Most people are rarely excited by bacteria. It tends to evoke ideas of rottenness and uncleanliness, its mere existence being a good enough excuse to throw food out immediately. It is sometimes forgotten, however, that there is as much good bacteria as there is bad, and that the good stuff can be uniquely fascinating.

Like many other people, I was furloughed from my bar job in the middle of March. I quickly found myself with far too much time on my hands and in drastic need of a new hobby. Through the gateway drug that is a sourdough starter, fermentation became my new pastime. Over the course of each week, I check a bottle here, taste a brew there and every now and then, experience the joy of finally opening a jar containing something ready to eat. The slow, methodical, yet rewarding process of fermentation has provided the perfect antidote to lockdown and a habit which I intend to continue post-Covid. I hope that by writing about my experiments with yeast, I might be able to share some of the unique, eccentric joy this has brought me, and perhaps even encourage you to try some fermentation of your own!

Part 1: Sourdough

In the early days of lockdown, we all had a go at sourdough. The starter components are deceptively simple; mix equal parts flour and water, add a source of natural yeast, scoop into your most photogenic jar and let the whole thing bubble happily for a week or so. It is then only a matter of incorporating your starter into your favourite bread recipe and proudly displaying the results on the social media platform of your choice.

With the potential to stretch over weeks and months, sourdough seemed like the perfect lockdown experiment. The starter requires regular feeding and attention, much like an overly demanding pet. More time spent at home meant more time for these rituals, with the regular rise and fall of the starter providing a reassuring sense of control during unpredictable times. What’s more, in the absence of other goals for those of us left jobless during the pandemic, producing a tangible, edible product from nothing but flour, water and a little bacteria felt like the world’s greatest achievement.

But what was more exciting about sourdough, at least for me, was the challenge that it presented. It turns out that despite the deluge of geometrically perfect loaves flooding your insta feed, baking sourdough is Actually Difficult. My first starter could only be described as an abject failure, producing loaves of bread so flat and dense that they might have been more befitting of a bricklayer than a baker. In vain I persevered, producing hot cross buns more closely resembling rockcakes and several more loaves of the same, sad, solid bread. Disheartened, I committed the cardinal sin of sourdough baking and stopped feeding my starter. My kilner jar sat forlornly in the fridge, over-fermenting, congealing, and finally dying a lonely death.

Had it not been for the months of lockdown stretching out ahead of me, this might have been the end of my project for good. But a week after I murdered the closest thing I have ever had to a pet, I decided it was time to try again. This time, there would be no mistakes. I abandoned the yoghurt-based sourdough starter I had found on the BBC Good Food website and relied instead on the recipe in Paul Hollywood’s “Bread.” After the substitution of yoghurt for grapes and five, tense days of careful attention, my starter finally gave off what the book described as a “pleasantly sour odour”.

Immediately, my bakes improved. I began with a simple sourdough recipe, taken from the same book as the starter. By getting up early enough, I found that I could bake the loaf from start to finish within the space of a day. There was no need for overnight fermentation, stretching and folding dough or any of the complex manoeuvres often required to shape a boule. It called only for techniques which most people with a passing interest in baking will have heard of: kneading, knocking out air, and a six hour rise. I followed the steps to the letter, waiting anxiously throughout the afternoon’s fermentation and evening bake. Upon retrieving the bread from the oven, I found I had been rewarded. My boule had ballooned into a golden dome with a thick, crunchy crust and produced a satisfyingly hollow sound when lightly tapped on the bottom. Having baked a convincing (albeit fairly dense) loaf, I believed I had finally taken the first steps towards sourdough greatness.

Now that I was in possession of a vigorously active starter, the sourdough world had become my oyster. Rather than scrolling through Twitter before bed, my preferred reading material became sourdough.co.uk’s Top 50 Sourdough Recipes. Not wishing to confine myself to bread alone, I made my first forays into enriched dough, which contains added fat, sugar and dairy. It presents a unique challenge; the added ingredients make the dough heavier, meaning that the natural yeast has to work twice as hard in order for it rise. However, buoyed by my recent bread success, I embraced the task wholeheartedly. I baked soft, glistening cinnamon buns; doughnuts, crackly on the outside and filled with the sweet spiciness of a quince and cardamom jam; and, the crowning glory, a twisted babka, its doughy layers intertwined with a dark chocolate and cinnamon filling. I also branched out with bread. I made pitas, served hot out of the oven and accompanied by gigantes plaki and kofta, and sourdough pizzas, topped with anchovies, capers and oregano. I also made sourdough naan bread, fermented briefly, layered with ghee in the pan and served alongside Meera Sodha’s sublime black dal makhani. The versatility of sourdough gives it a fantastic ability to complement almost any meal, ensuring that your starter is constantly being put to good use and that it rarely needs to be discarded.

