Hector Drummond

2000-01

Semester 1

Week 6

Tuesday

 

Ren and Miles are having a coffee at the cafeteria when a haughty-looking man with a beaked face, who looks to be in his mid-to-late thirties, sits down next to them.

‘Hello Miles,’ he says.

‘Hello Lucius. Lucius, this is Ren, who is a new lecturer in Philosophy. He’s doing the TITE with me.’

‘Hello Ren,’ says Lucius, without much interest.

‘Ren, this is Lucius Birch, a senior lecturer in my department.’

‘Pleased to meet you, Dr Birch,’ says Ren. ‘Miles has been telling me about you. You’ve been doing very well, I hear.’

‘Fighting the good fight. As we all must do,’ says Lucius in an abstracted way. ‘But don’t tell me you’re some sort of metaphysician?’

‘That’s me, I’m afraid. Boring old non-political metaphysics.’

‘Such a waste of argumentative talent. Don’t you ever want to turn your attention to something that matters? Like the minimum wage?’

‘Well,’ begins Miles, ‘Ren’s not…’

Ren kicks Miles under the table.

‘Perhaps I should,’ says Ren. ‘What other pressing topics should be grabbing me?’

‘Well, there’s the decline of income equality. There’s global warming. The much-needed championing of Hugo Chavez and Venezuela. The great Satan. Racism. There’s no end to the list, is there?’

‘It would seem not.’

‘Why don’t philosophers lecture on the need for more union power, for example?’

‘I’m not sure my Metaphysics students would feel that that was an appropriate topic for a Metaphysics class.’

‘You’re the lecturer. Persuade them that it is. These are the real cosmic issues.’

‘Union power is a cosmic issue?’

‘In a manner of speaking, it is. Which one is a universal issue of our time, a matter of extreme gravity, of interest to the entire human race? The decline of union power, or Descartes saying we can’t know the external world?’

‘That’s epistemology. And Descartes thought we could know the external world.’

‘You need to shift these perceptions. If you teach the same old stuff you just entrench the existing power structures. How is that freeing students’ minds?’

‘Thinking about the basic structure of the world seems pretty cosmic to me.’

‘Imagine if any aliens came to earth. What would they be interested in? The power structures on our planet, or what Aristotle thought about teeth? There’s your cosmic importance right there. And if you really want to stick to metaphysics, why not teach Venezuelan metaphysics?’

‘Is there such a thing?’

‘How do you know if you haven’t looked? Why haven’t you looked? Venezuela is flowering under Chavez. I bet you amazing things are being done in their schools of metaphysics. I’m going in a couple of months to the annual Venezuelan Conference of Psychology. It’s going to be an eye-opener. A pity Miles couldn’t come.’

‘Goodness me Miles, you’re not really going to miss an opportunity like that, are you?’

‘Well, I don’t really have the research funds at this stage in my career…’

‘Put in an application to the Faculty,’ says Lucius. ‘See if they’ll support you. Which I think they will, if I have a word in the right ear.’

‘But I have to be giving a talk at the conference to be eligible for overseas travel funds. And it’s way too late for that.’

‘I’m sure I can use my influence to get you a speaking slot even at this late stage,’ says Lucius.

‘Chance of a lifetime, Miles,’ says Ren.

‘I’m really not sure I have the time,’ says Miles. ‘There is this TITE course which requires a lot of work. Doesn’t it, Ren?

‘Oh, yes, I suppose it does. Pity though. You might have even got to shake Chavez’s hand.’

‘But then I’d never be able to wash it again, would I?’

‘Do I sense a little political scepticism, Miles?’ says Lucius.

‘Ah, well, just a little joke. I do admit to being a bit uninformed about all the latest global political developments.’

‘Perhaps you should spend more time talking politics with your friend Ren.’

‘I find Ren’s political judgements can be, shall we say… off-piste?’

‘But it’s not about repeating the textbook, is it Miles?’ says Lucius. ‘As we always say to our students. You have to make up your own mind.’

‘You mean, make up your own mind about what type of socialism is best?’ says Ren.

‘Exactly. Be a free thinker.’

‘Within reason,’ says Ren.

