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"The Best Education in the World" 4,900 words
FBSR offered
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An article about a two-year encounter with
contemporary British higher education, by a
recent graduate of Middlesex University.
It paints a picture of the overworked,
demoralized state of academia, the long term
effects of the devaluation of degree courses due
to the privatization of national assets for
political short term gain, and the criminal mis-
management of original talent, all of which have
dire consequences for the future.
Also suggested is a deep nihilism which has
given rise to the above problems, and which
globally effects the last decades of the
twentieth century -- a historical consequence of
cultural reverberations induced by the decline
of the British Empire...
The Best Education in the World
-------------------------------
by Sandy Anderson
Hampstead, London
Tuesday 3 June 1997
Three years ago, I applied to complete my BSc in Computer Science at
Middlesex University. To my amazement, opening their reply letter, it
was not another rejection, but an invitation to have a preliminary
interview. The Computer Science department was up in Bounds Green,
North London, right next to the North Circular. I'd seen the building
before and remembered the days when I visited it when it was a true
polytechnic, at the start of the eighties. I used to work as a
programmer in nearby Southgate.
I arrived outside of Administrative Reception and, looking up around
me, remembered the resonant architecture of the place. With the piping,
ducting, and steel girders all exposed, it looked like the interior of a
brightly painted factory. My interview was during the holidays and
there were just a few people ambling purposefully down corridors and
across metal walkways crisscrossing the long central mall. Behind
Reception's glass enclosed alcove, I took a seat and waited around with
a dozen other would-be students. My interviewer strode up to me and as
I stood up, he was shaking my arm with both hands. He was a wonderful
15 minutes late. It seemed to go with the architecture.
Here was Dr. Antony Ayoola, an English-educated Nigerian in a
youngish middle age. He took Computer Graphics. He was a dignified,
well-rounded personality, easy and approachable. He had a wry laid-back
sparkle in his eyes and warmed to my affability and enthusiasm, but
warned me to keep an eye on it. I didn't pay much attention to this,
although it had been my downfall at my last polytechnic, three years
previously. And anyway, I'd been hearing this all my life. Little did
I know at the time, but he already sensed what was in store for me.
Winding through the factory-like corridors, the exuberantly chaotic open
plan machine shops, coming down one of the metal stairways, he asked me
what I thought of the place, and I said I liked it and that it had an
atmosphere like working backstage in a theatre. Amazingly, as we
arrived at the bottom of the clanking staircase, I knew he knew exactly
what I meant.
"Yes, well, term hasn't started yet, Sandy."
With a wry smile he said goodbye to me, mentioning leisurely that
they'd be writing about the formal interview quite soon.
The most exciting and educational day at Middlesex University was
the very first. It was in the week previous to teaching for the benefit
of all the new students. We were all going to get to know one another.
I remember we were in groups of fifteen or so. And we first met by
collecting around canteen tables with our staff leader. Ours was a
stocky northerner who'd obviously once come from an industry background.
He was sporting a white plastic lapel badge on his jacket. He was
quietly as bemused by the situation as we were, but he kept a straight
face. His label said in large blue felt-tip, "ERIC".
There was a small pile of these white lapel badges in the centre of
the table, several pens, and a thin sheaf of what turned out to be the
"Working Together" instructions. Now, if we'd been lucky enough to
recognize anyone from the long interminable enrollment queues the hour
previous, well we'd now be found chatting at that table like the best of
friends. I looked at this scenario repeating itself all around the
canteen; everyone exuding a kind of Breakfast Television chewing gum
friendliness, as if they'd done this many times. Deep down I knew there
would be trouble ahead.
On the cue of the Northerner Eric, who started us off by announcing
he was Eric, and this was his label, we each in turn had to put down our
polystyrene coffee cup and introduce ourselves as in the best
California-style group therapy. Eric's eyes watched bemused, as he saw
this dictate from management being executed in front of him.