Further, sourdough has been a surprisingly powerful social tool, even in lockdown. You are guaranteed to be popular if you bring homemade cinnamon buns to that socially distanced park trip and, more recently, a loaf of good bread has been invaluable when meeting specifically one other household, indoors, at a distance of 1m+ (whatever that may mean).

The greatest attraction of sourdough, however, is that there is always room for improvement. My current recipe, copied loosely from this video, requires three days. I prepare the levain on the first day, a kind of baby sourdough starter which ensures the potency of the yeast when you come to bake. The following morning, I mix flour and water and allow them to autolyse, encouraging gluten development before the active ingredient is added. After adding the levain, I slap the dough into shape on a countertop and allow it to rise for six hours, stretching and folding it throughout to develop the dough’s structure. I then perform what can only be described as bakery acrobatics, shaping the dough into a perfect boule and tightening its structure, while trying to avoid it sticking to the surface. I then ferment the dough in the fridge overnight before tipping it into a dutch oven (praying that it has not stuck to the bowl overnight) and baking it at just the right temperature for just the right time.

One might think that this is a lot of effort for a loaf of bread that is inclined to go stale almost immediately. But to claim that the effort is not worth the result is to miss the point, because it is the process itself that is compelling. Despite its slightly bougie reputation, sourdough is ultimately egalitarian; the ingredients are cheap, the barriers to entry are few and the process takes only a few minutes to learn (although arguably a lifetime to master). My sourdough project has been the perfect way to fill a few days a week, and to fill my kitchen with the smell of fresh bread, in the otherwise unchanging expanse of lockdown.

Part 2: Kombucha

The problem with sourdough, however, is that the bacteria itself is fairly self-sufficient. As long as it is fed daily (or once a week, if you keep it in the fridge), it remains fairly stable and, dare I say it, a little boring. Having had my first taste of the fermenting world, I knew that my microorganisms had more potential than sitting in a sealed Kilner jar in my fridge.

Enter kombucha. Kombucha is a fermented tea, made using a SCOBY (Symbiotic Culture of Bacteria and Yeast). SCOBYs are only found in existing batches of kombucha — which begs the question how kombucha ever came about in the first place — meaning that the easiest way to begin your own batch is to purchase a SCOBY from someone else’s brew.

I must confess that I purchased my first kombucha SCOBY entirely by accident. Idly searching for SCOBY prices after watching this video, I was horrified to find my new phone scanning my face, purchasing a kombucha starter kit and instructing it to be delivered to the university room I hadn’t lived in for a year. I was committed, whether I liked it or not.

After some minor wrangling to correct the delivery address, my SCOBY arrived, complete with four, fermentation-grade bottles and a 2L brewing jar. The instructions included seemed straightforward enough: boil 2L of water, add six teabags and 160g–200g of granulated sugar, let cool until the brew reaches room temperature and add to the jar along with the SCOBY and its starter liquid. Finally, cover with cheese cloth and leave for around 5 days, tasting daily until the ‘desired taste is achieved.’

It was here that I encountered a problem. Despite my new-found enthusiasm for home brewing, I had never actually tried kombucha and had no idea what the ‘desired taste’ may be. The problem was compounded by the fact that the taste of unflavoured kombucha defies most expectations. Despite the high initial sugar content, the brew is not very sweet. The microorganisms in the SCOBY consume the sugar and ferment the brew in the process, creating a flavour that is most aptly compared to very mild, white wine vinegar. I was, understandably, at a loss as to the readiness of my kombucha batch.

Fortunately, in this same week, I moved into a new flat with my booch-enthusiast girlfriend. Adopting her expert judgment as to the readiness of my brew, I began the second fermentation. Once brewed in bulk, kombucha must be bottled and have flavourings added. Almost any flavour will work (my most successful have been lime and basil, and ginger), as long as the added ingredients have a high enough sugar content to enable second fermentation. At this stage, the bacteria and yeast in each bottle consumes the added sugar and produces carbon dioxide which, when the lid is sealed is forced back into the liquid, providing natural effervescence or ‘carbonation’. After 3 days at room temperature, you are left with a sparkling, sweet and sour drink which is surprisingly refreshing. Incidentally, it also has a range of benefits for your gut health, if that’s the kind of thing that gets you going.

