The Letters of Destiny

Actually, most of you A-level students don't get letters, do you? You go into school on the offchance there's a Mail or Telegraph photographer hunting for pretty blondes to photograph. They give you young people a day's grace before the columnists put the boot in by declaring that exams are 'dumbed down'. It seems rather unfair, but that's the media - it both has cake and gorges on it.

All very different to my A-level results day. Having spent the final years of my schooling at an unpleasant and academically awful monastery boarding school, and been pretty lazy, I didn't greet the morn with any enthusiasm at all. I phoned up for the results and got the headmaster, a vicious bully whose subsequent death is the only one I've ever actually celebrated. As expected, a good result in English, an OK one in French (would have been better if I'd managed to pay attention to the exam requirements and answered questions in each section) and a poor one in Latin. I'd never wanted to take it, but I was the last person in the school and moral pressure was put on me. Between hating the subject and a nice but useless teacher, even being the only person in the class didn't help.

Not a problem though - I had an escape route planned: I'd passed a competitive audition (despite a forcible haircut while being held down by prefects the day before) to get on to Trinity College Dublin's prestigious Drama and Theatre Course. 400 applicants, 8 places. God alone knows why I - or they - thought I was competent or cut out for a career on stage, but there we are. Sadly, not to be: when the parents caught wind of the lack of 'serious' study on the course (i.e. nothing they could willingly acknowledge in polite company), that was the end of it - and funding for an Irish course would have entirely dependent on their generosity (not a notable feature of family life thus far).

So off I went to Clearing. I spoke to a very kindly Scots gent at Bangor University who didn't seem to care two hoots that I couldn't string a sentence together in Latin, and the offer was made. I'd never heard of Bangor before and - this being Pre-Internet - had no resources with which to familiarise myself. All I knew was that it was far enough away from home and school to be ideal. So I turned up in late September to find myself in a veritable Paradise: sea, mountains, an instant community (of other Clearing flotsam) many of whom are still very close friends, a wonderful course, exposure to a new language, a student newspaper to write for, demonstrations to attend, as many books as I could stuff through my eyes, the world's greatest record shop (Cob, sadly recently closed due to my departure) and above all, not a single person I'd ever met before. I was free. Free to reinvent myself: new clothes, new hair, new tastes, new friends, new attitudes, new politics (well, more applied versions of the public-school Marxism I'd acquired), new foods, new ideas. I joined multiple clubs and societies and wildly plumped for courses I'd never suspected existed - particularly Philosophy, which changed my life.

Kids: it was wonderful. It never felt like I ever did any work, because it was all such fun. Away from the predictions and low expectations of family and school, I was liberated, and I blossomed in a quiet, shy kind of way. Prizes, first-class degree (actually, I expected a 2.2 and dreaded a 3rd) and postgraduate study.

Things have changed since 1993. New students are burdened with massive debts, and often can't afford to leave home for university. HE has become a tool for career development, which is sad in many ways: I didn't give a moment's thought to the future until I graduated, and benefitted from such carelessness, because I could follow my heart to some extent. It's changed in other ways too: my students have to work much harder than I ever had to. All I had to do was inhale some books and pass exams at the end of the year. Only the 3rd year exams counted other than one at the end of 2nd year. No dissertations, no modules, no credits building up. So in many ways, if you come to The Hegemon and suffer my teaching, you're way ahead of me: you'll be forced to pay attention right from the start, to take everything seriously. In other ways, you'll lose out: it's harder to take risks when your degree and your future depends on every single grade. But don't let that stop you: my colleagues are all great and you can get round me easily enough.

Without Clearing, I'd never have arrived here in the Dark Place, working at the Hegemon. What greater reward could there possibly be?

A-levels: the horror…

Results tomorrow (and Leaving Cert if you're in Ireland). I can't say I remember much about that day, other than the overwhelming senses of firstly, depressingly low expectations. My headmaster's reference on the UCAS/PCAS forms was 'does not deserve a place at any university - thanks to the very kind man at Derby University who told me I didn't really seem to fit the description, and let me read it.

After the miserable anticipation came the phone call, and the dreadful dawning of reality. I knew I'd do well at English. I knew I should do well at French but would drop some grades thanks to stupidly answering 3 questions from the same section rather than two from one and one from the other. Can't complain. It was dumb. I fully expected to fail Latin because a) I didn't know any and b) nobody listened to me when I told them I didn't know any. Oh and c) I didn't want to do it and was made to because there was only me and the teacher was in a wheelchair. I didn't quite fail but nor was I acclaimed Emperor.

So, there it was. I'd already been banned by the parents from taking the Drama and Theatre degree I'd auditioned for at Trinity Dublin, so it was into Clearing. If you're reading this, kids: Clearing is your friend. I ended up at a brilliant university, and turned from a lazy failure to a lazy success. It certainly wasn't my doing, so all credit to Bangor University for taking a chance on an unknown kid.

