While in work today I noticed the shiny new mousemats that the centre have forked out for. Their shinyness is worth commenting upon, for they are noticably shiny. However, each individual computer in the cybercafe is attached to an LED mouse, so having a mousemat, especially one that is shiny and dimpled, makes using the computer harder. These are the petty niggles which rule my days.
I also discovered writ large upon the back of the mousemats that they are 'indestructible under normal use'. That is a quality I really look for in my mousemats. Indestructibility. This mousemat is surely the Superman of the mousemat race.
There is a stretch of road between my house and work, which is handy otherwise I would live in my workplace. HAHAHAHAHA.
There is a stretch of road between my house and work which is being given a new layer of cement or whatever it is the government have to feed the road to sate the fury of the road. It resents being driven on.
This re-tarmacking is a nuisance as it causes a huge traffic jam due to the inevitable bottle-necking. I appreciate that this is unavoidable and that the cement people (people who cement, not people made out of cement) are doing us proud and keeping us safe by spreading more molten rock on the road, but I was slightly put out by it so I feel I have the right to lash out mindlessly on the internet. And I do.
In the traffic jam I nobly allowed a gargantuan cement truck to merge from a junction and go in front of me in the queue which was snailing its way forward. This was fine, I didn't feel threatened or encroached upon by the colossal truck, the tailgate of which was, at some points, almost hovering over my head. This all changed, however, when an ambulance and a police car tried to force their way through the gridlocked throng.
Again, I appreciate that the amblumance people (purposeful mispelling) and the po-po were on their way to assist in an important matter, such as to apprehend a thief who had stolen a vulnerable person's heartbeat and to re-instate said heartbeat into the vulnerable person. I momentarily forgot what the other emergency service was. Fire engines.
So I was slightly intimidated and befuddled by being jammed behind a cement truck with an angry looking amblumance man glowering at me. I would like to say to that amblumance worker; "I am not Inspector Gadget. My car cannot perform physics-defying transformations. Suck it".
It is good to see that the country is still basically functioning even though all the leaders have taken time off to go and win a popularity contest.
I am particularly galled by the Conservative 'policy' which will run a project called 'School Stars' which is essentially X-Factor in schools. I would stick my neck out and say this is a bad idea. We already have X-Factor, it is called X-Factor and it is on the television and it is cackworthy shite. Surely running that sort of project can't be a political policy? That's not going to solve anything.
How do we solve the problems? GARY BARLOW WITH KIDS!! Excuse me? GARY BARLOW WITH TEH KIDDEZ!!
It's an odd one though, I don't oppose the putting of kids on stage in a competitive form. I have fond (if occasionally bitter) memories of the various Eisteddfodau that I partook of as a child. But I think the main difference between these and 'School Stars' (apart from the obvious cynical political manipulation that is inherent in it) is that the Eisteddfod's scope is huge, with events including oration, singing, musical recital, dancing, with the main focus being on writing. I think the focus on writing is an admirable thing, I feel that writing is implicitly more creative than singing. But I suppose I would say that, I love writing. In fact, I am writing right now. While I acknowledge that singing well is a talent and not an easy thing, I feel the individuality and creativity needed for things such as writing, composing etc makes efforts in those fields more valuable, and I feel it is something of a pity that singers can make a fortune simply rehashing other people's creations. MAKE SOMETHING NEW.
The consensus seems to be that Nick Clegg won the recent debate, which of course means that he did. I don't know who I'll vote for at this point as I haven't yet taken the time to research any party's manifesto, but I feel that if the Lib Dem's can build on this burst of popularity that would be a positive thing. From an incredibly selfish point of view I would welcome them coming to power if they stay true to their pledge of scrapping tuition fees. I think if that happened I'd go back to University. Which is reason for everyone to vote Lib Dem.
These are the policies they should be leading with! Nick Clegg says he'll put Gilder back in Uni!
I suppose what we'll find out in the next couple of weeks is whether voters would prefer to see kiddies played off against each other a la X-Factor, or if they'd rather see them in University.
I'd usually be pessimistic about it, but we must bear in mind that we did get Rage Against the Machine to number one.
As a short P.S. The sight of George Osborne still makes me retch. That is all.
