Anti-Managerialists Make The Case For Managerialism

Regulars will know I have little time for the whining dons who pad out the Times Higher. Hardly a week passes without some lecturer objecting even to the idea of having to divert a moment’s time from valuable work on “cultural changes in the conceptualisation of the authoritative and the factual in social life” (or boycotting Israeli universities) to, er, learn how to lecture. Fortunately, this week a couple of letter writers to the THES are on the case:

“It is time that ill-informed and emotional outbursts by Frank Furedi and others criticising programmes to develop the teaching of new lecturers were confronted with some published evidence.

“The largest study of such programmes involved 22 universities in eight countries. I showed significant improvement in trained teachers’ approaches to teaching in students’ ratings of teaching, and in students’ approaches to studying. A control group who received no training got worse over their first year.

“The publication of this research was covered at length in The Times Higher. Let’s have a little more of the scholarship that Furedi et al claim to value. The programme at Oxford University, which is research-informed, is voluntary yet oversubscribed

Graham Gibbs
Oxford University”

“Frank Furedi manages the difficult task of being even more insubstantial and baseless than your original report on Postgraduate Certificate in Higher Education programmes (‘Lecturers bored by lessons in teaching’, April 22)

“Furedi’s rant suggests that ‘the very idea of accrediting academics as teachers is fundamentally flawed’. This is apparent because, like all forms of accreditation, the PGCHE involves ‘socialisation’, but unlike courses for doctors and others, these programmes are ‘almost exclusively about socialising academics in to the ethos of the audit culture that dominates the campus [I wish] and… indoctrinates new lecturers into values of a conformist orientation towards teaching.’

“The people who run these courses think they are developing critical reflective thinkers, but Furedi knows better. they are turning out ‘template teachers’ who are changed against their will and without their knowledge in imperceptible ways that fit the needs of managerialism. They are just dupes, unable to see through the rhetoric until they read Furedi’s insights. It is not at least possible that some programmes mean what they say about critical thinking? Might they not embody a view of the teacher as a professional making learning as good as it can be for students along with a critical understanding of the ways in which managerialism, state pressures and the audit culture make this difficult?

“Of course, this kind of critical perspective might also lead colleagues to doubt the credibility of a writer who throws around words such as ‘indoctrination’ so freely but constructs what passes for a serious article around a collection of supercilious assertions, cheap gibes and a piece of unsupported hack work.

John Clarke
Liverpool John Moores University”

The latter letter for some reason reminded me of this uncharacteristically terrible rant from Stumbling and Mumbling. How could such a smart guy miss such an easy target so completely?

A Great Escape

The Web is full of ordinary people from all over the planet whittering on about whatever they want to. Other people all over the planet can read their whitterings for next to nothing. Add a bit of peer review and you have a wonderful meritocracy of whittering. This account of West Bromwich Albion escaping relegation, published on the Motley Fool‘s “Football Fools” discussion board, is sexist, sentimental, and completely charming.

Let Us Not Speak Ill Of The Famous

In a development unprecedented in the history of the unholy media, Pope Polly Filler XIV begins the Dianafication of Kylie Minogue within 24 hours of her diagnosis of breast cancer being announced:

THE GIRL WHO FELL TO EARTH

She seemed almost flawless, an otherworldly embodiment of physical perfection. But now, like thousands of ordinary women every year, Kylie Minogue has been diagnosed with breast cancer. Libby Brooks examines why Kylie’s illness matters to us

Wednesday May 18, 2005
The Guardian

I would never have described myself as a fan. Which made it even more surprising, that whump in the stomach when I heard on the morning headlines that Kylie Minogue had postponed the Australian leg of her world tour after being diagnosed with breast cancer. Sandwiched on Radio 4 between a discussion on the role of Mary, mother of Jesus, in the Anglican and Catholic faiths and an interview with the home secretary Charles Clarke, it sounded like news from a parallel planet, as though someone had inadvertently mixed up a page of Heat magazine with the Today programme’s running order. But it was true, and I felt sad. As did Audrey and Sophie and Nicky and the other friends of mine who had heard the news too and texted before I left my flat for work.

Of course there’s something enormously disingenuous about feeling terribly distressed when an attractive 37-year-old celebrity has breast cancer.