‘Yes, within reason,’ smiles Lucius.

‘So,’ says Ren. ‘If you had to choose one, would it be Lenin or Trotsky?’

‘Lenin,’ says Lucius. ‘Trotsky was great, but ultimately it was Lenin who got the job done.’

‘Yes,’ says Ren. ‘Trotsky was ruthless, but Lenin even more so. What about Fidel or Che?’

‘Well, that’s a hard one. Fidel stayed the course and kept Cuba Communist for a very long time. But then Che was more of an intellectual, like me. So maybe Che.’

‘Do you have Che pictures on your door?’

‘No, I took them down a few years ago. Didn’t want students to get the wrong idea about my research.’

‘Very prudent. Ho Chi Minh or Mao?’

‘Ho Chi Minh. He really gave it to the Yanks.’

‘So you really think academics should be more pro-active in their leftism?’

‘Definitely. You don’t have to be that open about it if you don’t want to. In fact, that might often be the best policy. But we all have a duty to further the struggle, in whatever way we can. Including undermining our enemies, and always making it difficult for them.’ Lucius drains the last of his coffee. ‘I have to go get ready for a class. Nice meeting you, Ren.’

After Lucius has left, Ren says, ‘So, you still think he’s totally objective in his research? In his research which coincidentally always comes up supporting progressive conclusions?’

‘Uh… that was a bit worrying, I admit. I didn’t realise at first that he was quite so political. I have been trying to extricate myself from his circle, but they keep trying to draw me in.’

‘Just tell him he’s an evil Commie, that should do the trick.’

‘You’re happy to isolate yourself, and be identified as right-wing. I don’t want to be isolated. And I don’t want to be called right-wing, because I’m not. Psychology’s much more collaborative than Philosophy. If you get frozen out at an early stage then you’re finished.’

‘Jesus, he’s the one who should be isolated. He likes mass-murderers.’

‘There are members of my department who are openly members of the Communist Party. And we’re not just talking people from an older generation. There are two younger members of the department in it as well. That’s the reality of modern academia. You can’t be a Nazi, thank God, but you can still openly be a Communist.’

‘You certainly can, like those office doors you pass that have pictures of Che, or Lenin, or the hammer-and-sickle, on them. Some mass-murderers are all right, apparently. Anyway, I’d better go. I’ll see you this afternoon at TITE.’

2000-01

Semester 1

Week 5

Tuesday

 

Lunch consists of unpleasant triangular sandwiches. The bread tastes like no bread he’s ever eaten before, not even cheap supermarket bread. Some sort of hardened industrial foam, perhaps, that’s been sprayed with a reagent earlier today to bring about some temporary softening. The fillings are possibly real food, but it’s hard to tell because they have been laid out by one of those TV science teachers who are determined to explain to kids just how much space there is between heavenly objects. There’s also a variety of brown objects that vaguely resemble food, and vaguely taste like food, if you’re engrossed in conversation and not paying much attention.

Much of the food, or ‘food’, is vegetarian, and there are ‘Vegetarian’ labels all over the platters, lest a poor vegetarian accidentally ingest the soul of a chicken, and be forced to undergo The Concrete Cure (there are some crimes that even non-retributivists can’t forgive). There are none of the passable chicken sticks he had the previous meeting. Only the bigwigs get to eat average quality food. To get chicken sticks at University you have to be a mediocre academic who has given up on research. Or be a professional – or to be more accurate, useless – bureaucrat who can’t get hired in the private sector. Then you get sandwiches made of real bread. Cheap supermarket bread, to be sure, but wheat-based, at least.

After lunch the meeting carries on, somewhat speeded up, and minus agenda item one, and minus Adelaide, who seems to have decided that turning up and sitting in silence for ninety minutes is as much as can reasonably be expected from her. After another hour they have got through seven more items. Derek and Tristram continue to act as though the sole purpose of the meeting is to make sport with one another. This is going to be a long forty years, thinks Ren. Time to check the academic job situation in Hawaii, perhaps.

At the current moment George is explaining why he thinks the Teaching Subcommittee needs to have an extra meeting in March.