If you have mastered sourdough and want to take your fermenting to the next level, kombucha is the obvious choice. The bacteria and yeast involved is far more sensitive, requiring close attention and a little more time and energy. But the final product is endlessly customisable, from the tartness of the initial brew, to the range of possible flavours, to the myriad cocktail possibilities. Ginger kombucha mixed with lemonade was a great success, the tart sweetness of the lemon perfectly complementing the fiery ginger. Similarly, lemon kombucha pairs wonderfully with a light beer, creating a shandy perfect for the heatwave and making that diminutive can of Camden Hells go twice as far.

Kombucha may be demanding, but it is also uniquely satisfying. Unlike sourdough, which can appear entirely dormant unless you know better, a kombucha jar is a hive of activity. Bubbles constantly accumulate beneath the SCOBY before, in a wave, breaking the surface. If your brew is healthy, you might be lucky enough to see a new culture growing on its surface. Each new culture can be used to begin a new batch, with its own personality and flavour, either for yourself or for a friend willing to adopt your eccentric experiment. What kombucha shares with sourdough, however, is the unique pleasure borne of producing an infinite amount of a delicious product from nothing but cheap ingredients and a few microorganisms. The barrier to entry may be higher when brewing kombucha than baking sourdough, but the rewards are just as satisfying.

Part 3: The Rest

Although kombucha and sourdough are currently my two major projects, they have each opened doors into the world of fermentation which previously I did not know existed. Armed with a collection of jars and a dedicated ‘fermentation station’, there are now few things which I will not attempt to ferment, given half a chance. Leftover cabbage in the fridge? Turn it into sauerkraut; it’ll only take two weeks to be ready. Too much sourdough discard? Why not brew some kvass, a Russian probiotic drink made with water, sugar, stale bread or sourdough starter and traditionally flavoured with beetroot or mint? For the record, I tried this and it was foul; clearly, I am not as adept at fermenting as I may have led myself to believe.

The more confident one becomes, the fewer projects seem unreasonable. In fact, I am currently toying with the idea of miso, a Japanese bean paste, fermented over the course of two years which produces tamari (very strong soy sauce) as the microbes work their magic. Two years may seem like a long time, but the gentle, hands-off process of fermenting means that it is never really a burden. More than that, I like the idea that in two years’ time, I could lift the lid on a product I made now, at the height of the global pandemic, and have an opportunity to reflect on how far things have, I hope, changed.

In this way, fermented products have a way of tracking life itself, measuring out the days and weeks in cycles of fermentation and developing their flavours as time passes. It is no surprise that professional bakers often use a sourdough starter passed down through their families for generations; the starter has steadily accompanied their lives and those of their ancestors, perhaps providing a crucial source of food in hard times, often becoming the foundation block of a successful baking business and occasionally furnishing friends and family with their own sourdough projects. Fermentation cultures have a habit of intertwining themselves with the lives of their creators, providing an ever-present microbial companion which remains constant and regular. Although it may occasionally appear all-consuming, I could not be gladder to have made fermentation my antidote to lockdown.

Summary of Conclusions

The Anti-False Content Bill is unconstitutional and contrary to international standards under the ICCPR. The offences established by the Bill are so broadly defined that no justification is possible for the limits they impose upon the right to freedom of expression. This is compounded by the exclusive discretion of the Department of Justice Office of Cybercrime (‘DJOC’) to determine whether an offence has been committed, which creates a chilling effect on expression extending far beyond the specifically prohibited speech. This, in turn, implicates the right to receive information and the right to a fair trial. Further, the sanctions imposed for committing an offence are unnecessary and grossly disproportionate to the aim of shielding the public from misleading information.

In order to comply with constitutional and international standards, the Bill must, at least, be modified so as to: (i) impose civil, rather than criminal, liability; (ii) provide for independent (i.e. judicial) assessment of whether a ‘Punishable Act’ has been committed; and (iii) more closely define the circumstances in which liability will be imposed.

Summary of the Anti-False Content Bill

The Anti-False Content Bill (‘the Bill’) provides, in Section 4, for five new ‘Punishable Acts’. These are committed by publishing, on a personal or anonymous internet account, information that the publisher knows or reasonably believes to be false or misleading to the public, providing a service to facilitate that activity, financing that activity, or failing to comply with a Section 5 Order. Section 5 empowers the DJOC to determine whether a Punishable Act has been committed, and to make a Rectification Order (requiring correction of the publication), a Takedown Order (requiring the publication to be removed) or a Block Access Order (requiring access to the publication to be disabled). Committing any of the Punishable Acts attracts one of the sanctions set out in Section 8. The sanction may include imprisonment, a fine ranging from Php300,000 to Php2,000,000 (£4,823-£32,150), or both. The only method by which these orders may be resisted is, according to Section 7, by direct appeal to the Office of the Secretary of the Department of Justice.

