Fees, cuts and rises in pay: David Eastwood shows the way

Smug

In a week that saw Fernando Torres move to Chelsea for a British record fee of £50m, it was also announced that the Vice Chancellor at Birmingham University received a stunning 11% rise to his pay, bringing it up to £392,000 "including pen­sion contributions". You may think the two are irrelevant, but they're not. They are both demonstrations of how, despite the recession and deep government cuts, those at the top continue to live on a different planet. 

I will not bother with footballers and their fees-the newspapers have dedicated much of their back pages to that nonsense. My main concern here is Mr Eastwood's pay rise at a time when schools and departments are being 'reviewed', staff are made redundant and the cuts are biting hard those at the bottom of the pile. 

According to a 2010 report, Mr Eastwood also enjoys: 

• a university car (full of fuel) and a chauffeur
• university accommodation including a gardener and cleaner (I suspect it's not one of the tiny rooms students pay through the nose for)
• Credit cards and expenses

At the same time, all Birmingham University staff have received the princely pay rise of 0.4%, which for most people amounts to the price of a dodgy curry per month. 

The division here is clear. Mr Eastwood is not even performing a job. His is a vocation, a calling and a duty, a mission to make Birmingham the Barcl...sorry, Harvard of red brick universities. The services he provides the University are so invaluable that his salary and perks cannot of course come into question by anyone. On the other hand, a 0.4% rise in the pay of University staff (who also pay their own travel expenses, inflated public transport fees, fuel prices and taxes) is probably not necessary. Why oh why do we give a pay rise to people with a mortgage to pay, families to feed and clothe and the likes? 

No, the recipients of proper pay rises and perks should be the likes of Mr Eastwood. His duties and services to society and his institution are beyond doubt. He goes to meetings, gives speeches, cuts ribbons. His salary is not enough to ensure him a home, a car and fuel-the students need to pay for that. The man was on the committee which suggested that tuition fees should be tripled, stating that "[G]raduates should make a larger contribution to the cost of their higher education, which delivers higher lifetime earnings". This clearly worked really well for the man himself, as he himself STUDIED FOR FREE and look at what he takes home every Friday! Talk about bringing home the bacon, he brings home a fucking sausage factory. 

I hereby propose: 

• all university staff should donate their 0.4% increments towards Mr Eastwood's professional expenses-his work is clearly more important than theirs
• 10% of all top-up fees be channelled to Mr Eastwoods gardening and car pool, so that he can perform his duties even better
• all working class pupils with aspirations should do a vocational course, in the hope that the ever-expanding Eastwood household can absorb them-know your place!
• a significant percentage of the new super-profits should be channelled into hiring more security so that protesting students can be, ahem, collided accidentally with, more effectively
• Mr Eastwood, like his namesake Clint, rides off into the sunset with the gold

That's all. Here's a nice reminder of how things should work:

Nutters I have known #3: The Greek 'researcher'

Soula was very keen on her research. She was researching her own island (aren't we all) during Ottoman times, but nobody knew exactly what. You see, Soula thought that what she was doing was so important and significant , importantly significant and significantly important that somebody might steal it from her. Therefore, she never told anyone apart from her PhD supervisor what her research was about. Which was a bit extreme.

You see, unless you're researching the cure for cancer or a revolutionary PC software/hardware which will change the face of the planet, nobody cares. Especially if you're researching a small Greek island (not Cyprus btw). Anyway. Soula was so obsessed with secrecy, that when we had student conferences where we presented our work, she wrote a paper on something irrelevant in order to avoid revealing her real topic. On top of that, she confused research with collecting material. She'd go to archives and photocopy everything, accumulating piles and piles of photocopies of documents whose only value was that they could one day prove useful. They didn't. Her supervisor told her to stop it and concentrate on finishing her thesis.