Then I found myself having to write my name onto a little
rectangular strip of white card. Beyond the first two letters, my hand
just stopped writing. I put the pen down. My label said "Sa~". There
was no point pretending to myself -- some archangel had decided for me
-- and the only way through was going to be being myself. As the groups
adjourned, ours being told to meet after lunch in room G103, and feeling
all the weight of the years to come, I was silently screaming to myself:
"Oh, shii..iit!!!"
After the lunch break, in an odd-angled room in the corner of the
building, we collected in silence, tentative, all still chewing gum.
Illuminated by strip-lighting at the front of the classroom, on an
otherwise clean blackboard, it said in a small straight line, "x = Drop
You Dead Mr. Del Borgo". There was a huge flourish of an underline
underneath it. Chewing gum, smiling occasionally, and every so often
re-slouching our arms and legs, we waited for Eric and the start of
"Working Together".
Twenty minutes later he burst in and briefly apologized about the
computer timetable system breaking down, and he'd have to make this
short. We were to design a "sculpture" with any materials that were
around, using our initiative, discretion, creative whatnots, and
obtaining any permissions whenever necessary, that would embody what we
felt Middlesex University would be like to study in. We had until
lunchtime the next day to prepare our entry for the competition. The
dean of the science and engineering building would be awarding the
prizes in the mall after the exhibition that next afternoon.
Eric summed up and apologized for immediately having to leave us
again. The computer timetable schedule for the entire university --
which was his responsibility -- had malfunctioned the week previously,
and he made a joke for us about it being just as difficult and
unsettling for the staff at the start of a year. He left.
There was an unquiet silence. All realizing that we would for the
first time have to pay attention to these people around us, and have to
cooperate. The silence grew stronger as we listened to the scraping and
shuffling of tables in adjoining rooms. Mercifully, after an
interminable period of everyone being "cool", two Taiwanese girls broke
off a whispered conversation and turned to the room.
"What we do now, prease?"
At last we were able to launch ourselves into dynamic enthusiasm,
like the rest of the college.
. . . . .
It took the entire first term at the college for me to realize just how
different from the truth was my first impression, when being shown
around the place, strolling with Dr. Ayoola.
I discovered about two weeks into the course, that I was on the
wrong degree programme entirely. I was enrolled on a set course, but my
previous stint at another poly required that I do a modular degree. It
was here when I first, unequivocally slammed up against the colossal
wall of inertia. During the next four weeks, I was sent from one
person, one department, to the next, constantly being told of short-
circuits that would send me back to where I just came from. I got used
to walking down strange corridors, trying to talk to people's backs, and
then having to half-enter a doorway to hold a parrying conversation.
And got used to waiting around whole mornings and afternoons for the
next person in the chain. This waiting was extremely unpleasant as
people ignored me utterly, resenting the implication of my being. I
simply was not there. People would casually assume a relaxed cross-
legged stance to demonstrate this. And I also came to despise the
people who would switch on an electric fence of a smile and ask
beguilingly, "Can I help you?".
Worse was to meet someone who really could solve a sub-problem. It
would take days of being sent to see other people before they had no
excuse but to see me, and solve the sub-problem. When people asked why
I had been sent to the wrong person yet again, I began to give the
reply, "It's like Kafka's 'The Trial'."
No one knew where anyone was, or where their timetable could be
found. Departmental secretaries did not seem to exist -- I was never
sure which department I was talking to, and had the ever-present feeling
that people were just plain lying.
In the end, four weeks -- one month -- went by without me attending
any lectures at all. Finally, on a Friday I remember, I really lost my
temper with ... someone. This got me the reputation hereafter of being
a "nutter". But miraculously, this immediately sorted out the
administrative hiccup that afternoon. I then found myself spending
another two weeks ensuring I was on all the right modular degree courses
and that I had definitely officially been enrolled. Because of all my
to-ing and fro-ing, I got to know a lot of the academic staff in that
first term, and they were all lenient when making allowances for
starting into the lectures eight weeks after the start of term. But
then, to compound my silent horror, I discovered I had not really missed
anything at all.