Applicable Human Rights Standards

The right to freedom of expression is guaranteed in the Philippines by two human rights instruments: (i) Article 3, Section 4 of the 1987 Constitution of the Philippines; and (ii) Article 19 ICCPR.

Under the Constitution, the scope of the right is broad, allowing ‘the competition of ideas [and] the clash of claims and counterclaims, from which the truth will likely emerge’ (Carpio J, Chavez v Gonzales, G.R.168338). Despite this breadth, limitations on its exercise are permissible. Measures that restrict speech on the basis of its content must be subjected to the ‘strictest scrutiny’, such that they are only constitutional if there is a ‘clear and present danger’ flowing from the speech (ibid), a formulation directly adopted from US jurisprudence.

The position is similar under Article 19 ICCPR. General Comment 34 makes clear that the scope of the Article 19(2) right is wide, encompassing the ‘right to seek, receive and impart information and ideas of all kinds regardless of frontiers’ and including ‘all forms of audio-visual as well as electronic and internet-based modes of expression.’ Exercise of the right in Article 19(2) may only be limited in line with Article 19(3), which provides for restrictions ‘such as are provided by law and are necessary: (a) for respect of the rights or reputations of others; (b) for the protection of national security or of public order (ordre public), or of public health or morals.’ Restrictive measures must also be proportionate to the legitimate aim pursued (General Comment 34).

Analysis

The Constitution of the Philippines

The Anti-False Content Bill prohibits speech that is ‘false’ or ‘misleading to the public’. This is apparently based on the position in Gertz v Welsch (1974) 418 US 323, that ‘there is no constitutional value in false statements of fact’, (adopted in Borjal v Court of Appeals, G.R. 126466). However, it was further held in Gertz that punishing erroneous statements of fact ‘may lead to intolerable self-censorship’. Freedom of expression therefore ‘requires that we protect some falsehood in order to protect speech that matters’ (ibid). This ‘chilling effect’ means that even statements of fact that are obviously incorrect must fall within the scope of constitutional protection.

The chilling effect is compounded by the fact that the ‘false’ and ‘misleading’ nature of the speech is determined by the DJOC, meaning that there is no guarantee that the broad offences will only target uncontroversial falsities. Indeed, the offence is defined so widely that it could capture almost any speech that the DJOC deems to be ‘misleading’. In particular, recent Filipino history on freedom of expression suggests that statements of political dissent, which normally attract the highest standards of protection, will fall within the scope of Section 4. In Chavez, Puno CJ recognised the particular importance of protecting unorthodox or unpopular speech, stating that ‘the Constitution’s basic guarantee of freedom to advocate ideas is not confined to the expression of ideas that are conventional or shared by a majority.’ Clearly, the Anti-False Content Bill attacks a wide range of speech that ordinarily attracts constitutional protection. On this basis, there is a strong presumption that the Bill will be invalid in the absence of a ‘clear and present danger’ posed by the prohibited speech (Chavez).

The Bill does not sufficiently specify any such ‘clear and present danger’. Following Dennis v US, 341 US 494 (1951), this danger is identified by asking ‘whether the gravity of the “evil,” discounted by its improbability, justifies such invasion of free speech as is necessary to avoid the danger.’ In ABS-CBN Broadcasting Corp v COMELEC (G.R.133486), Panganiban J held that this meant that ‘the danger must not only be probable but very likely to be inevitable. The evil sought to be avoided must be so substantive as to justify a clamp over one’s mouth.’

The ‘evil sought to be avoided’ by the Bill is ‘the deleterious effects of false and deceiving content online.’ In some cases this may be clear and present; the Explanatory Note to the Bill gives the example of a publication which falsely suggested that the Filipino election results were manipulated, posing a clear danger to the continued existence of the Government and the integrity of the state. However, there is no reason to think that all forms of speech prohibited by Section 4 would lead to a similar danger. Indeed, in many cases, the speech that is deemed to be ‘false’ or ‘misleading to the public’ will not pose any danger at all, but may, for example, be an important contribution to public discourse. In these circumstances, its restraint is obviously unconstitutional. In the absence of clear guidance as to when speech will be prohibited, it is impossible to identify a single danger justifying the blanket prohibition. The breadth with which the offences are defined means that the Bill cannot be compatible with Article 3, section 4 of the Constitution.