In a few weeks, you won't care about your grades. Once you're in, you can change from the course you chose under parental pressure or because that was all that was available in Clearing. You're free. You might not end up where all your friends are, but these random and unexpected turns are where all the fun is. You'll make new friends, try courses which never occurred to you. New hair, new clothes, entirely new background if that's what suits you. I turned up with tapes of Automatic For The People and The Lark Ascending. I left with hundreds of books and records, and even some friends (not forgetting the massive debts). Who'd have thunk it?

Of course, you shouldn't just take my advice. If you're a spoiled airhead, then listen to Rosie Millard at the Daily Telegraph (thanks, Nicola):

Freshers should take a tip from boarding school veterans, and pack a large trunk with all the nick-nacks and antiques that make their rooms feel special.

Yes, I took along the cannon my great-great-grandfather used to singlehandedly annex the Limpopo. And a stuffed Dodo. Mumsie was so pleased.

Pack that lovely Mexican throw, the baseball glove from your summer in America and the cushions from Bulgaria. They will make your room look different, and encourage conversation on something you know about. 

These conversations will take place later on, when you're not there. They will largely revolve around the proposal that you are without doubt a Massive Wanker.

Invest in some proper blankets or Egyptian cotton sheets from John Lewis. You could also check out linen in the Heal’s sale as it is usually available at a massive discount. While we’re on soft furnishings, a pair of decent curtains will brighten up your room and make it personal. Habitat or John Lewis have a ready-made selection.

Although soft furnishings from Tesco or TJ Hughes are so ironic, darlings.

A portable instrument such as a ukulele or guitar is a brilliant accessory. Particularly if you know how to play it, and have a selection of seductive Paul Simon numbers up your sleeve.

Ah yes, the guitars. There were occasional people who could produce an acoustic guitar at a party and judge the mood perfectly: communal singing, adoring looks, confident performances. Actually, there's one: my friend Matt, who spent his gap year touring with a band, and had 3 albums out before he ever went to a lecture. He can walk the walk. But on the whole, getting your guitar out is a tragic attempt to look sexy and soulful, and it's never improved by the fact that you only know one verse and one chorus of a very narrow range of boring 60s songs. If you could, for instance, do a madrigal version of a Slayer track, I'd say yes. If you can't, then you deserve a ruthless beating for your presumption. You are not a Musical Sex God. You are a David Brent wannabe.

I had the misfortune to attend a rural-ish university in the 90s. That meant that an outrageous proportion of the menfolk - often Southern, rich and privately-educated - thought that they could acquire dreadlocks and perform on the didgeridoo as though doing us all a favour. (Why were the women so much more sensible/mature/tasteful? These men were wrong. It is the devil's instrument. Every time I heard one, or smelt that mixture of sweat and bad weed which meant that a didge-toter was in the vicinity, I wanted to commit unspeakable acts of violence.

Looking back, I was right.

Where was I? Oh yes, Clearing. Grasp it. It could be the making of you. And if you're really unlucky, you might find me at the front of your first lecture. You'll recognise me by my hunted look and the desperation in my eyes.

No room at the inn

Sorry, enlightenment seekers: The Hegemon is full up, thanks to the sterling work of Zoot Horn on the switchboard. It really is a very strange year for university entrants.

The floodgates open

It's A-levels results day - and so for us at The Hegemon, it's Clearing day, when we scoop up all those unfortunate enough to have missed their predicted grades. This year, Zoot Horn is slaving over a hot phone - though it may be a quieter year than most as our numbers have been cut despite a massive upsurge of applicants.

The results show another rise in pass rates - up to 97.6, with more achieving higher grades, not that they'll be coming here. The newspapers, as predicted, will spend today and tomorrow printing pictures of posh teenage girls, while the comment pages will be filled with 'it's so dumbed-down, A-levels meant something in my day' pieces by upper-middle class privately educated people.

Frankly, I've no idea whether A-levels are easier or harder. I do know that they aren't very good preparation for university though - because teachers are having to produe statistical marvels, schools are teaching to the test, and so produce students utterly dependent on skeleton essays, model answers and the like: independent thinking and in many cases learning for pleasure are marginalised. The result is that quite a lot of people starting university aren't enthusiastic about the subject or equipped for the (theoretically) independent task of educating themselves. Instead, too many are dependent on lectures and reluctant to take risks, which is a shame. The hardest task for teachers of first-year students (sorry, now Level 4 for some reason) is to communicate a sense of the fun and wonder available for those who wander off the beaten track.

Anyway. Time for a flashback to Clearing Day 1993. I'm at home, staring at my A-levels results. I'm not exactly overjoyed, but not too surprised either. The family isn't too shocked, but that's because my headmaster and I agreed on just one thing: that I was rubbish and wouldn't do very well. I found this out when I was interviewed by a very kind man at Derby University. After a long chat about books lubricated by the gin and tonic my aunt had fed me at lunch beforehand, he said to me 'Well, we'll definitely offer you a place but I'm sure you'll get better grades than your head claims, and go somewhere else, and you're nothing like he says'. Emboldened, I asked what else the august clergyman had written: he'd basically claimed that I was a troublemaker who didn't deserve a place at any university. He was a notorious bully and I made a point of redoubling my efforts to annoy him for the rest of my time there. He's dead now, so I win.

