Marxism on the Curriculum

To the University, for a bit of work which Linda very kindly put my way (it's not what you know).

The bustling, hectic centre of Lancaster University.
Enormous energy, cleverly concealed.

The University has spent millions on building work this year. The main square now looks bleaker than ever, animated only by the heel-clacking of the almost exclusively female administrative cadre who generously tap out a percussive Early Female Approach Alert for the sexually frustrated male.

The Department of Finger Wagging is co-ordinating an outreach week where doctoral candidates will go into local schools to explain to the older pupils what actually goes on in a University. I made a list which began with extra-marital sex, chronic drinking, unacknowledged theft of others' ideas, and professionally questionable supervisor-student relationships, but I was told that I'd got hold of the wrong end of the stick. Apparently the idea is to present some of Lancaster's current research.

The balance of the sexes in the PhD students that we've got interested so far is about right: ten women and two men. All the scientists are female; the only people doing Howsthatgoingtogetyouajob Studies are me and the other man. It would be unprofessional to comment on anyone's appearance, so I won't say that the woman who'll be doing a talk about her mathematical model of the spread of arable crop diseases is bothersomely attractive.

I'm now faced with the interesting task of thinking of a way of outlining Marxist aesthetic theory in a way comprehensible to 16-year-olds, and finding some sort of practical activity they can do. I'm going into my girls' school, and I have been firmly told not even to acknowledge them if I see them.

On the final Saturday we're doing another version of the show for a general lay audience, so if you have a funny turn and find yourself possessed of a desire to hear me talk about ideology and subjectivity in contemporary art music, get yourself along to the Storey Institute on Saturday 26th November. There'll also be a fascinating talk about crop diseases. An emboldened member of the committee has broached the idea of some Ch. de Taxpayer being released from the Special Cupboard, the key to which is taken home every night by the Departmental Secretary and hidden in her knickers.

There is Bad News from the pub. Discussing our plans to watch England v Scotland on Saturday, the assembled throng was disappointed to learn that although the pub is opening at 8am, they're not allowed to serve alcohol until 10am. That's no use. By then the endlessly rumbling sense of bitter resentment towards everything in general and the English in particular, with which every Scot is born, will be magnified by their most recent defeat at our hands.

We've been trying to think of ways round it, such as paying for our drink in advance and calling it a private party, thus remaining beyond the reach of Plod.  But this should be simple. People just want a few pints for breakfast, starting at 8am, before going home to have some quality time with their children.

A young woman in a lovely ochre shift dress has just walked by.