Articles

The more time I spend doomscrolling, the more I’m faced with the severity of our generation’s obsession with online communication. While social media is an extremely useful tool, it leads us to live in an age of instant reactions, where we respond to notifications faster than to our own feelings, slowly losing the ability to notice what truly matters and to listen to ourselves. In an era of notifications, we react to phones vibrating in our pockets faster and more efficiently

Lippy, I have loved you and now I must leave you. My time as Editor-In-Chief has been a joy, not least for the fabulous fun we’ve had but since it’s enabled me to meet all you lovely lot. Before I go, here are 5 final bits of advice I wish I’d learnt quicker throughout my time in Leeds. A Manifesto of sorts, to make the most of things. Romanticise Everything but People My friend Alice claims we must ‘move through the world as you want it to become’. She envisions a greener fu

I’m a member of Leeds Student Radio, which, if you didn’t know, means I usually get to hide behind a radio microphone for two hours every week whilst my friends and family listen to me natter on about anything and everything. Every now and then, though, I force myself out from behind the desk to take on some very exciting (and occasionally nerve-wracking) opportunities, like recording band interviews. Recently, I was given the chance to see ‘The Drop Jonnies’ perform at the L

Sir, a report of a stone, Sir, I found down at the creek, brushed with water like egg brushes pastry, dotted and spotted in drips and drabs, half-dry, half-cold. Sir, the stone was pebble-grey, warm, light -- rolled sweet fondant, speckling like a robin's egg, freckled ochre by the sun, with darker spots where the light fails to catch, Sir. Forgive me, Sir, I was enraptured, captured; the stone was bedding an eighth into the creek-sand, sat promptly, pertly, rightly, shaded i

To take us to the sky, We study the celluloid film, The oscillograph paper enfolded in our hands, The numbers are reduced again. Reels of paper pool at our feet, It requires careful observation, All that we are is a computer of women. We weave the punch cards, Gentle copper threads dance around towers of circles, Dancing in, And out, Forming a structure of strength, Of memory, Of information. We were weavers and spinners, Delicate thread between index and thumb, This copper,

Castello Cavalcanti (2013) is a seven-minute short film directed by Wes Anderson in production partnership with Prada. Jason Schwartzman stars as Jed Cavalcanti, a 1950s Formula One driver who is partaking in a race resulting in an implicitly fatal crash into a statue of Jesus in a small Italian village. What follows divides audiences and evokes questions about death, the afterlife, and fate. This short is a personal favourite of mine. I think it truly alters and encourages

On 21st February 2026, in the skinniest jeans I own, surrounded by heavily foundationed second-years dancing to Calvin Harris, I realised I, too, was gripped by the desire to return to simpler times. A disco ball wasn’t needed with the amount of highlighter I had swatched on my cheeks. 2016 was back. From the renaissance of Frutiger Aero – the futuristic design aesthetic prevalent in early 2000s tech – to the idealisation of drawn-on-finger moustaches and galaxy leggings, it

Sat in eerie silence, the kind that suspends, borrowing grief from the future. Reaching through with sticky hands, to steal something I can call mine. In the same way, a sweet friend took the floor with him when he left. A souvenir for his struggles - will the feeling ever fade? The need to hold something close. To fold your palms tight, to write it all down, in a language you understand. Does the book ache to return to the tree? It can no longer lend its knowledge to me.