DIARY
STEPHEN FRY Six times a year, if I can manage it, I take a sleeper from Euston to Scotland in order to discharge my duties as Rector of the University of Dundee. Only Scottish universities, so far as I am aware, include such a dignitary in their lists. Rectors are elected by the corpus studenti and, although counting officially as senior members of the university, they amount to no more than a cross between an affable godfather and a regimental goat. Which is not to say that rectoral duties should not be taken serious- ly. Suggest to a regimental goat, after all, that its role is purely ornamental and you will be swiftly rebutted in the very seat of your argument. In many of the Scottish uni- versities, rectors chair the University Court and play a full part in student and academic politics, just as many a goat can be seen dis- cussing disciplinary policy with an adjutant or taking an active part in wine-ordering with the President of the Mess Committee. (Talk of PMCs reminds me of a story I heard not long ago from my brother-in-law who flies aeroplanes for the RAF. The anecdote is probably as old as a Sopwith, but since I've opened this bracket I'll pro- ceed with it anyway. If you know it, skip ahead to the next paragraph. A young pilot officer was challenged by a larky squadron leader to flick peanuts at a row of upturned wine glasses to see if he could knock one off the bar. The pilot officer, possessed, as are all that breed, of a fine eye and superb Powers of concentration, managed to smash four goblets before the PMC caught him at it and fined him £20. The pilot offi- cer turned to the squadron leader and was able to remark . . . well, see if you can work out what he remarked. It's the only response to make under the circumstances, but would occur to perhaps one in ten mil- lion of the population at the outside. You have until the end of the column to think of it.) My election as Rector came as a great surprise to me: the election, or 'Hecklings', had taken place in my absence and I had no idea what to expect from the university. My first visit to Dundee, a city I had previously associated, in common with many English- men, with marmalade, fruit-cakes and jute, shattered any illusions that this job was going to be what a politician once described as 'a sinecure for all eyes'. I arrived at 0556 hours on a cold platform to be welcomed by a band of merry, pink- nosed students and the 'Rector's Assessor', a magnificent Dundonian called Jim. After a good Scottish breakfast I was hurried to the main administration block of the uni- versity to see if I could intercede in a sit-in which was taking place around the Princi- pal's office. A rent strike was brewing. I had no idea what amount students were obliged to pay, how it was paid, what they got for their money or on which side justice lay in this acrimonious affair. It was a sur- real experience. Here I was, elected by the students to serve their interests, but being asked by the authorities to disperse them. I had no power to make promises, no knowl- edge of the university whatsoever and no experience in dealing with student politics. In my university, student politics meant inviting Norman St John Stevas and Michael Foot to debate the proposition `This House believes that Small is Beauti- ful' or some such tosh. I won't bore you with the minutiae of the Great Dundee Sit- In of '91. Order was somehow restored: I think the protesting students could see that I was on the brink of bursting into tears and took pity on me.
There is no doubt, however, that stu- dents have got it tough at the moment. A friend of mine, by no means a socialist on the board of several banks and multina- tionals in fact — delivered it as his opinion recently that undergraduates are worse off now than they ever were in his day. 'Oh, come off it!' someone replied. 'They've all got computers and compact disc players and the Lord knows what else besides. We were lucky if we had a wind-up gramo- phone and a rackety typewriter.' My friend made the excellent point that prosperity is better defined by the time one has at one's disposal than by the possessions. His tutor had made it clear to him that no student was to work in the vacations. 'The vacs are a time for reading and travelling,' he was told. In general, no one, whatever their social provenance, sought employment in the holidays. If you told a student today, however, that he or she was not to work, they would stare at you with disbelief.
Some might think this a very good thing: it is what Employment Ministers like to call `Preparation for the World of Work'. No doubt many parents too would rather see their offspring toting trays of bedding- plants at a garden centre or serving veg- etable lasagna at the local wine-bar than have them mooning about the house read- ing Ulysses or the Tractatus. University terms form a minority of the year, however, which means that education is actually now a part-time affair for most students. The image of a group of bright and interesting youths on a summer reading-party in Switzerland with a modern Sillery or Bowra may be a romantic one, but that does not strip it of value. Mind you, now that every village school with a playground larger than a quarter of a hectare is entitled to call itself a university, it is easy to see that the Exchequer may have difficulty keeping up with appropriate grants. It must also be noted that many of the ideas in worthwhile books conflict with the notion of Back to Basics: perhaps it is highly desirable that such notions are kept from the young.
Iheard a report on the news yesterday that a council in southern England was thinking of banning the use of the word `manager' within its portals. The accidental occurrence of 'man' in the word, together with 'associations' that render it paternalis- tic and undesirable, decided them on this course. Well, it is easy enough to mock that stance alone. What is truly bizarre, howev- er, is the ascription which they wish to use as a replacement: staff officer. Perhaps, with Remembrance Sunday still fresh in their minds, they could do worse than read Alan Clark's book The Donkeys and wonder whether manager isn't so bad after all.
Finally, what the PO said to the squadron leader. In a passable imitation of Oliver Hardy, he complained, 'Here's another mess fine you've gotten me into.'
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