Some of the elements are entirely individual; I am uniquely the eldest child of my parents, whose deaths happened at specific times of my life, and I have made personal choices about my career, lifestyle, political activities, and pleasures. In contrast, I share my identity as ‘an academic’ with tens of thousands of others, my generational identity with millions of post-World War II “baby boomers”, and my personal preferences with many people who have similar social and/or educational backgrounds. Like many UK citizens, I had grandparents who were immigrants, and grandparents who had long-standing links to a particular part of the UK - in my case, Yorkshire. I have significant interests and enthusiasms in common with fellow opera-goers, trade unionists and cheese-lovers.

Our editors write on what they think it means to be British

Ingmar Bergman passed away this year. It was not unexpected of course—he was after all 89 years of age—, but time still stopped for an instant. An era died there. Will he ever have an heir? I was curious about the world’s reaction. Not surprisingly, America, alongside Sweden, reacted the most. In the New York Times obituary he was compared not to Welles, Fellini or Kurosawa, but Mozart and van Gogh. An artist had passed away; one of the great artists not just of our generation, but of all time.

Have you ever met a Gulf brat? They are the British expatriates in the more liberal Arab nations, such as the United Arab Emirates, Kuwait, Bahrain and Oman. They are tanned, overdressed and speak in a strange accent which is equal parts Queen’s English and transatlantic twang. This tribe of shrieking, spoilt children is the product of an upbringing of housemaids, obscene expense accounts and an uneasy sense of where they come from. I was one of them.

Take a moment to prepare yourself for what you are about to read: the first, and likely only, article to be written by a Northern Irish-Bolivian hybrid in…well, possibly ever.

Do people describe themselves by their ethnic group? Possibly. It is quite feasible that some people feel comfortable in an easily understood category, and, at the same time, feel a sense of belonging with other members who identify themselves in the same way. The idea of nationality is also bound up with this. However, if you concur with the views of Benedict Anderson as set out in Imagined Communities, you will regard the nation as a culturally and socially constructed entity, rather than a fixed body.

This article is about Hamlet and The Lion King. The coordinating conjunction ‘and’ sits rather uncomfortably between these two titles—the former is one of Shakespeare’s greatest, if not the greatest, plays, while the latter is the well-known Disney classic that most of us grew up watching. Perhaps I should even render my ‘and’ obsolete, for I am going to argue that The Lion King is Hamlet.

Identity is an incredibly complex issue and therefore, if one is trying to start an argument with someone, a damn good place to start. One’s self image can be shaped by so many factors. Sexuality, gender, nationality, moral beliefs, religious inclinations and skin colour, amongst many other things, can all contribute to identity. An in-depth discussion about personal identity can equate to waving around a tub of pure nitro-glycerine in a fireworks factory. That is to say, expect a reaction. Understandably, people get passionate about how they view themselves as an individual, and as part of a group. Identity is an inseparable part of society, the incomprehensibly multifarious arena in which life must take place. Put simply, identity is bloody important.

Given the extent to which metaphysics has been chased out of the lecture theatre, and indeed out of cultural theory itself in the past few decades, it may seem rather surprising for me to herald its return. And I do so not on the balance and tone of any purported majority of recent publications, but solely on the writings of one, albeit erudite, literary critic, co-opted by me to strengthen my unashamedly biased wish to see this subject informing scholarly discourse in the humanities once again.

Obviously, listening to music is essential to its enjoyment. You do not need me to tell you that. Music is much more than just sound, and it provides more than the proverbial ‘soundtrack to our lives’. It plays an integral role to the social functions of many modern-day situations, shaping and influencing our social interactions with one another. Allow me to take you on a little tour through clubs, gigs and festivals. Follow me if you will.

When someone mentions Minneapolis, Minnesota, the name Hüsker Dü probably does not spring to mind. The home town of my favourite band is more famous for having given the world Prince, a man so diametrically opposed to the Hüskers, it is almost unbelievable that they are from the same place. But then (talented as Prince is), sometimes it is hard to believe that the flamboyant superstar is not a kind of shared, perverse fantasy. Therein lies his most vital difference to the Dü. The actual phrase ‘Hüsker Dü’ means ‘Do You Remember?’ in Norwegian. Sadly I do not; the band broke up just after I was born. As I listen to Bob Mould’s molten guitars spilling beautifully from my cd player, I get the sense that you don’t have to remember. Because they created it, and lived it purely on their own terms, the music remains more alive and ten times fresher than anything around today.

Emblazoned on the walls of Islington Underground Station in 1965 were the words “Clapton is God”. Rock stars experienced such cult status particularly in the sixties and seventies when London was described, by Clapton himself, as “an extraordinary melting pot of fashion, music, art and intellect”. As the graffiti faded in time so did this cult status of musicians, bowing to consumerism and the slippery concept of celebrity, ultimately creating disillusionment summarised by The Arctic Monkeys’ declaration “There’s only music so that there’s new ring tones”. Whilst quoting the aforementioned group from Sheffield may be considered blasphemous by some, their lyrics do summarise the sentiment from a modern view point. Although the writing on the wall may have faded, Clapton’s music is still relevant and part of British music folklore. Whilst he may be a musician primarily, should we also take the lyrics of his works into account or merely accept them as pop music? His songs have great power vested in them as they have been influential in our culture and therefore would a better understanding of the inspiration behind them offer us anything more?