So, it was back to school, where my teachers (a brilliant trio fo eccentrics) wrote to all the places to which I'd applied with an alternative reference. Then it was all down to me. Which is where the plan hit a slight snag, because basically I was a dumb-ass at this point, and a dumb-ass doing the wrong A-levels. English was fine - all I ever wanted to do was read books and talk about them, so that wasn't a problem.

French would be OK too. I'd taken it because at GCSE level, I was predicted a fail, so as a joke, I said 'If I get an A, I'll do it for A-level'. As intended, my teacher and the rest of the class fell about laughing. They weren't laughing when the A duly arrived. A-level French was brilliant - odd books, great films, good food and talk from my 60s survivor teacher. Unfortunately, I have a talent for self-destruction, and misunderstood the exam paper and dropped an entire grade by answering two questions from the same section rather than one from each. Like I say, dumb-ass.

The real problem was Latin. I'd transferred to this school fairly late, and parental interfering meant that I took Latin without any enthusiasm or knowledge. The teacher was a nice man, but didn't actually bother doing any, well, teaching. So I learned literally nothing: revision consisted of me trying to memorise the English translation and the first and last words of each paragraph in Latin in the hope that I could churn it out. Needless to say, it didn't work. Nor did my repeated attempts to tell people that I didn't know any Latin and really needed help.

So along came results day, and the scores were as I'd expected. A in English, no A in French thanks to my own stupidity, and an embarrassing Latin grade, upgraded on appeal to a merely 'awful'. There was a silver lining, however. The school and parents had insisted that I apply to a lot of places I didn't want to attend: Cambridge, Durham, St. Andrews: the first two had already thankfully told me to piss off, and I'd missed the grades for St. Andrews, which was and is a finishing school for the Conservative Party's young fogey golf-playing children.

I had one ace up my sleeve: I'd scraped through an audition for Trinity College Dublin's Drama and Theatre course, but for various complicated reasons that didn't come off either. So Clearing Day saw me sitting by the phone wondering what grades were needed for turf-cutting or postal worker. Then a softly spoken Scotsman called, from Bangor University. We discussed why I'd arsed things up so badly, chatted about books for a few minutes and the call ended with me assured of a place and full of affection for the Kindest Man In The World. Now all I had to do was work out where Bangor was.

Bangor suited me perfectly: the best of friends, a great quality of education, mountains, sea, a thriving students union, the best record shop ever, plenty of trouble to get involved in and everything worked out brilliantly, unless you blame them for my present location…

Clearing might be the making of you - a new path, unplanned and unexpected, leading to wonderful things.

Thursday's a big day

Not only are Australia going to retain the Ashes tomorrow, there will be other results to celebrate.

Yes, it's A-level results day for England and Wales (Scots do Highers at 17 years old). Cue the usual howling voices about dumbing down, and the inevitable Telegraph and Daily Mail pictures of attractive blonde schoolgirls celebrating. Apparently nobody else does well.

Are A-levels dumber than previously? They're certainly different, and they aren't as wide-ranging as the rather good International Baccalaureate, but I'm just not equipped to judge. I do, however, feel that we spend a lot of the first year encouraging independent thinking and trying to undo the psychological damage caused by the secondary system.

However, don't despair if you haven't achieved what you needed. I was rubbish in school, only doing well in the things I enjoyed, and even managed to misunderstand the instructions for one subject, resulting in a lower grade. My headmaster, a very unpleasant man, even used my university reference as an opportunity to recommend that I not be given a place at university.

So I ended up using the clearing system to find a place at Bangor University (then University College of North Wales) and it was the making of me. In between sport, writing for the union paper, boring people to tears on committees, making lifelong friends, going on demonstrations and drinking perhaps more than was healthy, I ended up with a few prizes and a first-class degree, then an MA, and now a PhD.

This isn't meant to be boastful - I'm still amazed I passed my BA - but to remind you that all exams are artificial: being bad at them doesn't mean you're thick. Using Clearing isn't a mark of shame, and you might find that the new atmosphere at university is exactly what you need to shine.

The important thing is this: find a subject you love, and you'll stick to it. It might not even feel like work, as mine didn't: I just wanted to read books, and an English degree demanded little more than literacy and an opinion.

Once you get there, remind yourself that just like you, everybody else is keeping quiet because they think they'll sound stupid. I'm horrendously shy, but forced myself to speak in seminars and to ask for clarification during lectures.

I hate the fact that you're having to pay for this, and you'll be surrounded by people talking about employability blah blah blah. Bollocks to that. You've got three years to think about, read, talk about and write about things in a way which won't happen again for the rest of your life. Grab it. Once you're there, you can change courses, clothes or personality as often as you need. After the first week, nobody cares what you got for your A-levels, or your background. You're free.

If, after a lecture, you don't feel like your head's been messed with, you haven't been listening. A good education should change you profoundly - but it's your responsibility as much as it is mine and my colleagues'.

Good luck for tomorrow.

As I won't be around for a Friday or even Thursday conundrum, here's a themed one: what are the best and or worst teachers/educational experiences you ever had? I'll add my many pages when I get back from Oslo in a few days.