Showing posts with label university. Show all posts
Showing posts with label university. Show all posts
Monday, 19 April 2010
Thursday, 24 September 2009
I Survey from My Lofty Snobbery-Pony
If I don’t start writing now, I feel as though I will let an entire week pass without provoking a dragon of any variety. Which is unthinkable in a week where I have been attempting to flex my creative muscles in as many arenas as is possible, so here we go with a straight retelling of my activities (we’ll see).
I began the week by forcing myself out of bed at an unreasonable hour in order to pre-record a radio show idea that my radio compadre and I had been preparing for the better part of a fortnight. The actual premise for the show, which is far more unique and thrilling in my imagination than it can possibly be in reality, has been bouncing around since the later part of last year, and it is incredibly strange and exciting to actually have an episode of it recorded.
We were shown a heartening amount of trust and were left to our own devices in the studio, which certainly helped, as a recording would probably be awkward and forced were there someone overseeing our efforts. As it transpires, I feel the first few sections were still a bit jerky and nervous, but I think we were far more affable and amusing after that.
I once again delved into the time-consuming world of editing as it was necessary to have certain errors removed, such as playing the wrong tracks (Dafydd) or mistakenly putting the ‘.co.uk’ ending when plugging the website (me). It is good that mistakes came from us both I think, as if it were one of us in particular dragging down our average this would lead to bitterness and resentment, eventually culminating in a huge fall-out where one of us is drugged, lugged into a hemp sack and dumped in the river Selsig. Which would result in an evening of drug-induced damp slumber.
More of my time was taken up with the weekly reviewing project I am involved in, or perhaps co-founder of, of which I feel it is my duty never to miss an entry. This is likely going to prove impossible, although with sufficient organisation and dedication I will be able to meet the weekly deadline ad infinitum, however it has been in the realms of both organisation and dedication that I have always been slightly lacking. My review this week was of the film Paprika, which I have seen several times before, and is a film I genuinely adore, which perhaps made it quite so easy to write a review for, if it was slightly more difficult to stop writing. In order to begin a back-catalogue of reviews I decided to watch Vexille today, so that I could accumulate notes on various pieces in order to not be forced into watching whatever is on hand on the reviewing day in question. I really enjoyed the piece, though I am glad I watched it so far away from a deadline, as some of the comments I have regarding it require research in order to substantiate them, as I don’t fancy making wild statements and invite upon myself the rocket-powered vitriol of internet geekrage (as I saw it described in a Guardian comment section, although I added the term ‘rocket-powered’ myself).
At times I don’t really understand my own dedication to the blog phenomenon, or ‘blognomenon’ if you please, with my original reasons having their roots in giving me somewhere to workshop stand-up comedy ideas in the dark where a handful of would perhaps read them. More and more it has simply become a repository for my topical musings, due to the vast amount of news I read whilst in work, and also for the logging of my day to day doings, which I don’t particularly want to make a regular occurrence, mainly due to the fact that I don’t get up to very much interesting, case in point being the fact that I have so much free time as to enable me to pump out over 1000 words a day for a blog almost every other day. I would like there to be more of the sort of stupid expansion of a story in a similar vein as drowning my radio co-presenter in a shallow river, but in reality I tend to do more of this self-referential indulgent mememememememe rubbish. Now for something hopefully amusing.
On the drive back from work every evening, it is necessary for me to pass through the main road directly in front of the University in which I studied until I graduated this summer (yay me, I am cleverclogs). Now that it is term time once again, the roads are packed with returning students and excitable freshers, and the humbuggery that non-students stereotypically feel for students has not been long in worming its way into my psyche. The short autumn days ensure that I am driving home in darkness, and nothing impacts my driving more negatively than poor-lighting conditions and excess flesh. Wednesdays are the worst, as the University clearly still runs the midweek event ‘Score’, I could tell simply by the vast swathe of vapid hatefuls swamping the road. Now in the country where I live, Wales, it was my understanding that the road was where the cars go, and human beings, for their own safety really, are to walk along the pavement. Of course, I would prefer that vacuous brain-dead knock-off trend-plebs stayed indoors, or at least out of the beam of my headlights. If I accidentally run over a dog or a cat, that would be a shame and a pity, if I ran over a ‘party animal’ it would be a nuisance. I want to get home and into the warm as quickly as is safely possible, which is one reason why I am quite so much at odds with these people who insist on getting all dressed up and going out. I also have a quarrel with the phrase ‘getting all dressed up’, because the actual process is less about putting clothes on, and more about seeing how little it is possible to wear and not be arrested and/or die from hypothermia.
