Conceptual Correspondence

Dear The Education System,

                                                I am writing to you in regards to the recent alteration in the nature of our professional relationship.

 

As I am sure that you aware, we have been connected by a social and/or professional contract for the vast majority of my life, as I have participated in all of the socially prescribed incarnations of your existence, which include, but are not restricted to, the following types of school; Playschool (not the TV show), Primary, Secondary / Comprehensive and, most recently, University.

 

If I was forced to choose my favourite type of school, using mostly introspective factors, it would be incredibly difficult for me to select one individually.  This is because during much of my time in Playschool and Primary I was incredibly young, which was the correct age for those particular contexts.  This youth however renders memories of this time few and far between, which means that it is incredibly difficult for me to speculate on whether my time in these institutions were enjoyable.  I can only imagine that sitting in a nappy playing with sand and paints (separately) could only have been an enjoyable thing, however that occurred during my time in University, and as such cannot highlight whether or not my formative years in education were enjoyable.  The only anecdote I have been told of my time as a small child involves urination is Penscynor Wildlife Park, which, while amusing, does not help in my inquiries. (I have just been told that this weeing incident in fact occurred in Butlins, but I will leave it as Penscynor, as that location is more inherently humorous to my tastes.  Possibly because, Jordi be praised, I have no actual memories of ever being in Butlins.)

 

I have more concrete memories of my time in Comp, however my time there was a veritable pick ‘n’ mix of experience.  If the pick ‘n’ mix in question was situated in the bombed-out stalactite-filled remnants of what used to be a Woolworths.  You could probably find one of them somewhere, possibly in Buntingford or Chipping Ongar. (I found these places by typing “Random British Towns into Google, and therefore the use of these random towns to flesh out a silly joke about pick ‘n’ mix is in no way meant to reflect negatively on the towns stated.)  (Chipping Ongar sounds wicked-cool).

 

Having fully discussed the experiences I had in comp, I will now address University based experiences.

 

At the start of University the work was quite easy, after that it got steadily more difficult.  From what I gather this is the usual progression for most University courses, and does not reflect a cruel construction of my particular course.

Interestingly, the steep curve of work getting more difficult in University was paralleled only by my aggravation to said work.  A graph of this would look like this:

  

 In this graph Y = difficulty of University work (measured in blood pressure), and X = how much University work does my head in (in Kilojoules).  The red represents danger and fury in equal measure.

 

I suppose the point of this letter, apart from assaulting education, is a round-about declaration of my departure from the education system.  I have listened to what you want me to know and I have parroted it back to you for roughly 18 years.

 

I thank you greatly for the education I have received, for the ability to think, and the drive to understand.  I cannot be certain that this would have been present to such a degree had I not been subjected to your enlightening (in aim) regime.

 

However, I am through with you now, I want to do what I want to do, so give me some good marks that I can get an awesome job with, thanks.

 

Love and Fury (in fairly equal measure)

 

AyJayGee. (academia imps willing) B.A.

Cancelled Lessons

Cancelled lessons/lectures/seminars are an interesting phenomenon.


I remember clearly that there was no greater event than a free lesson. A lesson where you reach your classroom and discover that the teacher standing there is a substitute. You think:


“The teacher isn’t in”


Soon followed by:


“Free lesson” (I have excluded gratuitous exclamation marks, but in my memory they are there).


In school (or in mine anyway) a free lesson was an ‘anything goes’ pass for an hour of acting like a complete hell-child. The relief of not having whichever lesson had been scheduled is akin to a mini-christmas out of season. It is truly a sadistic bonfire night in the brain. I shudder to think of the anguish that my class put naïve sub teachers through, although a number of my humorous memories of school come from these situations. Sub teachers have a habit of saying incredibly strange things such as:


“Obey me child”, “No wonder the devil reigns supreme in this world with little children like you asking people if they want eggs” and “I used to be fat and stupid when I was young too” (All real examples).


There is a process that morphs this perfect state of free lesson into something else, and it intrigues me. The first hints of skewing happened, for me, in sixth form. Here cancellation of certain lessons begun to have less positive effects. I feel this is largely because I began to enjoy lessons in sixth form, and also that there was so much free time provided in sixth form that an extra hour here or there was not the intense release that a free lesson amid a week of packed lessons would be. Having said that, I do remember that there were still nightmare lessons in sixth form that I was more than happy to see cancelled and spend an hour vegetating in the ironically named ‘Quiet Room’.


In University, then, the phenomenon is even stranger.


This morning I made a concerted effort to be awake at 7:00am (which for me was akin to dragging the rotting carcass of a loved house-pet up the Himalayas, difficult), I showered, had breakfast, listened to some music to come round fully and then I loaded my bag with the relevant materials that I would be using in today’s seminars. I was on the ball. Not only was I on the ball, I was rolling around on it like a seal and balancing another ball on my nose. Literally.


