewn Christmas tree, all the better to look out on the three long tables that stretched the length of the hall, filled with sober black gowns which belied the slight drunkenness of their wearers.

What followed I recognise from formal hall at my own college. A gong, we all stand in silence, the Fellows (senior Professors) file in and fill the top table with their corduroy, bad hair and world-class minds, and grace is read in Latin by a scholar. An awkward silence follows where we all tacitly agree we have no idea what it meant, we sit, and the meal begins.

While 'normal' formals comprise three courses and coffee, special occasions such as this call for aperitifs, starters, mains by means of silver-service, pudding or cheese course, mince pies, truffles and tea or coffee, and alternatives for everyone from the Kosher to the teetotal. Comparisons to feast scenes in Harry Potter are common. It is so far removed from many students' pre-Cambridge lives that at my college year's inaugural 'matriculation' formal the girl next to me burst into tears.

While the Fellows remain, no one can leave their seat, not even when nature calls. As with pandas in the zoo, there is to be no flash photography, no loud noises. And absolutely no drinking games. But as students are involved, the final point is optimistic.

The classic drinking game, played at universities across the country, but apparently nowhere else as obsessively (Oxford included) is pennying. Foolhardy is he or she who believes it as simple as dropping a penny in someone's wine glass and ordering them to 'Save the Queen' (i.e. down the contents of their glass). Geeks that we are, there are rules, lots of them. No double pennying, no revenge pennying; if you penny while someone is touching their glass, or the glass is empty, you down your glass. Even messier is pudding pennying. Get a 5p in someone's tarte tatin, and they have 30 seconds to eat it, without using their hands.

It is at this point in the evening I remember that these people with pie all over their faces are supposed to be the future leaders of our country. If only that were as bad as it gets. Let's just say all sorts of things go on under those tables, beneath the cloak (gown?) of candlelight. And it all starts again when term commences next week.]]>