“She seemed almost flawless”? My arse. You can write the rest of the piece for yourselves, but I thought I should at least include in my quote the obligatory pretentious broadsheet columnist misuse of “disingenuous”. In this case this recently fashionable tic of the not-as-clever-as-they-think-they-are brigade makes me think of someone eating a Pot Noodle with chopsticks. Later in the article you can enjoy “discourse”, “eloquent testament”, a straw man the size of Kansas, and some mangled cancer epidemiology.

A Case For Dylan

This morning (whilst looking for something else of course) I stumbled upon this post entitled “Even Dylan Hates Hippies” from the ‘Blog the zoo last year. I thought I should share an extract with you (and not even the bit containing the phrase “Rasta wannabe”):

Earlier this week Bob Dylan released his memoirs, and in them he recounts quite a bit of frustration with hippiedom. Here are a few money quotes from an article in Japan Today:

“The world was absurd … I had very little in common with and knew even less about a generation that I was supposed to be the voice of,” Dylan says.

“I was fantasizing about a nine-to-five existence, a house on a tree-lined block with a white picket fence, pink roses in the backyard. Roadmaps to our homestead must have been posted in all 50 states for gangs of dropouts and druggies.”

“I wanted to set fire to these people,” Dylan recollects, saying the hordes of fans who turned up at his family home in Woodstock and walked over his roof or tried to break in drove him and his family to seek refuge in New York.

Even though I wasn’t even born until the very end of the man’s heyday, I’ve always liked Dylan; three of his albums are in my truck’s CD case right now. His music is excellent, and to me he always seemed to be saying more and better things than most of his contemporaries. While most of the politically active bands of the era were mindlessly screaming “Fuck the Establishment!”, Dylan’s message was more along the lines of “What is the establishment? How does it affect you? Are you okay with it?”. To some people—the type who show up for a weekend concert without food or beer—the difference might be overly subtle. To me it is hugely and apparently obvious: The former incites revolution only for the sake of revolution, while the latter promotes the legitimate questioning of authority and tolerance for dissent.

There is always a danger in ascribing meaning to an artist’s work, because what we see there might not be what the artist intended us to see. We filter music—as well as all other art forms—through the lenses of sense, opinion, and intellect. That’s how Dylan singing “Tangled Up in Blue” got translated into “come sit on my roof and break into my house”; some folks really think they get it, but they couldn’t, in truth, be further off the mark. I will go out on a limb to say this, however: Bob Dylan’s music is purely American in that it calls for an examination of oneself and the relationship between a free individual and the state. Far from being about revolution, I think his political message – when he had one—was about the responsibility all members of our democracy share to create and participate in a just and accountable government

Uncut

Someone came here today looking for “celebs with foreskins”—obviously another reality show that I am missing because I don’t have a television.

Ethnic Aesthetics

“Any random group of thirty Vietnamese women will contain a dozen who make Julia Roberts look like Lyle Lovett.”

P. J. O’Rourke (1994), All The Trouble In The World: The Lighter Side of Overpopulation, Famine, Ecological Disaster, Ethnic Hatred, Plague, and Poverty

I’ve written here before that I believe humans are naturally disposed to discriminate against members of other tribes. A ‘Blog like this isn’t really the place (perhaps a book is), but I’d love to discuss why I believe that humans are like this and the implications if it could be shown to be true. It wouldn’t excuse racism. Humans are naturally disposed to urinate in the vicinity of running water, but I’d be pretty annoyed if you peed on my kitchen floor next time I turned on the tap to make you a cup of tea. At the end of last week the Beeb reported on an interesting result described in a paper in Nature Neuroscience. When I read it, it lit up some clouds of related thoughts in my head:

Race of face sets brain activity

The brain reacts differently to the faces of people from different races, research shows.

When volunteers looked at pictures of African-Americans, the brain area that processes emotions became active, a study in Nature Neuroscience found.

When they looked at photos of Caucasian faces, the activity was much less.

This held true regardless of the race of the observer, which the authors say could mean the patterns reflect learned cultural responses to racial groups.”

I think this might be a real phenomenon, but, from the reported reactions of other scientists, it sounds like the work is a bit dodgy. I’m not going to express an opinion until I’ve read it myself—something I don’t have time for currently.