When she finished her thesis, passed her viva and submitted it, she made it inaccessible to anyone for 7 years. Because although there was a date on it and it was printed and bound, someone might still try to steal the supreme knowledge included in her thesis. As a result, by the time her thesis was available to readers, nobody was interested any more. She went back home, found a job in local government and that was that. The world could not benefit from her cutting-edge work. Shame ;-)

The Nutters Series

Nutters I have known #2: the pseudo-intellectual

[I had forgotten about this series, until Claude reminded me-thanks!]


Makis was an intellectual. One of those you know the moment you lay eyes on them. Short, dark, with John Lennon glasses, always clutching a book. I met him when I was an undergrad, and he drifted in and out of my life and those of others (I am sure Antonis will have something to say).

This guy had his head in the clouds. He always liked to maintain a certain high ground, intellectual, deeply thoughtful and always supposedly mildly surprised and amused by life's little real moments. I suspect that he thought that the intellectual ticket would get him laid. He did his best to impress the ladies, always quoting this poet and that, speaking with flowers and doves in a manner so detached you could be forgiven for thinking the man was ethereal. I guess that the way he wolfed down his bowl of pasta or his chicken (which you'd cooked for him) was the only thing that allowed a tiny little beam of doubt to cast some light on the mystery...

You see, Makis liked to pretend he was an intellectual. His knowledge of poetry, philosophy, history, literature and literary criticism, sociology, politics and all things contained in the space between book covers proved to be superficial, time and time again. When probed, it turned out that he had a good encyclopaedic knowledge on which academic published with which publishers, when and where. But not what. If you asked him carefully, it turned out that he hadn't actually read any of the things he knew about. A bit like knowing about Mount Everest-you know it's there, but the air of authenticity disappears once people realize that you have never set foot on Asia.

He was perfectly happy to eat like a true Cypriot if someone else had done the cooking. If not, he pretended to lead this intellectual life, where food interfered with reading time-so he bought himself bags of lettuce and carrots, claiming that these stimulated his mind etc. And he could talk. If talking was a sport, Makis would have been World Heavyweight Champion of Talking. Talking Crap. The best retort to him came from a very old academic one day in the foyer of our faculty. We were sitting at a bench and Makis was clutching a literary criticism book, to which the man said: "you should stop reading that and start reading literature". Spot on.

And then there was his attitude to women ("he treats objects like women man"). You'd be standing there, having a casual chat with him, and all of a sudden he'd stop, turn his whole body and stare, following in this manner the movements of this pretty girl who'd happened to pass by. No sign of being discreet-just staring like a man who'd been in prison for 40 years, to the point it was embarrassing to be with him in public. Staring doesn't begin to describe it, I guess he was like a dog who'd just seen a 6ft tall bone walk right past him, drooling and all. Embarrassing.

The last I'd seen of him was when I was moving out of my house. We let him stay with us for a few weeks because he had no place to stay (mug? moi?). As we were waiting for a taxi to come and pick us up, he appeared, book and lettuce in hand. "Makis, give us a hand mate, will you?" And then came the immortal response: "Mate, I'm sorry but I'm an intellectual. I don't do lifting". And that was that.

He's of course nowhere near as colourful as our Basque friend. You'd have to meet him to appreciate his full madness. I hope you don't-you'll be stuck there all day, and life's just too short.

Nutters I have known #1: the Basque

According to Will Self, 70% of the world's nutters are in University in some shape or form. In a way it makes sense. Universities are inhabited by people who spend lifetimes focusing on something so small and intricate, that they often lose any sense of reality. Communication with the environment becomes a burden rather than necessity. Wearing white socks with sandals all of a sudden sounds like a good idea. But that's not to say these people are bona fide nutters. They are simply eccentric. But the most eccentric of these most definitely strayed into nutter territory. This series of blog posts is dedicated to these weird and wonderful (when they are not your flatmates) people.

Being a student and then working at Universities since 1993, you understand that I have had way more than my fair share of nutters. Maybe I am one of them myself. Memory is a tricky thing, it makes you think of them in better colours than you really should. You need to really rake your brains to re-discover the fury you felt at the time, so that you depict them fairly and accurately.

