[A-levels: Summer 2001]
My A-level results were a big let-down. Not quite Disastrous or Shameful; but significantly below what I was hoping for, and marginally worse than what I was actually expecting. And, which was worse than either of those, they were worse than what my mother was expecting me to achieve. My predicted “ABB” grades had secured me a provisional slot on an English Literature BA course in The City of Arcades. I chose the subject because it was my highest predicted grade, and the location because Wayne and a couple of other close friends were going there to study other things—but also because it was in Wales, which I still thought of as my real home. My History teacher said that if I performed well enough in the final exams—as well as, or better than, I’d done in the mocks—I’d be on course for an A. I liked English and History more-or-less equally; and I’d only chosen the former because I seemed to be marginally better at it. As for Psychology, I really couldn’t give a rat’s arse whether I got the B that I’d been predicted, because I thought it was all a load of old bollocks. (I was expecting a C or a D.) By the middle of the first year I was cursing myself for not having chosen Art instead—as lots of my friends had. I was under the impression that I needed to do three “serious” subjects if I was to get into a “proper” university. So although Art had been the one subject I actually excelled in at GCSE, I’d already relegated it to the status of a hobby and wasn’t going to go changing my mind now—because I was too scared to. Why had I even chosen Psychology in the first place? Because of the computer in The Posh School; the computer that told me I should be a social worker. I bet it never told anyone they should (or even could) be an artist.
Grades
English literature A
History C
Psychology C
General Studies D
I went in to get my results in person. Big mistake, Prospective Employer. Should have been off my head in a field somewhere, talking to my mum on the phone—why did I mess with a system that had been proven to work?! My mother drove me to The Sixth Form College, so she got to witness my disappointment first-hand, and I got to witness her trying to conceal hers. Like I said, it wasn’t a total disaster. But a C in History? A frigging C?! Was I really exactly as good at Psychology—which I hated and had deliberately done no revision for whatsoever—as I was at what was, and still remains, my favourite actual academic subject? I felt like I’d been punched in the gut by Hitler. And that Henry VIII and all of his stupid wives were queueing up to kick me in the nuts. All that wading back and forth through the bloody Corn Laws instead of being up a hill getting pissed—for nothing.
I will never know how I messed up my History exam badly enough to turn a “probably an A actually” into a “you know as much about the causes of the Second World War as you do about 1960s American experiments into the effects of sleep deprivation on cats”. But I remembered my RAF uncle saying that he’d written an essay about the “Beer Hall Putsch” for his BA History finals, and only twigged once he got out that he’d referred to the event throughout the paper as the “Ballroom Blitz”. So maybe the cause of my own downfall was something of that nature? Or maybe I was just terrible at remembering dates? Yes, I’d spent the majority of my A-level free periods asleep in the corner of the common room; not swotting up in the library or revising at home. But I did revise for the final exams. And a lot more so for History than either of the other subjects.
The D in General Studies was less of a mystery. There had been a 20-point question asking me to describe the impact that the building of a large out-of-town supermarket might potentially have on a local high-street. They’d said I could use diagrams in my answer, so I just drew a big picture of a high-street with loads of closed-down shops and unhappy people holding up placards, and then an angry mob setting fire to a supermarket next to it. (Actually quite prescient, I think, Prospective Employer.)
“General Studies” indeed…
S-level English
It would be Dishonest of me not to mention that as well as my more general failure to get the A-level grades I wanted, I also more specifically failed S-level English altogether. I didn’t really understand what S-level English was, and didn’t especially want to do it. But my English teacher had told me, and one or two others in our class, that she thought we ought to sign up for it; and because of my Obedience, and her sales pitch that briefly lent the idea something akin to the glamour of a Secret Club, I signed up. It involved going to yet another English class—that was even more disproportionately populated by posh kids than my usual ones—in break times, twice a week, for about three months of Second Year. We read some Shakespeare plays that weren’t part of the A-level curriculum and one or two other books (including “Strange Meeting” by Susan Hill, which I found interminably dull) and we discussed them as a group. By which I mean the teacher would discuss them with the posh girls—and the only other boy in the class, who was Scottish and gay, but somehow also posh—and I’d watch them and listen to them, and try not to fall asleep—because I usually used those break-times to nap in the corner of the common room.