When I was at the Institute of Cancer Research most of the black people who worked there were cleaners. (Actually, this is true of the staff at all of the scientific institutions I’ve worked in.) On the rare occasions when I got in at the top of the morning, I would bump into a group of lanky East African women who blended in with the labs’ white-walled modernity and the pale Brits around them like gazelles blend into a multi-storey car park. One day I came in freakishly early. It seemed that they had discovered a bright red dye and had spent the previous evening in, having a girly session of colouring each other’s hair. Looking at their new gonky coifs I remembered the feeling I once had in a school room in Singapore when a teacher wiped clean a blackboard full of Chinese characters: how could anyone treat this strange beauty so casually?

Also last week I caught up with a Chinese friend. The previous time we had eaten together she had told me that, even after she had lived in the UK for a few years, she still couldn’t get over how ugly Chinese and Japanese models and actresses in the Western media were. She couldn’t understand whites’ blindness to it. More recently, I had lunch with a British Punjabi woman (a graduate of the same non-Oxbridge university as my Chinese friend) who described how her school’s netball team took on another school side and the only way she could tell the girl she was supposed to mark apart from all the other blonde white girls was by looking out for her target’s trainers. For quite a while at my secondary school of 1300, mostly lower-middle- and working-class kids, there was one other mixed race boy (no blacks). He was a couple of years older than me and we used to get mistaken for each other. Another coloured kid arrived in my sister’s year. He was good at football. To this day, the only name I’ve ever heard anyone call him by is “Pele”.

Not only does it seem that people are intrinsically sensitive to physical variation out of all proportion to (and orthogonal to) the underlying genetic differences it masks, but their ability to distinguish between individuals by appearance is usually restricted to the members of the racial group they are familiar with. I believe the latter, acquired trait is bracketed by the former, innate one. That is, all humans have ready-made detectors for familiar and alien signals. Experience trains these detectors respectively to characteristics of humans’ own groups and to those of neighbouring groups—just as when we learn to communicate verbally we refine our ability to identify particular combinations of sounds. Most humans can speak and understand language, and your aptitude for a given tongue doesn’t vary with your race, but with the environment you are raised in. It would be interesting to extend work like that described in NN to examine multiple different populations with different kinds and extents of experience of other “races”.

Perhaps one of the least troubling kinds of racism for me is the inability of one ethnic group of humans to tell apart members of another ethnic group when they genuinely are trying to do so, but it shades easily into worse: from open declarations that “they all look the same” to the belief that they all are the same. As civilized beings we have to acknowledge our flaw, resist its effects, and build a world where those who express it are put at a disadvantage. I have lots of half-written posts about this in my ‘Blogging queue, but, for the moment I recommend this article that I discussed by email with Eve Garrard a while back.

Now This Is Funny

Thanks to Jo Salmon for drawing my attention to MP Tom Watson‘s return to ‘Blogging. One of his General Election stories beats all mine hands down:

Yesterday, I went out in the High Street with a life size cardboard cut-out of Michael Howard. The results were interesting – mainly comic,sometimes disturbing but mostly, for a Labour candidate at least, very reassuring.

Most people had no idea who the cut-out was supposed to be. One person asked if it was me before I had put on weight! Another man, with tattoos on his face, pointed at me aggressively and said “I’m not voting for you and I’m not voting for him. You let the immigrants in and he is one!”

Laugh? I Almost Voted Tory

Often I write stuff here and, as I click ‘Publish’, I think, “Is that really funny or am I just deluding myself? Has sitting alone here in my pyjamas reading the news on the Web sent me a bit mad?” Perhaps my cackling at the absurdity of life, politics, and everything is in fact a symptom of some chemical imbalance in my brain. Today I recalibrated my sense of humour by examining what passes for funny on the Liberal Democrat Website. I am a comedy genius.

My New Fashion Guru

I went to Auriol‘s wedding

Auriol radiates outside the church with near and dear ones

Auriol, Pete, and all
[click image to enlarge]

dressed like this:

Damian scrubbed up

Counsell

when I could have gone dressed like this:

Rodman fuglyfied

Rodman

Dennis Rodman: there’s a man who knows how to accessorize a pair of shades.

[Stolen from Go Fug Yourself.]

