In Defence of University

Today a survey was released about what students think of their university course.

Predictably, the conclusions were different depending on where you looked. While The Metro headline was all "No, they hate it, sod off and leave me to cry in my shared room", the Beeb's students gave a satisfied smile.

From this we can firstly conclude that the British media is like a confused, slightly mental uncle, and secondly that university isn't for everyone. Big shock there then. But it reminded me of a thought I've had a lot recently about what being a student is actually all about.

After the tuition fee debacle, which for the non-Brits basically consisted of our Government saying "Hey, Uni! Yeah, you there - listen up! You can now charge people £9,000 to get a degree! But don't worry, students. They won't." (they did), Britain's universities have rightly got a lot of bad press.

Most of the talk has centred around whether a degree is worth the £9,000 (or, err £60,000) you might end up paying for it. Whether you're a righty, lefty or couldn't careless-ly, the truth is this: if the value you place on your degree ends with the bit of paper you get at the end, the answer is probably no. It's not worth it. Unless your career choice depends on having a particular qualification, go do something else. Work experience (a couple of weeks at a time). An internship (paid). Specialised college course. Circus training. Whatever.

But since when has university been solely about the degree? My parents might disagree, but for me, getting an English BA and Masters was about indulging a love of books and getting out of my London-born mindset, where a sweaty warehouse in Kings Cross heaving with drum 'n' bass heads was the pinnacle of my social scene. It was about exchanging a comfortable, tidy life with parents for unruly accommodation shared with 30 others, where games of "bin Jenga" replaced a cleaning rota. It was about standing, swaying, and dancing drunk in a student union up North, on my own two feet. Then getting a piggy-back home.

The degree itself hasn't come up in any job interviews thus far, but those four years probably got me through the Company's door. Uni gave me an in depth knowledge of films and books I probably wouldn't have watched or read. It made Fargo one of my favourite films as opposed to, I don't know, The Shawshank flippin' cliche. It made me proof read until my eyes hurt and string together big words and ideas I'd only fleetingly remember again. And importantly, it made me a shoe-in for the Shakespeare questions in a pub quiz.

Best of all, it gave me a solid group of now London-based friends, two soon-to-be Housemates, an Ex Boyfriend, more tactical vomits than I care to remember, and an ability to slalom down a dry ski slope in 30 seconds.

My student debt wouldn't scratch the surface of what they're facing now. There's no denying it; uni is more expensive than it's ever been. But as far as I know, no one I graduated with is complaining (too loudly) about the cost now it's over with.

The experience was all.

And it seems that, through all the analysis and news articles, this little detail is always the bit that gets lost.

Not Over

I've been up north in Hull - a place I spent four happy years at university and, if the basslines on the lowered Vauxhall Corsas flying up the road are to be trusted, a place where the delinquents still embrace happy hardcore as their road-thumping music of choice.

Most of my conversations this week have been with dogs and / or children under 10, work from The Writer has been non existent, so my brain has been lapsing into one which listens to outraged villagers calling into Radio 2 and nods in agreement with their views on the plight of the Post Office. Ahh, I'm living the quiet Yorkshire village life. The dogs aren't like mine, these ones poo on the pavement and after seven days of walks, I now pick it up without a cringe. I maintain there is probably nothing more attractive than the sight of a young girl walking along the road nonchalantly swinging a bag of canine excrement in her left hand.

And I've been thinking. Thinking a lot. Alone time in the place where I spent the best four years of my life means a lot of reminiscing and feeling, well, a bit sad. Every road reminds me of him. Every place, shop, house, pub, bar, crack in the pavement or lampost around here links to him in some obscure way; whether it was the location of a particularly epic drunken argument ("YOU BASTAAAAAARD!") or the grubby student rooms where we lay in bed all day watching Family Guy.

It's official: two polar opposites, Hull, the UK's worst town (2003) and Love, the UK's biggest killer - are no longer mutually exclusive. This week, driving through the main student area where we'd both lived, the emotion suddenly hit me like a slap on the proverbial. Before I knew it I was blubbing away to the sounds of my old iPod and a playlist I'd called simply "Hull". Screaming chavs and car chase noises didn't feature, but the tears were slightly increased by the sight of a young girl throwing her empty crisp wrapper out of the bus window next to me.

Despite my best efforts (and truly, they have been mammoth efforts on my part lately - busy isn't the word, I jet off for another adventure on Monday) - I miss him. I miss him, I miss him, I miss him. I think about him every sodding day. I miss him. There, I've said it. Admitted it. I. Miss. Him. Phew, that's a weight off my shoulders. I'm not supposed to say it out loud, you see. And it seems I'm not the only one:

"Why did you break up with ExBoyfrieeeeennd?" asked the ten year old I was babysitting for yesterday.
"She didn't break up with him, they broke up with each other" chipped in his younger sibling, aged seven.
"Oh. I liked him" continued her brother, "He was cool."