The ICCPR

The Bill is also incompatible with international human rights standards. The vagueness of the Section 4 definition means that most forms of speech could be implicated, including ‘political discourse, commentary on one’s own and on public affairs, canvassing, discussion of human rights, journalism, cultural and artistic expression, teaching, and religious discourse’, all of which attract protection under Article 19 ICCPR (General Comment 34, paragraph 11).

It is highly unlikely that the Bill constitutes an acceptable limitation on the right to freedom of expression in line with Article 19(3), insofar it is not provided by law, necessary or proportionate.

For the limitation to be ‘provided by law’, it must be ‘formulated with sufficient precision to enable an individual to regulate his or her conduct accordingly’ (General Comment 34, paragraph 25) and it ‘may not confer unfettered discretion for the restriction of freedom of expression on those charged with its execution’ (General Comment 27). The Bill fulfils neither of these requirements. Section 5 confers an unfettered power on the DJOC to determine when speech falls within the broad definition contained in Section 4, and there is no opportunity to appeal that determination, except to the Department of Justice itself. Moreover, the Bill does not indicate how this discretion will be exercised, what standards are to be used in doing so, or who in the DJOC is responsible for making the determination, making it impossible for an individual to regulate his or her conduct accordingly. The definition of the restricted speech and the discretion it imports is insufficiently specific to be provided by law in the sense required by the ICCPR.

Further, the Bill is not necessary or proportionate to achieving its aim of ‘[protecting] the public from the deleterious effects of false and deceiving content online.’ On its face, this appears to fall under Article 19(3)(b), that is ‘the protection of national security or of public order (ordre public), or of public health or morals.’ However, ‘when a State party invokes a legitimate ground for restriction of freedom of expression, it must demonstrate in specific and individualised fashion the precise nature of the threat, and the necessity and proportionality of the specific action taken’ (General Comment 34). Clearly, the threat of imprisonment or fines as high as Php2,000,000 are not necessary to dissuade the publication of ‘false and deceiving content’ and thus to protect the public. The same aim could just as easily be achieved using lesser fines or by relying only on orders to amend or remove the content.

In addition, the Bill pays no regard to the specificities of the speech sought to be restrained. In the circumstances of public debate in a democracy concerning public or political figures, for example, restrictions on free speech are more likely to be disproportionate because of the particular value placed by the Covenant on uninhibited expression in this context. To impose the same, extreme sanctions on all ‘false’ or ‘misleading’ speech will be disproportionate in many, if not all, circumstances. This conclusion is supported by the recommendation of the UN Special Rapporteur on Freedom of Expression that ‘States should refrain from imposing disproportionate sanctions, whether heavy fines or imprisonment.’

Implications for other rights

Right to a fair trial

Article 14(1) ICCPR provides for the entitlement of every individual to ‘a fair and public hearing by a competent, independent and impartial tribunal established by law.’ Similarly, Article 3, Section 14(2) of the Constitution of the Philippines provides that ‘in all criminal prosecutions, the accused…shall enjoy the right…to have a speedy, impartial and public trial.’

Under the Anti-False Content Bill, the DJOC is exclusively competent to determine whether the Punishable Acts have been committed and to make orders accordingly. That decision is not subject to judicial review and is only appealable to the same office that made it, clearly implicating the right to a fair trial. Insofar as the making of a Section 5 Order amounts to a finding that a publisher is guilty of one of the Section 4 offences, that publisher is obviously not afforded a fair trial. This provides a secondary basis upon which the Bill is unconstitutional and contrary to the ICCPR.

Right of access to information

Article 3, Section 7 of the Constitution of the Philippines guarantees ‘the right of the people to information on matters of public concern.’ This complements the right to receive information, which forms an essential element of the free expression rights in the Filipino Constitution and the ICCPR. However, the ‘chilling effect’ of the Anti-False Content Bill, recognised above, means that publication on matters of public concern is likely to be stifled where its truth is uncertain or difficult to prove, or where it might be deemed ‘misleading’. In practice, this will dramatically reduce the amount of information to which the people have access, potentially violating the right in Article 3, Section 7 of the Constitution.

Recommendations

In order to conform with constitutional and international standards, at least three changes must be made to the Bill.