[The rest of the pics should be on their way to you soon, Aur.]

Northern People Are So Cute

From BBC Sport:

Cuban legend Kindelan had beaten Khan in the lightweight final in Athens, but he had no answer to the Briton in front of a passionate Bolton crowd.

After a cagey opening, Khan exploded on to the offensive and showed brilliant hand speed to prevail 19-13 on points.

“I managed alright,” said a modest [Amir] Khan after the fight.

“This time I knew I was boxing Kindelan and I knew his style – we’d been working on it for a long time.

“I beat the best in the world.”

Khan looked composed from the outset, entering to a huge ovation from the crowd who sang “Show me the way to Amir-illo” as an adaptation of the recently re-released Tony Christie song.

Continuing the northern English sporting humour thread, this morning I discovered a new euphemism. Homosexual males have long been referred to in England as “batting for the other side”, but I just heard someone [I won’t say who] on the radio describe a bisexual woman as “playing for Lancashire and Yorkshire”. (Perhaps the nearest American equivalent would be “playing for the Mets and the Yankees”.)

Roadkill

I once put it to Norm jokingly that one reason he has the patience to pick through the foul-smelling giblets of articles like Madeleine Bunting’s in yesterday’s Guardian is that he has spent years marking terrible student essays. The truth is it’s because he is a top bloke. Rather him than me though.

Two Tragedies

Michael Jackson’s story is Darth Vader’s in reverse. In Star Wars, a whiny, sexually frustrated, white man-child no one trusts turns, via hideous disfigurement, into an all-conquering, super-cool black guy who first made it big in the 70s.

A Beautiful Moment

Fareena Alam, editor of British Muslim magazine Q-News is on Any Questions. I enjoyed a delicious frisson listening to the campaigner against racism and for the right of young women in the West to wear the hijab (er, even on passport photos) complain that young people wear hooded tops in order to commit crimes without being photographed:

“My home was robbed by someone in a hooded top.”

String ‘im up! Some of them Eastern Europeans tried to mug me once, Fareena. Send ’em back where they came from, that’s what I say.

Oh dear, now she’s going on about how the takeover of Man U is “the globalization chicken coming home to roost”. She’s “not happy about it”. I know. I feel the same about all those Bangladeshis coming over here and taking over our high street restaurants. If it carries on like this, the pavements will run with blood I tell you.

Ch- Ch- Ch- Changes

I’ve been tinkering a bit, so do please tell me if you have any difficulty posting comments here or linking to any part of this site. In addition to the under-the-bonnet/hood modifications, I have started using the “Links” feature of WordPress for things I notice that are either too small for a full post or would take me too much time to cover properly. The Links section appears on the right-hand side of the front page below the Most Recent Comments. The latter has now been extended to cope with the increasing level of conversation around here. Hot Wheels Helena’s Seth-Smith site has been added to the Friends of the Geek (get in touch with her if you are yourself a Seth-Smith). Michael Brooke also makes a welcome return to the Friends. I updated the Best Of page yesterday too.

Aagh, My Eyes!

The Jews blew up the Twin Towers using Bush’s depleted uranium technology stolen from the spaceship that crashlanded in Area 51! And Blair lied about it!

As a mumps epidemic rages across Britain, the BBC News feedback facility flares with the magnesium-bright burn of public stupidity:

“What a convenient epidemic! Why didn’t it happen last year, or the year before, or the year before that, to teenagers born before 1988?Is this another attempt to restore faith in the MMR vaccine before the launch of the quadruple vaccine? And yet again, the many thousands of susceptible children that had their lives ruined by the effects of MMR are completely ignored.
Julie Loch, Cardiff Wales

And there’s more where that came from:

” I’ll never believe the so-called experts of our traditional western medical system. If you have a strong immune system your body can fight off all viruses. Once our medical experts promote the truths about how our body works, then the public can reap the rewards. There is much evidence these so called beneficial shots cause more damage than good. Why do so many babies die from crib death shortly after receiving these shots? This is only one example. I encourage all to investigate other treatments than go down the line of believing everything they are told by the system!
Gregory Langen, Chesterfield

Though I did enjoy the way the page layout results in this unfortunate juxtaposition:

A spokeswoman from the Department of Health

‘My testicle swelled up’

Not ever having had mumps as a child, I might be laughing on the other side of my face later.