Toward the end of these classes it became apparent that we were going to sit a written exam, which I hadn’t actually realized when I’d signed up. In the final class, the day after we sat the exam, everyone was talking about how much harder it had been than the A-level mock exams, and how excited it had made them about studying English Literature at Oxbridge—which I by now realized was actually two different, although by the sound of it also actually quite similar, places—when they inevitably aced their A-levels and were duly invited for an Interview, at which they would impress the Interviewers with their additional S-level English certificate, their Portfolio of Extracurricular Hobbies, and anecdotes about their most recent skiing Holidays. After half an hour of listening to the posh girls (and the one posh boy) excitedly chattering about their glittering futures with the teacher (who had also been to Oxbridge, and wasn’t afraid to talk about it) I uttered what may have been my first and only contribution to my S-level English class:
“Sorry, but… am I the only one here who’s not applied to Oxford or Cambridge?”
They fell silent as they turned to me, and their smiles froze.
I thought the look meant “Yes. Why are you here?” But looking back now, with 20 years of Life Experience under my belt, I now think it was something more along the lines of “Yes; why are you here?”
I failed S-level English. And it was probably the second most pointlessly annoying episode of the whole A-level experience. Since you ask, Prospective Employer, the first was when I auditioned for the part of Sir Andrew Aguecheek in a college production of Twelfth Night, and lost out to a posh boy with more Charisma (and a much bigger penis, which knowledge I shouldn’t have been additionally subjected to, but for some reason was). I was subsequently cast as Second Officer—Second Officer, mind you; not First Officer!—and my Amateur Dramatics Career has never recovered from that setback.
Girlfriend # 1
As I mentioned briefly before, some time after starting my Job at The Corner Shop job, at the grand old age of 17, I’d got my first girlfriend. She’d been sort of delivered to me by a very tall posh boy who I’d known since The Posh School, who was by then going out with one of my new (only slightly posh) friends. He literally dropped her into my lap while I was sitting there minding my own business in the corner of the common room, and said: “this girl fancies you, so you should go out with her.” I don’t want to give you the impression, Prospective Employer, that this was the usual method of courtship in The Cathedral City, because to the best of my knowledge it wasn’t. But, in fairness, it was probably the only way I was ever going to “enter the fray”: having been told I should do something by a Superior, my Obedience kicked in; and we (Girlfirend # 1 and I) subsequently enjoyed (or, to be more accurate, had) a six-month relationship, which we ended by mutual agreement during a camping trip in the summer because I was going to university and she wasn’t—because she was in the year below. I don’t blame Girlfriend # 1 for my poor exam performance. But it’s important that you know what was going on in my Personal Life at that time, Prospective Employer; because such things unavoidably affect one’s Academic and Professional Development.