The lectures, tutorials, workshops and whatever else, were without
exception, each a relentlessly arid process. In lectures, students
would meticulously copy the notes displayed by overhead projector. One
page slowly turned into another. And while the students were busy
writing down the notes, with occasional glances up at the screen, the
lecturer paraphrased and often just carefully repeated what was on the
screen. Ending his sentences with an occasional, "Mmm-OK?" he would
wait for his audience before moving on to the next set of sentences.
Occasionally, someone would punctuate the monotony by asking a question.
"Could you rewind the overhead a bit, please? We've missed the
top."
I kid you not.
And then I would boil with silent anger during interesting topics,
trying my best not to become engaged, knowing that to reveal knowledge
of, or an interest in the subject would be to invite a cold defensive
hostility from the lecturer and insidious sarcasm from the students.
There was an unspoken force in the university to never be seen
trying, never to be seen getting excited by anything other than the twin
idols, Sex and Money. And during the revision for exams I saw at first
hand that there was an active force of evil to not understand, even if
it meant failing.
In the run-up to my very last round of exams, trying to understand
Digital Neural Networks, it dawned on me that my revision group first
had to understand binary arithmetic. So, for the first time all
directly grasping that binary arithmetic really was at the bottom of
Digital Neural Nets, and all sensing that they'd collectively intuited
this independent of any lecture notes, the group grew suddenly nervous,
shrinking back from the abyss and eventually resorted to physically
dissipating for coffee, Coca-Cola, the toilet; anything that came to
mind. A tiny piece of learning had taken place, you see.
Understanding means communication. And escaping communication was
what lay behind absolutely everything. All the cross-legged gum-
chewing, deceitful smiles behind dark glasses, the ceaseless posing and
posturing, the talk that inevitably further obscured instead of
clarifying. The conformity was total. Everyone acted as if their life
was being recorded on video. You would see them chuckling, chewing gum,
in cross-legged stances at bus stops. They wanted to make it seem as if
they were living Pepsi-Max commercials.
There were two things these hordes of the living dead feared. One
was children under the age of five -- of whatever colour -- immune to
the electric fences. They'd occasionally be left by their parents,
who'd be talking somewhere in the mall, and naturally wander up and test
everyone's defences. The other, ever-present, was me.
I would have entire conversations using the phrases "What's your
problem?", "Take it easy", "Don't worry", and "It's OK". These were,
to the Gods, genuinely hilarious and would provoke rising waves of
defensive cackling which I would try to gently amplify to the max, man.
These scenes could sometimes last, to the humourless consternation of
everyone in the room, up to an electrifying twenty minutes. Towards the
end of successful missions, the insanity in the room would reach Marx
Brothers proportions. At those moments, a large shire carthorse rearing
up and neighing through the room would not have been out of place.
"Remember the Age of Gold?" I might say, as someone's coffee cup was
dropping to the floor. Their only defense was a retreat to the
staunchest inertia, no matter what it cost them.
Those two years at college were a continuous dodging around assorted
windup clockwork mechanisms that would all reliably emit the "WHAT-IS-
YOUR-PROBLEM?" response when bumped into. Answering back, "Your
question" prompts another round of meaningless Dalek responses. Or
another variation to ease the boredom, looking at my wristwatch, might
be "I'm not sure, I haven't got a watch." and so on. And how do you
recognize a Dalek? You kick them up the ass as hard as you like, and
they say, "It's OK. Take it easy." Along with attending droning
lectures and seminars, I would thus get through each day. Yes, indeedy.
Here were the fruits of the hollow promise of power through self-
knowledge: the exterminating self-absorption that had soured the
sixties, lay dormant in the backwash of the seventies, emerged more
virulent in the eighties until manifesting the full blown disease of the
nineties. Even as the globe's climate squirms, and the seas rise once
more.