Dial 419 For A Transfer

Dear Mr Hussein

I am Barrister Ife Giza. I represent "Gorgeous" George Galloway, the recently deceased rightful ruler of the People's Republic of Bethnal Green. I write to you in good faith based on information he gave to me in person during a meeting with him in his office in the Houses of Parliament before his unfortunate and fatal fall into the sea off the Canary Islands from his private jet, The Mariam. Although his body is yet to be recovered, legislation in place since the Asian tsunami disaster makes it possible for him officially to be declared dead. As I am sure you are aware, at the time of his demise President Galloway was en route to the United States in an effort to clear his good name. Because he was unable to do so and his defamation by agents of an imperialist regime remains uncorrected, his fear that his estate will lose money to vindictive government officials, Zionist-fascist newspaper publishers, and his estranged wife widow seems likely to be realised.

Based on this fear therefore, Mr Galloway asked me to seek for a foreign partner who help him to move the total sum of $1 000 000.00 (One Million US Dollars) out of this country. He instructed me to ask you, esteemed sir, as one of his trusted former associates to permit him to deposit this sum temporarily in a nominated bank account, suspiciously empty missile silo, or spider hole of your choice. In return, he wishes you to be credited with tanning oil vouchers to the value of $5 000.00 (Five Thousand US Dollars) which I he believed would be of great benefit to you in your present circumstances.

As soon as I receive an acknowledgement of the receipt of this message in acceptance of your mutual business proposal we will furnish you with the necessary modalities and disbursement ratio to suit both parties without any confusion. Time is of the essence. If this proposal is acceptable to you kindly respond immediately with your most confidential telephone, fax and cell number and your exclusive bank account particulars so that we can use this information to apply for the release and subsequent transfer of skincare products in your favour.

Thank you in advanced for your anticipated co-operation.

I remain your indefatigable servant

Ife Giza

[for and on behalf of the late Emperor Ming of Bow]

P.S. I should take this opportunity to tell you that George was concerned that your "Nigella" model RealDoll™ should survive examination by the guards and sincerely hoped that it would provide you with some comfort in the brief interregnum before your inevitable re-election.

Prophylaxis

Armed with impeccable qualifications, a man applies for a position with a top city company. Unfortunately, he has a problem with one of his eyes: it constantly winks.

“We’d love to hire you,” says the managing director, “but that winking is too distracting.”

“Wait!”, the applicant says, “I can make it stop by taking two aspirin,”

“OK, show me,” the MD replies.

The job candidate reaches into his pocket, pulls out a dozen condom packets and puts them on the table before finding two aspirin. He takes the tablets and the winking instantly stops.

“That’s all well and good,” the executive says, “but we don’t condone womanising here.”

“No, no. You’ve got it all wrong,” the man explains. “Have you ever tried asking for aspirin at the chemists when you can’t stop winking?”

[from The Motley Fool]

Generation G In “Night Of The Teenage Voter”

Orphan Jack has grown up knowing only the strict but kindly guardianship of Father Anthony, the devout head of the Westminster County Home for Lost Boys. By careful budgeting, Jack’s dour Uncle Gordon has managed to pay for Jack’s care during the eight years since his father disappeared. But now Jack is coming of age and confides in his friend Steve that the ways of the increasingly authoritarian priest are becoming to much for him. Jack and Steve have broken Brother David’s curfew at the home to go drinking at Kennedy’s, the local bar, run by jovial, ginger Charlie K. This time they ignore the mysterious stranger they meet on the way who wants them to follow him to Old Woman Thatcher’s house, where it’s said that at night you can hear her sherry decanter and glass clink as she wanders the corridors like a wraith, but by the last reel you know something very nasty indeed is going to happen to our protagonists…

If someone asked me to play Peter York or Douglas Coupland and do a street caricature of Jack’s cohort, I’d probably come up with something like this:

They were born between ’85 and ’95. They take a completely unembarrassed delight in everything about that decade that makes us, Generation X, wince: the music, the mullets, the celebrities, and—even more puzzlingly—the celebridee charidee. But there was something about the tape-cutting, bullshit-squishing energy of Live Aid that was bigger than the hair, the stars, and the gestures; big enough to cast a shadow over those too young to have experienced it directly. Bob is their spiritual father. Peaches is their fantasy bolshie little sister. They are Generation Geldof.