Hearing music is easy, listening is much more difficult. It is a rare occasion for us to give complete attention to the sounds which are unfolding around us. Music is most often present in the background, the accompaniment to a different activity. Sometimes, however, this is just not enough. I do not want to rain on people’s good fun, but music is an art and thus demands our respect. Increasingly, however, musical taste is an excuse for prejudice, a means of dismissing whole centuries, genres, and styles of music. Contemporary art music, in particular, suffers from such prejudice. ‘All this modern rubbish’, ‘Schoenberg and that lot’ and ‘horrible noise’ are all wildly inaccurate accounts of contemporary ‘classical’ music, which speak of a widespread misunderstanding.

Perhaps one of the most telling displays of a sense of western “identity” is the adaptation of internationally successful (but ultimately foreign) films. Whether motivated by capitalism or an inability to relate with characters outside of our own cultural context, a trend has risen in the remaking of eastern films for western audiences rather than importing the original. What transformations, however, are deemed necessary for the transition to western screens?

Michael Haneke’s Funny Games (1997) is a supremely violent, unnerving Austrian film. In March next year it is going to acquire a supremely violent, unnerving, American remake. However, while the Hollywood revision essentially translates originals into “American” by Americans, this case saw Haneke remain as the director. Furthermore, as we are talking of a player […]

Heroin is freedom-freedom from the garish, ever-increasing demands of the West. “Choose leisurewear and matching luggage. Choose a three-piece suite on hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics. Choose D.I.Y. and wondering who the fuck you are on a Sunday morning”. Life on the outside of accepted society offers heroin, sex, booze, cocaine, youth and identity. “Choose. Choose. Choose” makes you wonder “who the fuck you are”.

What do we see when we look at a photograph? Do we expect to see a representation of actual events, or do we allow the photographer some artistic licence? In the age of photo-editing software and digital photography, how can the maxim “the camera never lies” be true?

Current affairs publications are littered with reports of horror and tragedy in Somalia, Zimbabwe, Ethiopia and the Darfur region in Sudan, and the multiple accounts of good in African nations are buried beneath a never-ending portrayal of a Sub-Saharan dystopia. The broadest stereotypical snapshots of African politics—especially political leadership—revolve around images of corruption, incompetence, venal human rights abuses and a myriad of impoverished countries governed with an iron fist by a series of undemocratic strongmen. Joaquim Chissano however, as “the antithesis of the stereotypical African Big Man”, defies such a hackneyed and dismal caricature.

frequent question which faces development theorists is that of governance. Constantly we are told that the key to development is “good governance” - that is, strong institutions capable of fulfilling their roles, an emphasis on the effective enforcement of the rule of law and some level of participation of concerned sectional groups in the policy making process. Yet we are also faced with the question of how to govern developing states. In a state with strong ethnic, class or ideological divisions, a democratic system of participatory government faces serious difficulties in generating and enforcing policy with any effectiveness as it faces too many barriers to do so – all parties must be placated at the expense of coherent action, whilst short-term accountability to the electorate denies the opportunity for long-term economic reforms which may be damaging before they take effect. At the other end of the scale, the idea of an authoritarian, perhaps military, system of rule raises many ethical questions – what are the limits of legitimate rule for the purposes of development?

While we find ourselves agreeing with many of the astute political comments that John Gray’s Black Mass proposes, we are left questioning many of the author’s philosophical conclusions. His comprehensible and persuasive belief that religion and American foreign policy should not mix is something we can only concur with, and his assertion that Christianity and a Christian concept of utopia have harmfully influenced the USA’s stance towards the world in recent decades seems equally attractive.

The Iranian regime – financier of Iraqi insurgency, oppressor of its people and emerging nuclear threat – is the subject of international condemnation from the United States and Europe alike. As a pariah on the axis of evil, it boasts consistent abuse of human rights and a theocratic regime which stifles all political opposition. Add to this its profoundly destabilising effect on the Middle East and the anti-western rhetoric of its leaders and we have a regime that is not supposed to be a friend of our government.

Despite his immense literary skill, Kurt Vonnegut, who died in April this year, was never really a household name, even in his native America. A fourth-generation German immigrant, he waited a long time for public recognition. His is not the most inspirational fiction I have read, nor is he the most skilled writer. However, Vonnegut’s uniquely bleak humour, entwined around situations bordering on the surreal and peppered with surprisingly funny and at times beautiful images, convey his thoughts memorably.

A text is owned by the person who created it, which raises the question of whether a translation – a complete change of language, a re-interpretation of the text – should be considered an original work in its own right. A translator has the power to change the tone of a text by their choice of vocabulary, to change its style by altering the syntax, to imbue new feelings into the words and redefine the audience of a text. All of this points to the idea of a translation as an entirely new and different creation.