No criminal liability

In line with the OHCHR Joint Declaration on Freedom of Expression and “Fake News”, Disinformation and Propaganda, criminal laws limiting freedom of expression are ‘unduly restrictive and should be abolished.’ The sanctions contained in the Anti-False Content Bill are disproportionate under the ICCPR, and the danger that the Bill identifies cannot justify their use under the Filipino Constitution. Instead, the Bill should impose civil liability for false statements, allowing defendants to be ‘given a fully opportunity…to prove the truth of [their] statements and also benefit from other defences, such as fair comment’ (OHCHR Joint Declaration). Civil remedies for the harm caused by the publication of false information should be proportionate to the damage, in line with normal compensatory principles.

Independent assessment

The exclusive discretion granted to the DJOC to determine whether a ‘Punishable Act’ has been committed must be removed. As it stands, this discretion compounds the chilling effect of the Bill and means that the restrictions on free expression cannot be ‘provided by law’ under the ICCPR. It also implicates the fair trial rights of defendants. Instead, publishers must be given an opportunity to appear in court and to attempt to prove the truth of their statements or take the benefit of other defences (detailed below). Judicial determinations are crucial in ensuring that the process is independent and impartial, and that free expression will only be restricted where it is clearly justifiable to do so.

Clear definition

The OHCHR Joint Declaration recognises that ‘general prohibitions on the dissemination of information based on vague and ambiguous ideas…are incompatible with international standards.’ However, there are clearly some specific forms of expression that do pose a ‘clear and present danger’ for the purposes of justifiable regulation under the Filipino Constitution, or that are of so little value that attaching sanctions to them would be compatible with the ICCPR. The most obvious example is historical revisionism; speech that denies objectively verifiable, historical facts poses a clear danger to society and so must be restrained. This is a particularly important issue in the Philippines in light of recent public denials of Marcosian atrocities under the guise of free expression. Similarly, speech that attempts to undermine the sanctity of elections, as discussed above, also poses a clear and present danger to society. If ‘false content’ is to be regulated, it must: (i) set out discrete, limited categories of prohibited speech; (ii) identify the ‘clear and present danger’ posed with specificity; and (iii) provide for independent assessment of whether the speech in any given case actually poses that danger.

Finally, it is essential that defences of truth, honest mistake, parody and artistic statement are available to publishers accused of committing a ‘Punishable Act’ under the Bill. A ‘responsible’ journalism defence should also be available to publishers who have taken steps to verify the truth of their statements, even where those statements turn out to be false.

Nigel Slater has an unmistakeable way of writing about food. From his books, to his column in the Observer, even to his Instagram captions, he captures not only the tastes, smells and textures of each dish or ingredient, but also the emotions they evoke and the memories they conjure. Toast – which opens tomorrow at The Other Palace – perfectly illustrates this deeply personal connection with food, weaving it deftly into the story of Slater’s upbringing.

As we take our seats at the preview, we are faced with a deceptively plain set: a family kitchen circa 1967, decorated in various shades of pastel. Despite our initial apprehensions, the view from our surprisingly cheap seats is perfect and the simplicity of the staging means that there isn’t a single bad spot in the house. What’s more, that simplicity is misleading and throughout the performance the stage ably transforms to meet all situations, including a shop stocked with glittering Christmas groceries and a restaurant kitchen with a working gas hob. Transitions are carried out slickly by the cast, keeping the show moving through cooking scenes which might otherwise have dragged.

Indeed, the cast of five do not confine themselves to the stage, regularly taking to the audience to hand out sweets and cakes (and walnut whips!) in a unique but inspired incorporation of food into the production. Whilst putting on this show without edible food would be heresy, passing individually wrapped sweets around the audience in the noisiest paper bags I have ever encountered was an odd decision, the noise distracting from the particularly emotional scene unfolding on stage at the time. As the friend I went with suggested, some lighter scenes whilst we ate our sweets would have immediately solved the issue.

That said, the distraction was no fault of the actors. Giles Cooper, despite three or four slips, plays a convincing young Slater, capturing the childhood joy at the many possibilities food presents in a way which is sincere but not cringe-worthy. The real stars though are Lizzie Muncey and Marie Lawrence. The former plays his mum beautifully, establishing a bond with her on-stage son in which the audience is immediately invested, whilst keeping her character light and intensely relatable (a favourite line was her insistence that the icing on the Christmas cake should be in ‘rough peaks’). The latter, who plays Joan, is the polar opposite: loud, abrasive, and the perfect juxtaposition to Muncey’s gentler performance. These three are well supported by Stephen Ventura as Nigel’s dad and Jake Ferretti as Josh, and all except Cooper put in strong performances as a host of background characters. Although multi-roling can sometimes be disorienting, this cast carries it off easily, and what they lack in numbers is made up for by the intimacy the size of the cast seems to create.