University lecturers were now a completely demoralized and harried
lot. Higher education had systematically been broken down for the past
twenty years -- a vital part of the national asset-stripping operation.
By now they had found themselves each having to do the work of five or
six people and had had to adjust their outlook accordingly. They did
not feel that education was a real profession. Unfortunately, there
are no mental hospitals for entire countries: the university had once
been a healthy Polytechnic; those unique places where people learnt
through cooperative experience. The absolute backbone of technological
industries. As part of the long historical process of the nation's
asset-stripping, all the Polytechnics had recently been dressed up as
universities, complete with new names, and fancy prospectuses, and no
doubt all flying those tell-tale flags of infection known as a "charter
of service". A land fit for Chinese investment.
Middlesex "University" now found itself in the business of competing
with all the other "universities" for income. Politics aside, education
will always be more than a commodity, so it had tremendous cash-flow
problems which were most easily handled by regulating the influx of
thousands of first-year students, and then having to fail huge swathes
of the damn things a year or so later. We're dealing with people's
lives here, and the life of an industrial nation: the lucrative markets
were overseas, and Middlesex University (I'm not sure whether it's a PLC
or a limited company -- no, it can't be floating on the stock exchange,
so it's a limited company) fought vigorously to outsell its degrees,
attempting to undercut Southampton and the like, to places like Athens
in Greece, Kuala Lumpur in Malaysia, Hong Kong, Africa, and anywhere and
everywhere else it could still ply its trade. The mass-marketed bulk
selling of degrees by British "universities" -- the best education in
the world -- has produced a situation analogous to the insane inflation
during the short brutish existence of the Weimar Republic. A degree now
from these places, and also, in case you're getting smug, Oxford or
Cambridge, is almost as worthless as a wheelbarrowful of Weimar
Reichmarks.
I have seen complete idiots, from whom you wouldn't buy a used car,
let alone a personal computer, with Nigerian, Greek, Chinese, or English
accents, who couldn't program a toilet to flush, obtaining a first-class
honours degree in Computer Science, which was my subject. After three
years they have the degree, but they still cannot program. They have
passed electronics, but do not understand the simplest circuit diagram
outside of the carefully crafted lectures. They have supposedly learnt
how to use the Laplace transform (a mathematical technique ubiquitous in
engineering), but cannot rearrange f = ma in terms of 'a' without pencil
and paper!! They know nothing. They have systematically copied,
cheated, parrot-learnt, lied, paid for, forged and damned themselves all
the way through their honours degree courses in complete collusion with
today's higher education systems. "University" is, for me, now a
meaningless word. And of course, you're treated as slightly sick if you
do not do all this. This corrosive attitude runs throughout the student
body, and all of the staff. It is simply part of the stagnating
atmosphere, and goes hand in hand with "What's your problem?"
The dreadful insane consequence is that those students who are
cursed with talent must perforce censor their originality and
creativity. The alternative is ostracism, depression, failure, nervous
breakdown, or worse. There was one brilliant student who, thanks to
this fucking system, was never allowed to become aware of his phenomenal
mathematical ability. His stunning project work was quietly either
unrecognized or more likely, unconsciously _not_ recognized. He scared
the shit out of every academic member of staff he encountered, but they
would never acknowledge this to themselves, least of all to him. He was
Nigerian born. No one knew how good he was, not even himself.
A sign of his genius is that right at the very end of his degree
study, after seven years of trying and retrying, with only two
pathetically easy, so-called "advanced" third-year assignments to hand
in, he got too depressed and just didn't turn up anymore. The
university, his lecturers, his "tutor" did not notice, and to say that
they couldn't give a shit would be to anthropomorphize a burnt-out shell
of a system.
Why would he get depressed?
I'll try and spell it out. I myself had a titanic struggle to hand
in my own final year project based on the new Java Internet programming
language that you may have recently heard about:
http://www.alma-services.abel.co.uk/jam/Project/jam_000.shtml
You see, a final year project is -- historically -- meant to be an
original piece of creative work, but is now done merely as an arid
finale for today's higher education systems. There's the rub.