As much as vacuous near-nudity both distracts and frustrates me, pride of place goes to one particular bell-end who managed to dispossess me of any nostalgia and longing I may have felt for Uni just by walking down a street. The fellow in question was weaving foolishly between the other users of the pavement, holding his hand on his forehead as though it was some sort of fin, and pulling an ‘amusing’ face. It was not this negligibly annoying behaviour that fired a nuclear dart of fury deep into my brain and withered my soul, rather it was his chosen garments. Or more specifically, the ‘hilarious’ words writ upon it. Now I would argue that a rugby shirt should be worn on a night out on only 3 occasions: 1) fancy dress, 2) St David’s Day or 3) when the rugby is on. Now having noted that no one else was in fancy dress I could guess that this fellow was a bell-end. The final nail in his coffin, the coffin of my judgemental prejudice to be exact, came as I read the words on his back and realised he must be what people refer to as a ‘character’. Emblazoned upon his shoulders was the moniker ‘Captain Poon’.
He may as well have been carrying a sign which said “You are not going to enjoy my company”.
Luckily for the both of us, our brief liaison was merely a glance from a passing car, as just as he would have very little of value to add to my existence, I hardly think my clever dickery would be amusing to him, and I have no intention of debasing myself to amuse students.
At least, not now that I am no longer one myself.
Ah, hubris.
I began the week by forcing myself out of bed at an unreasonable hour in order to pre-record a radio show idea that my radio compadre and I had been preparing for the better part of a fortnight. The actual premise for the show, which is far more unique and thrilling in my imagination than it can possibly be in reality, has been bouncing around since the later part of last year, and it is incredibly strange and exciting to actually have an episode of it recorded.
We were shown a heartening amount of trust and were left to our own devices in the studio, which certainly helped, as a recording would probably be awkward and forced were there someone overseeing our efforts. As it transpires, I feel the first few sections were still a bit jerky and nervous, but I think we were far more affable and amusing after that.
I once again delved into the time-consuming world of editing as it was necessary to have certain errors removed, such as playing the wrong tracks (Dafydd) or mistakenly putting the ‘.co.uk’ ending when plugging the website (me). It is good that mistakes came from us both I think, as if it were one of us in particular dragging down our average this would lead to bitterness and resentment, eventually culminating in a huge fall-out where one of us is drugged, lugged into a hemp sack and dumped in the river Selsig. Which would result in an evening of drug-induced damp slumber.
More of my time was taken up with the weekly reviewing project I am involved in, or perhaps co-founder of, of which I feel it is my duty never to miss an entry. This is likely going to prove impossible, although with sufficient organisation and dedication I will be able to meet the weekly deadline ad infinitum, however it has been in the realms of both organisation and dedication that I have always been slightly lacking. My review this week was of the film Paprika, which I have seen several times before, and is a film I genuinely adore, which perhaps made it quite so easy to write a review for, if it was slightly more difficult to stop writing. In order to begin a back-catalogue of reviews I decided to watch Vexille today, so that I could accumulate notes on various pieces in order to not be forced into watching whatever is on hand on the reviewing day in question. I really enjoyed the piece, though I am glad I watched it so far away from a deadline, as some of the comments I have regarding it require research in order to substantiate them, as I don’t fancy making wild statements and invite upon myself the rocket-powered vitriol of internet geekrage (as I saw it described in a Guardian comment section, although I added the term ‘rocket-powered’ myself).
At times I don’t really understand my own dedication to the blog phenomenon, or ‘blognomenon’ if you please, with my original reasons having their roots in giving me somewhere to workshop stand-up comedy ideas in the dark where a handful of would perhaps read them. More and more it has simply become a repository for my topical musings, due to the vast amount of news I read whilst in work, and also for the logging of my day to day doings, which I don’t particularly want to make a regular occurrence, mainly due to the fact that I don’t get up to very much interesting, case in point being the fact that I have so much free time as to enable me to pump out over 1000 words a day for a blog almost every other day. I would like there to be more of the sort of stupid expansion of a story in a similar vein as drowning my radio co-presenter in a shallow river, but in reality I tend to do more of this self-referential indulgent mememememememe rubbish. Now for something hopefully amusing.