This is only helped by the script, for which Henry Filloux-Bennett deserves high praise. Slater’s tone is perfectly captured in his younger self’s near-constant monologue, the character savouring his descriptions of everything from jam tarts to Joan herself (“describing is kind of my thing, Mum!”). The vast majority of these lines are delivered directly to the audience, repeatedly breaking the fourth wall to consistent comedic effect. This isn’t lost on the other characters, none of whom ever seem to understand why Nigel won’t stop talking to himself. Combined with the free food, this direct dialogue, almost a conversation, goes a long way to helping the audience feel invested in Slater’s story, sympathising with him at every turn and making the more poignant moments ever more heart-wrenching.

Indeed, for a show so funny it is admirable that at times, heart-wrenching is the only apt description. The difficult circumstances of Slater’s upbringing mean that the show has plenty of material to cover, but in dealing with this trauma it is rarely heavy-handed or shocking for its own sake. In particular, it approaches sexuality in a way which is equal parts subtle and overt, acknowledging the strong prejudices against gay men in the seventies, but ensuring that exploration of the issue does not dominate the show. True to reality, it is simply a part of the character’s life.

If the production is dominated by anything then, it is, quite rightly, food. The script rarely deviates from the subject for long, indulging the audience in its description of grocery shopping at Christmas or the heady excitement of the protagonist’s first job in a kitchen. I doubt any member of the audience left without being able to recite Slater’s recipe for mince pies (10oz flour, 4oz butter, 1oz lard, 2 tsp baking powder, an egg yolk and 10oz mincemeat, more or less) and the show climaxes with Nigel cooking his dad’s favourite mushrooms on toast live on stage. Throughout the production, food provides the ever-present backdrop, framing every significant moment in Slater’s youth. It is not necessarily about food, but tells the story through food, and it is perhaps this that allows the show to navigate its tragedies in a way which remains uniquely enchanting.

For foodies and fans of Slater’s recipes, Toast is a joy, the enthusiasm for and delight in food that so many people share shining through even the darkest moments of the production. But even for those who have never cooked, the play has much to offer, be that comedy, tragedy, musical numbers or just a free walnut whip in the interval. The show opens tomorrow and I could not recommend it more.

4/5.

A People’s Vote: The Wrong Approach to the Right Idea

In London today, hundreds of thousands of people marched on Westminster, protesting, once again, the Government’s calamitous approach to Brexit. In particular, they called for a ‘people’s vote’, an opportunity for the British public to express, for a second time, its view on membership of the EU. They are absolutely right in their campaign to remain in the EU, but a second referendum is the wrong solution.

It is a familiar mantra that ‘the people have spoken,’ that the 2016 referendum represents the continuing view of the British people and that this justifies every Government (and opposition) position on Brexit. As the Prime Minister grasps at ever-diminishing straws, she continues to claim that she is satisfying ‘the will of the people’, asserting that the referendum result provides her with a form of legitimacy on which to base her latest disastrous attempt at a solution. This is obviously nonsense. As today’s protesters repeatedly pointed out, a nation can change its mind and a referendum that took place two years ago may not be an accurate representation of public opinion.

The question, however, is whether the public has changed its mind. The protesters marched on the assumption that any second referendum would inevitably lead to a remain result. But what evidence is there for that assumption? At its most generous estimate, only a million people marched today, making up roughly 2% of those who voted in the 2016 referendum. Even the better-attended ‘revoke Article 50’ petition (which, at the time of writing, has garnered about 4,604,000 signatures) only accounts for 9.8% of that total. Aside from occasional anecdotal claims, there is very little evidence that any of the 17,410,742 people who voted to leave the European Union would not do so again in a heartbeat.

Even an optimist cannot put the odds of a ‘remain’ result in a second referendum at higher than 50%. In the event that, once again, the British people voted to leave, it would become all but impossible to continue to make the argument for ‘remain’. The Government would undoubtedly resort to any measures necessary to ensure a swift Brexit, deal or not, leaving no scope for any further debate. The damage this would cause to the UK is incalculable and the end result is directly contrary to what the protesters seek to achieve. Even if ‘remain’ won in a second referendum, the democratic legitimacy of implementing that result is doubtful. If the country has produced two opposite answers to the same question, which is to be trusted? The fallout from choosing one over the other means that a second referendum cannot be the way forward.