‘The University’s Postgraduate Committee meets on March twenty-three, so if the Teaching Committee can meet a week or two before that they can discuss the issues that always come up in that meeting concerning funding. Last year we failed to…’

George stops talking, looking lost in memory.

‘We failed to what, George?’ says Robot.

Ren has no idea of what George is about to say, because he has not being paying attention to this agenda item. Or any of them, if truth be told. For the last twenty minutes he has been nodding off every few minutes, and then waking up as soon as he feels his head dropping, and all his attention has been focused on trying to stop himself falling asleep. No matter what he does, though, he can’t. He has tried pinching his legs with his fingers as hard as he can, but even that doesn’t prevent the constant nodding off. He’s tried singing songs in his head. He’s tried thinking about Lily naked to arouse himself. He’s even tried to scare himself with the idea that Robot will block his probation if he is seen to fall asleep in a staff meeting. None of those tactics have worked. The narcoleptic spells are relentless, and cannot be stopped. His urge to put his head down and sleep is becoming overwhelming.

He isn’t someone who normally suffers from narcolepsy. Today is just a combination of lack of sleep and extreme boredom. He wonders whether he should excuse himself, go to the bathroom, and throw cold water over his face.

‘George?’ says someone else.

‘We. Failed. To…’ says George, slowly. ‘Prepare.’

George’s head then does exactly what Ren’s head wants to do, which is to crash onto the desk in front of him. It’s almost like his and George’s head have a psychic link, and the overwhelming desire his head has to collapse has bullied George’s head into doing so first.

After a second of frozen horror, George rolls onto the floor, and pandemonium sets in, which is somewhat quelled when Martha Gelber, the building’s first aid person, takes charge, and the departmental administrator, Wendaline Clugston, runs off to phone an ambulance. There’s no danger of a narcoleptic episode now for Ren. George is unconscious and breathing heavily.

‘If this is just an issue with his oesophagus then I’d hate to see something serious happen to him,’ says Ren, who thinks no-one can possibly look this bad without something serious having happened to them.

Martha tells the rest of them to leave the room. The meeting is finally over.

‘Good old George,’ says Compton. ‘He took one for the team.’

2000-01

Semester 1

Week 5

Tuesday

 

Last in is Simon Pastygill, a young Senior Lecturer, a publishing success, and a rising analytic star. Or, as Ren thinks of him, a spotty and pale weed with a creepy, lopsided smile, who’s had inexplicable publishing success, and who speaks what Compton refers to as ‘extreme Welsh’. Pastygill regularly confuses people when he speaks, not because of his accent, but because of his habit of asking sardonic questions in a rhetorical tone of voice which leaves it unclear whether or not he’s expecting an answer. For this, and other reasons – in Ren and Compton’s case, his constant complaining about the corrosive effects of capitalism – he is generally avoided. Although Pastygill is an atheist, Compton has dubbed him ‘creeping Jesus’ in honour of the way he will suddenly appear beside you, and the way he makes public pronouncements about the evils that follow from the possession of money. Ren, on the other hand, usually refers to him as ‘Pantywaist’.

One of the other reasons Pastygill is avoided is his tendency to turn all conversation around to his passion for church architecture, especially Welsh church architecture. Pastygill travels extensively in Britain and Europe seeking out churches to view, and is always ready to offer his opinion, should it be sought on such a matter, as to why English and Scottish churches, though they have their undoubted merits and are definitely worth visiting, fall short of Welsh churches on three or four points of interest. Pastygill had never been known to offer a view on the merits of Continental churches versus Welsh churches; perhaps he does have an informed opinion on this matter, complete with half an hour’s worth of pros and cons, but no-one has ever been foolhardy enough to enquire, or to let the conversation get that far.

According to rumour Pastygill has a list of all known churches in Britain and Europe, and is ticking off the ones he has already visited. The walls of his office are covered with pictures of churches, which at least makes a good impression on the students, although it makes some of them wonder if he’s a religious nutter. One of Compton’s tutees once asked him this question; allegedly Compton replied with, ‘Pretty much, although in his case it’s socialism rather than Christianity.’