#1: the Basque scientist

The one who by far takes the biscuit, the top prize, was a flatmate of ours called 'Juana'. The Mrs-Blackbeard-to-be and myself lived in this extremely cold and damp flat at the top floor of a lovely Victorian house. The house being lovely made up for the rotting windows and the extreme cold. Or so she says.

Juana was a Basque student in Engineering, doing research on something I never quite understood. She went on to get a research post, working in the lab. In any case, she was one of the most driven uni-nutters I have ever known. She had an Italian boyfriend who visited weekends and was a half-nutter himself, but we'll deal with him later.

Here are some of Juana's traits:

• She was so extremely stingy that she often ate food way past its sell-by date. On one occasion she got poisoning from expired prawns
• In order to save money, she took a bus day ticket, went into town, loaded herself with groceries from the open market, came home, dumped the bags, got on the bus again, went to the big supermarket and returned with another load of groceries
• the above visits happened on Fridays, because that's when said supermarket had loads of 'reduced' items-hence the expired stuff
• she bought food for 8 people from the market (5 pineapples for a pound, 3 melons for 50p, that kind of thing). As it was impossible for any human being to consume so much food in a week, most of it lay rotten in the fridge or in the fruit basket
• she refused to pay with a card at the supermarket, because "the black man at the checkout may memorise my card number". Her words, not mine.
• She was paid for a 9-5 job at the lab, but she woke up at 6, went for a swim, started work at 7 and came home at 7. 12 hours. She also went weekends. She slept at 8.
• So that she wouldn't spend money, she made a pot of coffee in the morning, put it in a plastic container, and re-heated it in the microwave at work
• She would have a tub of double cream on its own as dessert. (I suspect she thought it was some kind of yoghurt)
• When the boyfriend came for the weekend, after dinner she'd order him to their room for a 15-minute sex session after dinner. She then slept and he sat with us to watch TV. He liked Van Damme films. We didn't.
• On Sunday mornings she woke up, filled up a huge pot full of dry chick-peas and water, put it on the fire and then went back to bed. The chickpeas needed a good 2 hours of boiling. She did this so the boyfriend could take some boiled chick peas back with him. He also carried his dirty clothes with him on the train so she'd wash them for him.
• Although she lived with us for more than 2 years, she never got used to the idea of having a cat in the house. He constantly startled her, and she reacted like this.
• She ate so much pre-prepared food that she often blocked the toilet with her stools. She then spent hours locked up in the loo, hopelessly trying to unblock the toilet with bleach and huffing at it. She never used the toilet brush. When I told her that she could, she was offended.
• She often tried to burn us down by forgetting the stove on.
• A colleague of hers broke up with her boyfriend. Juana thought that she was a slut because she'd had an ex-boyfriend-in her mind, you're only supposed to have the one, marry him and have his babies.

I was very happy when she eventually moved out.

Life is going round in circles

image by Leonard Freed. Click here to buy. Click image for large version

At last. The much discussed, rumour-based, policy-driven, top-down shakedown-fuelled office move has taken place. The 'porters' shifted all our stuff this morning into our new space, where we're sharing with two other blokes, all blokes in one room! All we need is a urinal, that symbol of masculinity!

And as I'm sitting there, 5 jobs and 5 years down the line, it hit me: this was the very same room where I had my viva*, those millions of years ago, way back in the palaeolithic age. Do I need to get out of here? Is the room trying to tell me something, like a friend giving you a pat on the back when it's your round at the pub? I don't know. All I know is that it feels very strange, as if I am caught in some kind of game, an allegory where we are all puppets in someone else's hands. I need a pair of scissors...