On the drive back from work every evening, it is necessary for me to pass through the main road directly in front of the University in which I studied until I graduated this summer (yay me, I am cleverclogs). Now that it is term time once again, the roads are packed with returning students and excitable freshers, and the humbuggery that non-students stereotypically feel for students has not been long in worming its way into my psyche. The short autumn days ensure that I am driving home in darkness, and nothing impacts my driving more negatively than poor-lighting conditions and excess flesh. Wednesdays are the worst, as the University clearly still runs the midweek event ‘Score’, I could tell simply by the vast swathe of vapid hatefuls swamping the road. Now in the country where I live, Wales, it was my understanding that the road was where the cars go, and human beings, for their own safety really, are to walk along the pavement. Of course, I would prefer that vacuous brain-dead knock-off trend-plebs stayed indoors, or at least out of the beam of my headlights. If I accidentally run over a dog or a cat, that would be a shame and a pity, if I ran over a ‘party animal’ it would be a nuisance. I want to get home and into the warm as quickly as is safely possible, which is one reason why I am quite so much at odds with these people who insist on getting all dressed up and going out. I also have a quarrel with the phrase ‘getting all dressed up’, because the actual process is less about putting clothes on, and more about seeing how little it is possible to wear and not be arrested and/or die from hypothermia.
As much as vacuous near-nudity both distracts and frustrates me, pride of place goes to one particular bell-end who managed to dispossess me of any nostalgia and longing I may have felt for Uni just by walking down a street. The fellow in question was weaving foolishly between the other users of the pavement, holding his hand on his forehead as though it was some sort of fin, and pulling an ‘amusing’ face. It was not this negligibly annoying behaviour that fired a nuclear dart of fury deep into my brain and withered my soul, rather it was his chosen garments. Or more specifically, the ‘hilarious’ words writ upon it. Now I would argue that a rugby shirt should be worn on a night out on only 3 occasions: 1) fancy dress, 2) St David’s Day or 3) when the rugby is on. Now having noted that no one else was in fancy dress I could guess that this fellow was a bell-end. The final nail in his coffin, the coffin of my judgemental prejudice to be exact, came as I read the words on his back and realised he must be what people refer to as a ‘character’. Emblazoned upon his shoulders was the moniker ‘Captain Poon’.
He may as well have been carrying a sign which said “You are not going to enjoy my company”.
Luckily for the both of us, our brief liaison was merely a glance from a passing car, as just as he would have very little of value to add to my existence, I hardly think my clever dickery would be amusing to him, and I have no intention of debasing myself to amuse students.
At least, not now that I am no longer one myself.
Ah, hubris.
Thursday, 30 July 2009
Spamphlets
Having lived for three years as a student I am now suffering an unpleasant multifaceted comedown. When the end of University was nearing I was filled with eagerness and a sense of pending elation as of a wearied grizzly at the approach of hibernation. Now, filled with the knowledge that there are no employment opportunities to be had and peering nervously into the unremitting veldt of time, I am lost as to how to fill my days, or more importantly perhaps, how to fill my days constructively, preferably in a way which will bear the fruit of financial income.
A couple of notes, here, about the last paragraph. My mind is clearly malfunctioning as I was unable to summon the word “hibernation” to my mind, spending about a minute staring blankly at the screen cupping my ears, I then typed ‘bear’ and ‘winter’ into Google, which had the word in the sample of the first hit. This is either an example of internet-savvy lateral thinking or yet another step for humanity on the slippery (and lazy) slope to utter vegetation. Also, I chose to use ‘grizzly’ in that comparison as I deemed other hibernating animals too feminine. In the animal kingdom, only the bear reaches the required standard of masculinity in order to be used in a comparative way to me. Ironically, the term ‘bear’ also has another meaning, which, while not undermining the masculine nature of the comparison, certainly suggests other, unfounded, reasons for me choosing that particular animal. Though I am indeed a large, hirsute gentleman.
