The final countdown

In a month's time, I shall be buried knee-deep in three years worth of notes, trying desperately to remember who it was that first formulated a grand theory of tragedy. In two month's time, I will be amusingly inebriated, and - as likely as not - regaling passers-by with songs, of my own composition, about how Nietzsche can stick his Aristotle up his Kant. Yes, 'tis the season to be studious, for exams are upon us again.

These will be my finals, so there's a high chance that I'll never have to do an academic exam again. I'm not sure how I feel about that. For the last, well, fifteen years at least, my entire career has been regulated, influenced, and delineated by what I write on pieces of paper before someone tells me to put down my pen. Of course, things have changed a bit over the decades. Exams have become much, much harder. The questions haven't really changed, but when I was asked at seven for the meaning of a word, they just wanted a vague dictionary definition. Now, I'm expected to debate the meaning of the word "meaning" first. And then possibly to define "define". If I'm really lucky, I might get asked for the etymology of "etymology".

Latin exams are the first ones I remember dreading. Nothing, not even the frantic cramming of post-modern literary theory that will happen in three weeks time, can compare to the bowel-loosening, appetite-diffusing sensation as I pored over my red exercise book trying desperately to memorise the name of Caecilius' dog, and whether Clemens was his son or his slave, or possibly both.

The problem with exams is that there is no easy way to avoid all the heartache. Study guides and exam advice are, unfortunately, as much use as a condom machine in the Vatican. The advice they dispense has presumably unaltered since the time of Ancient Rome, containing as they do such gems as "Answer the question, clearly and precisely" and "ensure that you write legibly". All of which leads me to suspect either that the people behind this advise are educationally subnormal, or that somewhere out there, there are swathes of the human race who sincerely believe that maths problems can be answered with haiku in scrawled Cyrillic.

Mind you, we have it easier than the ancients. In Sparta, young men of university age were examined on fitness, military ability and leadership. Those who failed were classified as perioikos, or centre-caste, and whilst they were entitled to own property and have business dealings, they had no political rights and were not citizens. As opposed to they system today, where graduating from university elevates you to the middle-class, and sets you on the route to getting a mortgage and going into management.

What's worrying me more than finals is the fact that it all looks a bit futile. The degree system is suffering from what might be termed an infarction (Latin, infarcire, lit. "stuffed up"). We have a target of 50% of young people in university, but the students, and the government don't want to pay for it. To be fair, I can see why. I don't want to pay for it either. But then the 50% wasn't my idea either.

The government is putting pressure on Oxbridge to widen its access. But I don't know why, because they're also working hand-over-fist to dispel the "Oxbridge image" of the legal, financial, and public service professions. So here's the deal: they'll get you in, but we'll have to become plumbers if we want to earn enough to pay the graduate tax. At least we'll be able to take it philosophically, eh?

Oh well. Now, if you'll excuse me, I might have a large drink and compose some songs. And then I have some revision to do.