My Shyness, Awkwardness, and Speech Impediment—not to mention my Weirdness, real or imagined—had thus far conspired to prevent me from developing a Portfolio of Romantic or Sexual Skills. Indeed, since that first kiss during the game of spin-the-bottle when I was 12, I hadn’t progressed much farther down that particular boulevard in the metaphorical City of Life. So even though she’d only had one proper boyfriend before me, and she was a year younger than me, I couldn’t help feeling that Girlfriend # 1 had an unfair advantage, as far as the relationship went. (Stay with me, Prospective Employer, I’ll get another Job soon, I promise.) And despite having never been confirmed as a Catholic, I’d nevertheless managed to develop strong feelings of Anxiety and Guilt concerning Sexual Matters. As far as shared childhood Experience can amount to A Controlled Experiment of sorts, I can only speculate as to what subtle differences in my own Curriculum Vitæ had bestowed this Anxiety upon me, which my older brothers seemed to completely lack. At the age of eight I’d enjoyed watching Salt-N-Pepa singing about safe sex practices on Top of The Pops. But by the age of 18 I’d developed a pathological fear of sex—especially condoms—following an unfortunate evening some four months into our relationship when Girlfriend # 1 had suggested—because I was nearly 18, after all—that it was time for us to “do it”. So I’d applied a condom—just as we’d been taught to in a science class at The Big School in North Wales, many years before—only to subsequently lose my erection. Girlfriend # 1 spent the rest of the night curled up in a ball, facing the wall in my narrow single bed, crying, and whispering “you hate me”. Our relationship, broadly amicable though it remained, never really recovered from that. And I’ve never once dared to apply a condom since. Which detail, Prospective Employer, you will find is relevant to my Professional Development; because my pathological fear of condom-application, combined with my reticence to practise unsafe sex or to risk an unplanned pregnancy, would ensure that I was to remain Chaste thereafter for another six long years—until I finally made the acquaintance of a woman who was both sufficiently attracted to me not to mind that I was still a virgin at the age of 24, and also (and perhaps more pertinently) keen to Get Pregnant as soon as practicable. I hope you’ll agree that this detail demonstrates Prudence, Dedication, and a knack for Problem-Solving on my part—all of which, I believe, are Transferable Skills.
Moreover, because I would not go on to squander my Youth in the pursuit of the cheap thrill of Casual Sex, more of my time would be spent in Study, Work, and Work-related activity than can possibly be claimed by most of my peers; the relative benefits of which fact, surely any Prospective Employer must recognize.
Yes, my A-levels were a mess. But I’d applied to do English, and I’d done okay in English, so what was the worst that could happen? I’ll answer that question, Prospective Employer, not by speculating, but by telling you what did in fact happen. The City of Arcades University, in the country I would call home, swiftly rejected me (if any communication by letter can be described as swift, which I feel in those days it still could). And my number two choice—the university in the city of my birth: The City of a Thousand Trades—also rejected me; but by phone, and in the accent belonging to my mother’s family. I went out into the back garden of The Suburban Culdesac and wept silently, and wondered what was to become of me.
And what was to become of me, it transpired, was Clearing:
Clearing
What does one “clear”, Prospective Employer? Rubbish. And that’s what I was: left behind to be swept up after everyone else’s celebrations. Nobody I knew was going through this process. Or if they were, I was too wrapped up in my own Existential Dread to notice. All my friends were off to the universities or art colleges they’d chosen, or at least going back to sixth-form. I had to wait a week or so, during which time I felt my parents must be worrying that they were stuck with me forever. Eventually, I was able to draw up a shortlist from the available universities that had room in their intake for failures such as I. And I was fortunate in that two universities which had been in my top-five in the first place still had room on their English courses. One I’d actually visited, shortly before I met Girlfriend # 1: I’d gone to check out the university, but I’d also met up with a girl I’d met on the internet, who liked me. But it turned out she only liked me on the internet, not in real life; and subsequently not even on the internet. (A valuable lesson learnt there, Prospective Employer.) I know of no good nicknames for the place I was to study for my undergraduate degree, so I’ll call it The City of Crushed Dreams. Because in addition to providing me with a home for the next three years, it also had a grand and thriving tradition—so I was to discover—of hoovering up the unconsumed crumbs that were discarded from the banqueting tables of Oxbridge. Thus, to its legions of posh disappointments, I was to become a relatively common addition. I made most of the friends with whom I would spend the next three years in the makeshift accommodation of The Clearing Conference Centre just outside the city, where we were quarantined until it was deemed safe to release us among the students who’d actually wanted to be there. And the friends I made at The University in The City of Crushed Dreams were mostly common disappointments, just like me.
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