The only solution now is a general election. In pre-Brexit politics, a leader who had suffered as many, and as humiliating a set of, defeats as Theresa May would have stepped down long ago. Having had her deal rejected twice, her resignation followed by a general election is the only sensible approach. This would enhance, rather than diminish, the Brexit debate, allowing political parties to propose alternatives through their election campaigns. If a renewed remain campaign truly has legs, it will bring to power whichever party has the good sense to put the revocation of Article 50 as its headline manifesto commitment. If that fails, at least the British people will have expressed some new preference for the way forward, breaking the current deadlock.

I firmly believe that we must fight to ensure that the UK stays in the EU. I do not believe that a second referendum comes anywhere close to guaranteeing that result. Short of leading us to the salvation that today’s protesters promise, a second referendum has the potential to shut down any further Brexit debate and even more irreparably divide the country. The only solution is a general election. After that, our only hope is to resort to psychic energy.

Yesterday, lecturers at 57 universities across the country began a wave of strike action set to take place on fourteen days over the coming month. The reason for this is a proposal by Universities UK (“UUK”) to reform lecturers’ pension programmes to the extent that an ordinary lecturer would be roughly £10,000 out of pocket per year during retirement, as compared to the current scheme. Industrial action on this scale in universities is unprecedented in the UK and, unless a compromise is reached, it is set to affect more than a million students.

It is not entirely surprising then that, according to the Guardian, “almost 70,000 students have signed petitions demanding compensation from their universities in the run-up” to the strike action. Their complaint seems to be that, in light of their (admittedly exorbitant) tuition fees, they are entitled to every last hour of lectures on their timetable. Whilst frustration is obviously justified, it can’t be right to demand compensation from the universities.

On one level, it is simply hypocritical. The vast majority of students are guilty of regularly skipping lectures and many would not have attended the exact same sessions that have been cancelled had strike action not been taking place. I, personally, am not guilt-free; I haven’t even come close to attending all the lectures available for my course. Yet the thought that lecturers might ask for a financial contribution to their costs in preparing those lectures that students missed is laughable.

One reason for this might be that lecturers are not paying £9,250 per year to deliver their teaching. Why should they be compensated when students don’t turn up if they’re being paid anyway? This might be correct, but it misses the point. Lecturers do provide an hourly service to their employers. They do not provide an hourly service to their students. The problem here is that when students demand compensation for cancelled lectures, the relationship between the student and lecturer is reduced to one of buyer and seller or user and service provider.

Students increasingly see themselves as paying by the hour for their education and feeling the need to squeeze as much value out of their fees as possible in their brief time at university. This outlook only seems to be growing in popularity as tuition fees get higher and students feel ever more disenfranchised.

Although the necessity for tuition fees is a hotly debated issue, it has to be recognised that students do pay for more than simply their lecturers’ time. Being at university gives students access to a wide range of academic resources (from laboratories to libraries), an often vibrant community which depends on the infrastructure of the institution being maintained, and an enormous range of non-academic facilities and opportunities. To attempt to account for every penny of the tuition fee in contact hours completely misses the wider financial demands of the university and the broader benefits students gain from it. Practically speaking then, it can’t be right, let alone possible, to calculate a sum of compensation based on the tuition fee.

More broadly though, it isn’t obvious why so many students feel that their needs ought to take priority over those of their lecturers. It is surprising that so many of my peers who identify themselves as left-wing seem to abandon those views when they have to make some sacrifice for them. Perhaps the primary political issue for many students is their own financial instability, a problem with which they are all far too familiar. It is striking then that when others are faced with the same problem, the student response has been self-centred and unsympathetic. It seems to me that any self-professed left-wing student worth their salt ought to vehemently oppose the UUK’s proposed changes, particularly in light of the consistently hard work done by lecturers entirely for students’ benefits. Even those who do not identify with the left certainly ought to consider the position that the changes will put their lecturers in and think about how they would feel if placed in the same situation.

Clearly, this does not apply to all students and many (including many of my immediate peers: see title photo) are wholeheartedly supporting the industrial action. I would encourage those on the other side who are demanding compensation to think very carefully about why they are doing so, and to try to put themselves in the position of the lecturers who work so hard for them. If students are to maintain their liberal pedigree (and there are very many students who consider this to be of utmost importance) they must stand by those who experience financial threats of this calibre, even when that may come at personal cost.