Eyebrows raised in surprise at the exchange going on in front of me, there was only one thing for it. I needed a sure-fire distraction, and fast.

"Right. Who wants McDonalds?"

Cheap tactics, but it worked.

Crafty god squad

I'm not at all religious. I'll often thank god, but that's more likely to happen in Kurt Geiger upon finding out beautiful shoes are in my size than in a church on a Sunday. Not that many Christians seem to venture into a church these days anyway. Most of my mates declare their allegiance to the lord having once screamed a church down while having their head dipped into a bird bath as a nipper, but ask them when they last went round his house for a drink and it's a different story. Oh, Christmas Eve eh? Midnight mass after the pub chucked out? Dedication to the cause, that.

So it's understandable that churches might be getting a bit crafty, luring people in with promises of amazing miracles and spiritual well being n all that. Gone are the days of sinister guilt trips and boring incentives. It's all a bit clever now. These days, the church is all about raising a smile and getting all down with the kids.

Or at least our local church in Hull was. They weren't down with the "Jesus Loves You" shiz, no no. They wanted the students to giggle their way through those big wooden doors. So they got their thinking caps on and caught our attention. They'd always use a bit of word play, a pun or two. Sometimes just a question to tickle the drunken insensibility's of students. This photo was on my computer from 2006, entitled "Yes we have!!.jpg" and was taken at around 02:30am on the way back from another successful night at the students' union:



Then a few weeks ago, I returned to my uni town to visit friends and was immensely pleased to discover that 3 years on, and the church is still keeping up its cheerful little marketing campaign. In fact, I'd even say it's upped the ante.



Next week, I'll be heading back up north and you bet I'll be looking to see what little nugget of churchy goodness the Trinity is offering up for drunken worship that week.

I do love a bit of nifty wordplay.

Enjoy le weekend all...

Cheap hotels and housesitting

After a pretty non-stop week, I've come to a halt. A lovely, quiet, sleepy, relaxing halt.

I was going to regale you with a drink-by-drink account of how hectic life has been since Friday, but we're all friends here so let's face it - you probably don't really care, and I can't be bothered to tell you. I can, however, recommend an Etap hotel for any group of 6 ex-university housemates looking for cheap, clean, city accommodation to supplement their night out in Leeds. I mean, don't take your girlfriend there or anything, but if your sole reason for going to a city is to meet 5 other girls and boys, dump your stuff, hit the town, eat, drink, be merry, get the £9 entry to a club reduced to £0, party on down, pull a hot 20 year old, leave at 3:30am, stumble back to the hotel, forget your room number, try your card in every door on the floor without any of their occupants shouting the odds at you for disturbing them - mostly because they're not in yet or are too inebriated to care - then jump on your two friends who got in earlier, climb into the bunk above and pass out until the hangover-friendly check out time of 12pm, this is the hotel for you.

I've now skipped east to Hull for a few days, where I'm staying in a family friend's empty house and have time to write, relax and eat the entire stash of Jacob's Club bars I've just found hidden in their kitchen.



Epic.

There's no A in team. Well, there is, but it's not the second letter.

Words are evading me this week.

All I want is to write one little article. A few hundred words of well thought out, interesting gumph that I can send off to a magazine which would settle my conscience and make me feel like I was actually doing something worth while with my free time. Unfortunately, my brain has other ideas.

I mean for gods sake, I can't even spell.

Last night I was round the Hoff's house with a few of our friends, one of whom is playing in a badminton tournament on Saturday. Three of us are going to watch and by way of support, had the bright idea of making ourselves highly embarrassing tshirts with TEAM [his surname] and then possibly something inappropriate yet witty underneath like 'LOVES THE (shuttle)COCK'.

Anyway so there we were, gold fabric paint at the ready, and I start work on the first word. TEAM. Spelt, last time I checked, T-E-A-M.

Reggie looked over. "Jo, what are you writing on yours? I thought you were writing TEAM?"
I was confused, what's this guy on? "I am writing TEAM, look!" I replied with furrowed brow.

All five of us looked. I was not writing TEAM.

"Not only is that definitely not TEAM, that is the widest bloody 'A' I've ever seen in my life. I thought you had an English degree?" laughed everyone including the neighbours and their dogs.
"Yep. And a masters."
"And a masters! Good work, English student"

After much discussion of what to do with the wayward 'TEAM', it was made into TAME. Which then became GAME. As in "Game, Roddick!". Then I drew a shuttlecock that was flying the wrong way.

At this point, I decided to share with the group about that time in second year at uni when I confidently assured my housemates during an episode of countdown that "Oh what! This should be easy, she's got practically all 24 letters of the alphabet up there"

The reply came quickly. "Jo, there's 26 letters in the alphabet"

Maybe I should re-evaluate my career prospects, as clearly things haven't changed.