*A viva (viva voce) is an oral examination for PhD candidates

Life is a journey, I am a traveller

image from here

A few days ago I scanned and posted some old photos on Facebook for the delectation of friends, old and recent. The outcome was a thoroughly moving response by about 10 fellow students from a time long ago, which reminded of the friendships, likes, dislikes and, inevitably, loves, of my undergraduate days. One of these friends, Eleni, is also a blogger, and has expressed these same emotions very beautifully on her own blog.

It's not monumental for others. This life journey is something we all go through, en route to the bitter end (as Placebo says). And all of us go through the coming-of-age ritual one way or another. Mine was during national service, but mostly during my time as an undergraduate. The optimism, naivete, hope, passion. Children disguised as adults. Children becoming adults. The world was there for the taking, and I certainly wanted, and still do, a huge chunk of it.

Perhaps our choices landed us on different shores, apart from what was at the time our universe. Apart from people we loved, the warm embrace, the soft kiss, the swift kick in the shins during a game of football in the Venetian town walls' now dried moat. Our friends (and foes) all took their own path, followed their own journey, made their own choices, regretted their own mistakes perhaps. And it's rather sweet to rediscover them and briefly reminisce, but also find that we have changed, as Eleni points out, but what made us friends is still there at the core sometimes. Peace and love, peace and love.

I know it's a bit sentimental, I promise you a slasher horror story next time.

Three is a crowd

(Inspired (or rather reminded) by the Flight of the Conchords ep. 4, where Bret finds a girlfriend but Jermaine keeps hanging out with them, expecting to be a part of the relationship)


February 1996

It was a cold evening, as cold as it can get in Cyprus in February. Things had been a bit slow in general. My course at Uni was going well, I was pretty settled with my friends, living in a flat with two of my best mates, Mike and Chris. Life involved turning up for classes (most times), but most crucially staying up late, playing backgammon and watching a trashy Turkish music Channel called Kral TV. We didn't know it was trashy at the time of course, we thought it was high-brow and that Muazzez Ersoy a serious artist. Next to the backgammon set lay the Redhouse dictionary, which helped with words we didn't understand in the songs. It didn't help with being deaf to the phonology, unfortunately, so we ended up hearing 'one more time, my car' (bir daha arabam) instead of 'I will never call again' (bir daha aramam). It all added to the excitement. The flat was really cold, 'heated' by a woefully inadequate electric heater we'd pinched from somewhere,one of those old ones with the two bars that turn red when hot.

At the time I was really after the affections of a certain girl we'll now call Stella for anonymity's sake. Not that the real 'Stella' will ever read this blog, but anyway. Stella had lovely long curly hair and green eyes, much like a Days of Thunder-era Nicole Kidman. She looked like her too. Beautiful pale skin, freckly and nice, very nice. So you can imagine my excitement when this beautiful creature wanted to hang out with me. We spent most breaks together, just hanging out, going from acting silly to acting a bit sillier. My mate Mike was particularly adamant that I take the next step and ask her out, good and proper. As usual, anyone else but me could see that the girl liked me and there was potential. I was never good with these things. Advice to other people I can give by the bucketload, but when it comes to actually observing and judging my situation I am as blind as a mole after an 18-hour drinking session with Keith Moon.

As it happens, Cinema Paradiso, the beautiful Italian film which was all the rage a few years earlier, was on TV one night. When Stella rang to ask me round to watch it with her, I thought I was in with a big chance. Let's face it: there's no denying the obvious underlying suggestion when a girl invites a boy round her place to watch a wonderfully romantic and nostalgic film, in the language of love. So yours truly went through all the motions, well groomed, bottle of wine and flowers in the Suzuki moped's basket and off we go. She only lived round the corner from our block, but 'round the corner' in Cyprus is usually a distance you usually drive anyway, just to give the planet that coup de grâce it so desperately needs.