They take no delight at all in politics, but their experiences have pumped up their opinions. They are gap-year internationalists, broken-family social conservatives, single-issue sulks. Their instinctive (or inherited) dislike of Margaret Thatcher is strong, even as they un-self-consciously recite the slogans of her reign, even as they take Thatcher’s agenda for granted. When they bother to vote at all, they mostly vote Liberal Democrat.

Why?

In a democracy (especially this post-Thatcherite one) the answer that explains most powerfully happens to be the simplest: self-interest. The LibDems offer them free post-18 “uni” education. It’s an effective bribe, and one that will never cost the LibDems or their voters a penny. They know we couldn’t afford it. Even at 90s levels of participation, returning grants to a reasonable subsistence level would cost more than the UK health and defence budgets combined. This would be a disgustingly huge subsidy to the middle-classes. When they demand their cut, the middle-classes pretend they’re standing up for the poor. When you point out the consequences, they stick their fingers in their ears and chant “Access! Access!”—even as our broken educational system makes it ever harder for the disadvantaged to “access” their own intellectual heritage—never mind the government handouts the BMW-driving classes fetishize.

Despite its general unwillingness to engage with party politics, Generation G still fancies itself idealistic. Sadly, other middle-class cynics, bitter Old Leftists, want to twist the punk-pragmatic idealism of the children of Live Aid into the misread-Marx idealism of the footstamping infant. A teenager carrying a “Blood For Oil” banner on behalf of a Socialist Worker front organisation thinks she has seen the puppetmasters for what they really are, when she is, in fact, a puppet of people who have been playing posture politics since before she was born.

These are the people the Labour Party will need to persuade to vote for them, stuff envelopes for them, devise policies for them, become MPs for them.

I live in a seat where one of Blair’s “comrades” fell. Like Manchester Withington and Cardiff Central it’s a seat in a constituency with a swing-wielding body of students and academics. Such seats can’t be dismissed as demographic niches; their populations are the future. Soon, everyone will be a student. That doesn’t, of course, mean everyone will be clever. We are talking about people who identify with rather than pity Bridget Jones, Homer Simpson, and Beavis and Butthead. Some dream of World peace; I dream of a world where it’s uncool to be an idiot.

That‘s the challenge. How do you explain to someone who thinks Diana Spencer was a great humanitarian of our time that their “peace” means the dead quiet outside a sound-proofed slaughterhouse? How do you explain that overseas aid is what their African classmate’s father siphons off to pay her international-rate student tuition fees? How do you explain why their grandparents lived in an England where a poor bright boy had a better chance of escaping poverty by his own efforts than he does now?

If someone can do that then the next Conservative government will be but a blip before another age of Labour dominance.

Two Names Better

George Bush beats Britney Spears; Martin Luther beats George Washington; Tony Blair beats Michael Jackson beats Jesus Christ; Bill Clinton beats Saddam Hussein; Osama Bin Laden beats Kofi Annan; Bob Dylan beats Donald Rumsfeld; Angelina Jolie beats Arnold Schwarzenegger. But tough luck to Madonna, Seal, Bono, and Sting. If you’re so famous you have one name then you’re a nobody, like PooterGeek.

(On the subject of Arnold Schwarzenegger, the man knows how to negotiate a contract.)

Er War Populaer

Tuesday was the anniversary of Falco’s “Rock Me Amadeus” reaching number one in the UK charts (1985). Falco died in a car crash in 1998. By way of honouring him, here are the lyrics to possibly the biggest hit ever recorded by an Austrian:

Ooo rock me Amadeus
Rock me Amadeus…
Rock rock rock rock me Amadeus
Rock me all the time to the top

Er war ein Punker
Und er lebte in der großen Stadt
Es war Wien, war Vienna
Wo er alles tat
Er hatte Schulden denn er trank
Doch ihn liebten alle Frauen
Und jede rief:
Come on and rock me Amadeus

Amadeus Amadeus, Amadeus
Amadeus Amadeus, Amadeus
Amadeus Amadeus, oh oh oh Amadeus

Newer Posts
Older Posts