Imagine my relief then when upon reaching the room I discover that there is no lecture at all. I was over the moon, relief pouring out of every pore like burning pitch out of the crannies of Notre Dame, like in the film ‘The Hunchback of Notre Dame’ (I don’t know how Disney got away with that, rather a malevolent thing to show children, death by caustic tar). You would think that I was inundated with joy and goodwill.


Well you would be wrong, you assumption-filled bumpkin. I was righteously indignant! I had gone to the Herculean effort of GETTING UP (can you imagine?) and then I was left hanging by the underwhelming administrative skills of my lecturer.


Maybe I am a crazy subversive maniac crazyperson but I think that the Blackboard system is there so that lecturers can alert us of these cancellations in advance, so that I don’t have to wake up early in the morning, when it is really cold and dreary, when I really don’t have to.


The fact that lecturers aren’t running today and I didn’t know about it has nothing to do with the ‘fact’ that I have missed a fortnight of University and the course has probably just ended rather than this being a one-off cancellation, these things have no bearing on the situation!


I am also indignant on behalf of other people who had to catch peak-time public transport in order to arrive on-time for a non-existent lecture. For shame! That is three whole British pounds that at least one poor student won’t see again. That is real human money that is! The loss of that £3 won’t be easy to bounce back from in the current economic climate. You could buy a lot with £3. You could buy six bottles of water that cost 50p each. Three hundred penny sweets. Thirty thousand sweets that individually cost a hundredth of a penny. I’m not even sure if my mathematical workings there are correct. Please do get in touch and call me a tool if they aren’t.


So in a matter of around five years a simple thing such as a free lesson can utterly change its stripes and transform from a heart giving love hour into a bile filled grilling on the nature of making me get up early.


After writing this however I am uncertain whether this is an analysis of free lessons or whether it is really an admission of how I have transformed from a little tyke into a grumpy old git.


It’s the free lesson one.


In the words of Richard Herring:


“I am still proud of what I have done”.


Richard Herring gig tonight, I am looking forward to it.

Academic Hysteria

Sometimes things get mutated out of proportion through a toxic and masochistic mix of self-interest and apprehension.


It was one such occasion this morning.


It began yesterday when I discovered that I had been allotted a 10 minute slot in order to discuss my proposal for a research question. This would not have been an issue if I actually had a proposal. As I soon realised my very basic nugget of an idea would not stretch to ten minutes of explanation, even with intelligent and sincere questions spaced liberally throughout. It was with mounting stress that I plundered the library for relevant texts (one small research paper stretching over a ‘staggering’ 16 pages). I made good my escape, my purloined sirloin of a research paper hidden snugly in my bag. I also managed to part ways with my small change as the library’s inefficient retrieval system from the deposit box outside means that despite returning books on time I returned books late, totting up a displeasing 90p in fines.


Even the libraries (or Learning Resource Centre as it unimperiously names itself) are being manned by highwaymen in broken Britain. Damn LRC, it stands for Load of Robbing Curmudgeons. There is a punchier C word that I have previously used that I am politely avoiding as I would not like to use the same sort of language to describe being physically assaulted with having to pay a 90p fine. Because being assaulted cost me over £7 in damages. That is over seven times as expensive as the library fine. Much worse I think you’d agree.


I then placed myself, as comfortably as possible considering the looming ugly colossus of a 10 minute grilling from my lecturer, on a bench in the (moderate and unexpected) sunshine of a Welsh March. I was further exasperated with the presence of a large group of student surveyors decked out in their hard hats and luminous garb who had placed themselves in the immediate vicinity of my preferred bench. This I found unacceptable as I like that bench. It is relatively secluded and offers opportunities for appreciation of nature (birds and mountains) and also for people watching (birds and mountains).


I soon accepted that I would have to retreat to a less pleasing bench and did so post haste. This proved to be a good decision as soon distant rumblings from beyond time and space informed me that these student goons had begun making a mess of my idyllic area with their drills and diggers. I was displeased. I had very much enjoyed the general ambience of the area, with it’s…


Two magpies just landed on my windowsill inches from my face (separated by glass)(my face from the magpies that is, not the two magpies separated from each other by glass)(that would be cruel). I take this to be an intense indicator of good luck. Although telling you that may have spoiled the narrative arc of the story I am in the middle of. My mouth is also currently burning from eating Jalapeno Pepper flavour crisps, though I am unsure whether this is also an omen.


...the area, with it’s generous views of the South Wales valleys and its wildlife, including, but not restricted to, magpies, rabbits, squirrels, tiny orange women wearing far too little (it is sunny but it is also March) and huge orange men wearing far too little (it is sunny but it is also March)(and vests are a crime against decency). I feel I must note at this point that there is a vast array of types of people that pass this bench, it is not restricted only to the “Orange Chav” variety. There are gothicks and moshers as well an’na like. The sun is the best fishhook for snaring the unwary outdoors, in all of their semi-naked ‘glory’. In retrospect maybe I am the deviant one in my jumper, it isn’t all that cold. Humbug.