At the end of my tether one night, towards the end of my titanic
struggle, I rang him up for support, expecting him to have finished six
months previously, and to give me the lowdown on which poodle hoops I
really had to jump through, and which ones I didn't have to bother with.
He was the one person who really did know about programming problems
and -- even though he didn't know Java -- could be relied upon to come
back with answers and workarounds that weren't just bullshit waffle.
Polytechnos.
Unfortunately, you see, there was no one in the university at the
time, neither staff nor student, who knew Java to the extent of talking
shop. And I had to tread very lightly with people who were unwise
enough to say they did. Here's an unambiguous glimpse into the nature
of my titanic struggle, towards the end of my degree. Daleks in action,
just after my last exam:
I'm by the tables in the mall, outside the bar, waiting for someone
else to finish their exam, and return a German dictionary of mine. I'm
sitting there, and I can't help overhearing a couple just next to me,
chatting. We're the only people around.
I catch the phrase "He's the one who knows Java."
I turn around, interrupting their life's video, and ask this guy who
this is, as I know Java too.
"Mind you're own business," he says.
I really wanted to find out who the hell this other Java person in
Middlesex University was, so I explain that I'm very interested in Java,
and doing a project in it.
"Please, tell me who this person is. I'd like to meet them!"
There's a silence.
"Someone I know." is all he would say.
I notice he's reading a book on HTML (Hypertext Markup Language).
"Is that a book on HTML?"
His hand comes up to rest on the book.
"Yes, actually. What's your problem?"
It is seven hundred pages long, three inches thick and has "HTML"
emblazoned in idiot red across the front cover. One might best find a
use for it in distracting a snarling pit-bull, or maybe to stun a stupid
Doberman. It is perfectly obvious that the poor idiot knows nothing
whatsoever about HTML. I can feel my lips beginning to quiver from yet
another confrontation. After a tense -- electric -- silence of some
three or four minutes the couple, noses in the air, nonchalantly get up
and leave. As I watch them walk off down the mall pretending they're on
the beach at Ipanema, it dawns on me that when I had overheard the
phrase "He's the one who knows Java", they were in fact talking about
me.
...And since all the students I came across were like this, no one
-- in their right mind -- would describe them as all clinically ill,
except with hindsight. I do so now.
Anyway, I was saying that I rang up my friend, hoping for support
and encouragement. Instead, I found that this genius had himself just
quietly packed it all in, or so he thought, and had been idling in a
state of quiet depression in his flat in depressing Ilford, in the
clapped out East End of London. Essex. Another statistic in the
government employment figures...
...He has since gone on, with my encouragement, to hand in his
assignments and project, five days extra work, and obtained -- wait for
it -- a measly third-class degree. Yet this black man is one of the
very few people who _can_ program to save his life, and often does not
use Laplace when he's already seen a trivially easy solution.
Listen up.
I am not going to waste any more columns entertaining you with
further "Sunday morning" breakfast vignettes. You cannot avoid
recognizing everything I'm saying. Just look out the window. This
situation is not insane. This situation is criminal.
Educare, to draw out. I have been a staunch supporter of the
Conservatives ever since I could vote. However, it has become
increasingly apparent to everyone that their agenda is just a masquerade
that only serves to further themselves and their ilk. At the cost of a
whole nation. The time is now, mateys, for us to finally awaken from
this catatonic mourning over any past greatness. This has nothing to do
with New Labour. We must take over the helm of this small offshore
European island, and so assume a twenty-first century stewardship of the
islands that truly befits our place in the modern geography of the world
-- luckily, we do not have the same arrogance as the French. If we do
not do this, you and I know we will sink without trace, oil fields,
ravens and all.
In other words, WAKE UP!!!
Sandy Anderson
Tue 3-Jun-97, Hampstead
http://www.alma-services.abel.co.uk/jam/Project/Education000.html