I am yet to come to a conclusion on how to make money from nothing, and there is no lead available to turn my hand to alchemy, and so the only options available to me this night are either to eat or lose my mind to an internet site. Having exhausted my tolerance of other websites I have decided to, instead, to have an outpouring of premature nostalgia, in what people are never going to call ‘electronic reminiscing’. I am mostly proud that I have constructed a sentence containing both the term ‘outpouring’ and ‘premature’ without being vulgar or base, although I have now done that to some extent by alluding to the possible double entendre that could be taken from that sentence. If you are a childish sod. Which you are, clearly. No, not you.
Whilst I was still in my halcyon days as a student (roughly 3 months ago) I had noticed that if you lived in rented accommodation you would often receive a huge amount of post. There were two types of post usually; letters for other people and rubbish you don’t want. Now you would think that I would not be interested in either of these types of mail, well, you are mostly right, but also, to a smaller extent, wrong.
My favourite type of mail is letters for people who used to live in the house. This is because I am slightly anal and enjoy putting these away in a box for safekeeping should the people ever come back to the house to collect them, which they don’t. It was only in the brittle and shimmering final days of my studentship that I struck upon a brilliant idea. I delved into my memory bank in order to procure for myself a name that had often come posted through the door. I then typed it into Facebook. To my surprise, delight and nausea, he/she came up (not a hermaphrodite I am merely anonymising the person)(anonymising isn’t accepted on Word as a real word, though maybe it is an attempt to make the word more anonymous). It quickly became clear that this was definitely the correct person, due to them having affiliations with the University I was attending. I had the nagging feeling that I was undertaking behaviour of a creepy sort, especially after typing the fifth name. It is perhaps fortuitous then that the majority of ex-housemates had set their profiles to private, though mayhap less fortuitous for the housemates who hadn't. I didn’t do anything horrible, nor did I get in touch, though it is good to know that the people who’d lived in the house previously were both better qualified than me and married with children. It is good to know that the house has a strong pedigree that I can follow in the footsteps of. The ease with which I had discovered them was actually a bit frightening, and certainly spells the end of days for James Bond films. Sorry, 007. I also briefly considered a Dave Gorman style challenge of meeting everyone with un-reclaimed mail in the house and delivering it to them, although whether giving unwanted and out-of-date spam (mail not meat) to strangers would be difficult to beat into a coherent and ultimately uplifting narrative. Still, if you do undertake such a challenge and receive any sort of acclaim for it, I would like to be duly accredited, thank you.
I also enjoyed the spam and pamphlets, or spamphlets, that were addressed to me. It was in this period of my life that I discovered there were three things advertised in pamphlets; pizza, kebab and god. Now these three things fall on a sliding scale of enjoyment for me, I really enjoy a pizza, and if you offered me a kebab I would have to vehemently turn it down, whilst screaming “My body is not a temple but I would rather anal beads than kebab”. And god is even worse than that. The main difference between these three things is that when you eat a pizza it eventually becomes shit, kebab probably has shit in it, while god is complete and utter shit.
I have, however, discovered that there are more kinds of spamphlet than this. Having moved from a student town to a smaller, approaching rural, town the spamphlets which you receive are 1) fewer and, 2) less food-orientated. The three new types of spamphlets available to homeowners in towns are for: charity, fetes and racism. There’s a sliding scale here as well, with charity being good, fetes looking promising but being ultimately disappointing when you walk home with no money and a flyaway football, and racism being bad. There are also catalogues and god being advertised in these towns, but they have the nerve to knock on your actual door, on the actual front of your house, where you live, and talk to you about things (shopping and god, mainly). I had to turn a Jehova’s Witness lady away because she didn’t have an interesting hat on, I said “Madam, if you wish to waste my time with your fanciful fripperies I suggest you at least make purchase of arresting headwear”. I, of course, said no such thing, and I took a sample of her magazine in order to read it and make fun of it in public.
So I’m sure there’s something constructive for door-to-door bastards to take away from this; if you want to talk to me, bring a trilby.Tuesday, 12 May 2009
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
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:
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.
Wednesday, 25 March 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, 24 March 2009
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.
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.
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