The bench is also located next to a wonderful building whose architecture pleases mine eye, and it also juxtaposes delightfully with a plot of land which used to house a place of religious worship, which has since been demolished. Proof if proof were needed that there is no god, or at the very least, that he is unable to stop diggers from making a mess of his house. Although considering the vast number of “houses of god” that exist on this planet, such a small dent in his real estate portfolio would be of little consequence to the almighty. The bible fails to mention that the lord is a bit of a tycoon.


I sat down to read in my substitute bench, which in comparison offered views of a recycling bin and a bush. But I was not there to admire the view! I had to read, and read fast. I needed a working knowledge of the text in order to provide a passing for intelligent proposal. Luckily the paper was one of those rare academic texts that is genuinely interesting, or maybe I am simply becoming irredeemably buried in an academic world where my personal idea of fun is a half-hour meta-analysis on the role of list-making in a workplace dynamic. It isn’t. I would much rather a half-hour meta-analysis of other things. Just to be clear. I do like meta-analysis. However, I have no time for lists. Just so you don’t think I’m some sort of nerd. Ha. If you do I will find you and meta-analyse you. Yeah, you’ll be laughing on the same side of your face then.


The rather staggered end of this story then is that when I went to give the proposal it was not as formal as I had worried, and my rather rushed preparation beforehand was more than adequate. It would have been better if I hadn’t spent my time slowly basting in a laminate coating of my own sweat, but I suppose the clammy hours are what get things done. It surely can’t be good to be so stressed though, even if it does make for a rather tedious and hopefully mildly amusing tale afterwards.


You may think it is interesting that I could have been doing work instead of writing this, in order to alleviate the onset of stress that is likely to occur when the next meeting comes around.


Well you are wrong! It isn’t interesting and you are obviously a complete oik for thinking it. I’ll do work in my own time, stop bullying me. Jordi Cruijff!


So, I think that this story has ground to its death, if you thought it was boring then go back to the start and pretend I am someone exciting as you read it through.


“OMG Stephen Fry’s favourite bench area was ruined by student surveyors!!!”


“No wayz!!!”


Instant gold. Just add Fry.

The Compelling Use of Mr. Jesus' Power & Academia's Tight Tweed Chinos

I had my first run-in with films from the Exorcist Mythos recently, both versions of the prequel, Dominion: Prequel to the Exorcist and Exorcist: The Beginning.  The creation of the two films is an interesting story, because they are meant to be, if not the same, then a similar story.  The two films work on the same concept, this came about because when the original film was finished (Dominion), the Studio was dissatisfied with it, and like enraged monkeys playing with their cack, they decided to commission the film again with a different director, and proceeded to throw more money at it this time around.

 

Having seen the two films back-to-back, the huge differences between them are striking, especially the level of filthy language held within.  Some footage from Dominion was actually recycled and used in The Beginning, even though the take on the story was almost completely different, even down to the actual character that was possessed (a fairly key plot point).  The Beginning also changed some members of the cast, though they did keep Stellan Skarsgård as the lead, who certainly had (for the most part) a surprisingly good, old Imperial British accent.

 

The consensus from the trilogy of viewers that we were, was that Dominion, as the thoughtful slower film, was the better of the two, despite being originally canned by the film people.  In comparison, The Beginning was less of a psycho-thriller and more of a straight, cheesy, foul-mouthed, aimed-at-America horror.

 

The other topic alluded to in the cryptic title is the habit of academic works to have boring titles.  It became apparent during a seminar several weeks ago that it was not necessary for academic articles, works or books to have stuffy and tedious titles and style, which has led me to pick boring titles, and attempt to make them more suited to mine palate.

 

Some examples from the Journal, Discourse & Society:

Racism in the News: A Critical Discourse Analysis of News Reporting in Two Australian Newspapers  (Peter Teo)

My personal edit would have read:

Oh! Those Aussies, buncha Racists!

 

also:

The Management of Heterosexist Talk: Conversational Resources and Prejudiced Claims  (Susan Speer & Jonathan Potter)

and my edit:

How to get away with sexism!

and finally:

Language, Gender and Floor Apportionment in Political Debates  (Sylvia Show)

which I'd make:

Women in Political Debates: Ha, Ha, Ha, Hee Hee, Hee.... no.

 

I suppose I've shot myself in the foot slightly, proving perhaps that academic works should stick with their own register.  I still think academics shouldn't be so stuffy, and should strive to stop their gatekeeping ways and make their works more accessible.

 So after proving that Exorcist Prequels and the Academic style of writing go together like toothpaste and micro chips, I will now leave you to muse on whichever topic you please.