Robot calls the meeting to order. There is one apology – Panos Costadopolous, known as ‘Costa Brava’ to his colleagues, a nickname he revels in, although perhaps only because it’s better than being called Costa del Sol. Or perhaps it’s just because he’s shameless – he is known for constantly slipping off to the Continent for a short break when he shouldn’t, coming back even more sun-tanned than before. As Robot does not announce what Costa’s official reason is for missing the meeting, everyone expects that he’s gone off to the Continent again. No-one is quite sure whether to be pissed off with him, or admire him. Although those people who have been lumbered with having to do his marking in the past are definitely in the former category.

‘First item on the agenda is a proposal to change the dates that essays have to be handed in for next semester, says Robot. ‘You will see from the first appendix at the back of the agenda that we have three deadline schemes on the table. These by no means exhaust the possible schemes, and it may be that during the course of our discussions we come up with some more to consider. You will see a list of pros and cons for each proposal.’

Robot drones on and on. And on and on. And on and on. Then every possible problem with each of the schemes is considered. Will scheme two not give the students enough time between essays? Does scheme three give too much time between essays two and three? Does scheme one require essays to be submitted too early for first years to be able to handle (assuming this scheme will be applied to semester one next year)? Won’t scheme two be confusing for the students because one of the deadlines is on a Friday, rather than the usual Thursday? Can it be on a Thursday? No, because of administrative and other reasons that Ren has already forgotten.

Ren expected this fairly simple matter to be over and done with within five minutes, but an hour has gone by, and there’s no end in sight. Derek Lucas and Tristram York are the main culprits. Ren can’t imagine that either of them really has much interest in this issue, but it seems that each has nothing better to do than wind the other up. Robot is incapable of drawing matters to a close, and insists on considering in detail everything that is said, no matter how trivial, and even if it’s said merely in jest (his jest detector, it appears never got switched on like it was supposed to).

After an hour and fifteen minutes has gone by, lunch, coffee and tea is brought in by the catering staff, and left in the corner. By this stage everyone is exhausted, even – perhaps especially – the innocent bystanders.

‘Perhaps we’d best take a break at this point, and have some lunch, and come back and consider this further after we’ve eaten,’ says Robot.

Ren looks around, unable to believe what is happening. He is unsure whether it’s his place to say anything, but surely something has to be said? He has a lecture to finish writing.

‘Excuse me, Grant,’ he says, ‘but we’re an hour and a quarter in, and we’re still on agenda item one, out of eighteen items. I don’t see how we’re going to get through the meeting at this rate. I was told the meeting should take two hours, three at most. I have a lecture to finish writing this afternoon, so I can’t sit around all day debating these issues endlessly. Perhaps we should move on and revisit item one at a later stage?’

Robot looks peeved, but finally says, ‘All right, Renford. I’m not sure we are going to get any resolution on agenda item one today, so we’ll move on with the rest of the agenda after lunch and try to hurry it up.’

As the meeting breaks up for lunch, Derek laughs and says, ‘Ren is discovering that everything in academia proceeds at the proverbial pace of a shelled gastropod.’ Well, yes, Ren thinks, but in this case it’s mainly because of you. Derek clearly isn’t in any hurry. No wonder he doesn’t publish much. He’s renowned for endlessly rewriting his papers, regarding them as never quite good enough to send off, no matter how many years he’d spent polishing them, and no matter how good everyone else thinks they are. Ren doesn’t want to be one of those academics who think in decades, but everyone says that’s how you end up, no matter how much of a hurry you are to start with.

If I’m still here at Grayvington in ten years, he thinks – hell, if I’m still in academia in ten years – then I’ll go down to the science area, take what the students call the ‘Elevator to Oblivion’, and hurl myself off the top of Bleak Tower. Bleak Tower, real name Blake Tower, is the monstrous, soot-stained, sixties-era concrete high rise in the science area that, as whispered rumour has it, extra-depressed students used to alleviate their suffering. Alleviate with extreme prejudice, that is. ‘The Concrete Cure’, the student wags call it, nodding towards the Tower as they say it. It’s a pity I can’t legally hire a hitman to take me out if I’m still in Grayvington in ten years, Ren thinks. That’d get me a move on.