I went up the stairs (couldn't wait for the lift), jumping the steps two and three at a time, like an eager young Majnun on his way to meeting Layla. When Stella saw me she was pleased and happy with the flowers. The lights in the flat were low, the little settee was set up for two bodies to cosy up against each other, and the film was about to begin. Things were looking rosy for yours truly. And, as usual, that's when disaster stroke. I heard in the door the horrible sound of the keys turning, and the flatmate of doom returning home early from her politics group. Now, I must say here that I have nothing against the girl. Well, a few things stored up, perhaps. Kiki was the sort of girl that most guys found obnoxious: loud, involved in every cause, a creature that went from the green pastures of political meetings to the snowy peaks of oboe practice. She was a member of at least a dozen groups, and participated in all of them very actively. Most importantly, Kiki was not very popular in the mating arena. Being flatmates with Stella meant that attention was never directed at her. This made her spiteful and more determined to ruin the chances of her fairer (and more pleasant overall) flatmate.

"What are you guys up to? Oh, I smell popcorn! Is there a film on?" That was it. For the next two and a half hours what had been planned as a nice, romantic viewing of maybe half a film, possibly evolving into some tender exchange of bodily fluids, had degenerated into an awkward ride in the Robin Reliant of love, with Kiki playing the part of Vehicle Wheel the Third. She of course stayed and watched the whole film with us, cooing and ahh-ing with every sad, romantic or beautiful twist in the tale. The film was indeed gorgeous. I hadn't watched it before and it really brought a wobble in my throat (which I would without doubt have used in an evil ploy had Kiki not been there). It told the childhood and coming-of-age tale of Toto, a Sicilian boy whose love of films during his childhood and beautiful Elena in his teenage years dominate his life. The film was very nostalgic and at times dark, but a masterpiece nevertheless.

When the film was over, very late at night, we thought (well, I thought to be precise) that Kiki would at last leave us alone and that we'd be able to get on with things. After all, it was quite late and Kiki had been out all day, so she must have been exhausted. Again, wrong call. Kiki had just enough energy to stay up and keep us company, obviously to protect the virtue of beautiful Stella from the evil paws of the hairy bloke. So she stayed on, rabbiting on about x, y and, occasionally, z, making small talk last so long I thought I would die there and then. Although I was putting on a brave face, responding to chit chat and pretending to be civil, always the galantuomo, I was burning inside as if the Vesuvius and Etna had decided to sit in my heart for the night and play board games. What had promised to be a night to remember, for all the good reasons, turned out to be the biggest let-down since Guns n' Roses released The Spaghetti Incident?.

At about three in the morning I conceded defeat. The omnipresent and ubiquitous Kiki was not budging, but just sat there, determined to ruin it all for young Majnun. I got up, said my goodbyes, kissed both on the cheek (so as not to create a sense of unfairness and inequality) and disappeared into the night. The three -minute moped ride from Stella's block to ours felt like a lifetime. As I turned the key in the lock and entered the flat, I saw Mike and Chris in their usual positions, playing backgammon, watching Kral TV and sitting as close to the electric heater as possible. Mike turned and looked at me, as I entered with all the panache of a wet dog who'd just been kicked in the head. 'What happened? Or, in fact, what didn't happen?' I went to the kitchen, pulled out our bottle of brandy, three glasses, and sat with them to tell them the story while drowing my sorrows in the sweet, trusted friend. As we worked our way into the morning, backgammon, cheesy Turkish music, brandy and unfulfilled potential all became one, enveloped by the unrelenting February cold.

I don't quite remember what happened next with Stella. After the Kika incident, we sort of drifted apart, as if Kika represented a stonemason's wedge and feathers, driven deep into what looked like a solid, unbreakable promise. After a few empty phone calls, the romance was over. Soon over it would all be over anyway-graduation, departure for foreign lands; life has a way of ironing out the little imperfections everyday situations create on the greater fabric. It all seems so distant now, but there is nothing greater than the hurt of the unfulfilled potential, the 'what ifs' of our lives. It would have been a thousand times better if the whole thing did kick off, only to peter out in a few days. At least I'd have known. As it stands, all we have is a hypothesis.