The British University System is Broken

It was a chance encounter in a pub recently that brought home to me just how broken the British university system has become. I’d ordered beer ahead of the quiz when the barmaid chirped, “You’re a teacher, aren’t you? I think you taught me!”

This is hardly unusual. After 30 years in the classroom, one is bound occasionally to bump into former pupils who greet you with wide-eyed disbelief – as though they can’t quite comprehend that you have a life sans tie and board marker. On this occasion, I had no recollection of her now expectant face, not surprising as she told me it had been 12 years since I’d imparted my wisdom on Othello. 

And so, in the five minutes before the quiz, with the foam of the beers settling, she provided a potted history of her adult life: the psychology degree at a middling university; the Master’s at the same place; the travelling; the succession of McJobs until her resting place here, as a part-time purveyor of wines and spirits. She had clearly sensed my next question, declaring: “I haven’t done anything with the psychology. Yet.”

It was this “I haven’t done anything… yet” that was still ringing in my ears as we took our seats. Of course, a university education has never been a guarantee of a glittering career, and the ways in which most people find their settled roles are often circuitous. And equally valid is the view that education is not just about its earnings potential: I like to think that my own English Literature degree has given me a worldview that no pay cheque could replace. 

But today’s graduates inhabit a very different world. When I left university in the 90s, less than 30% of teenagers went on to higher education; now the figure is closer to 55%. Far more degree-holders are chasing a shrinking pool of graduate-level jobs. I finished my own course absolutely skint, but without the eye-watering debt that now burdens most students. I didn’t ask the barmaid about her loans – it would have been vulgar – but a three-year degree plus a Master’s has probably left her with well over £50,000 to repay. That’s a lot of pints to be pulled.

It was also a salutary encounter for a more personal reason: my own son is about to sit his A-levels and has just firmed up his university choices. The mixed feelings in our house are understandable. We spent much of the past year trudging around open days, and the contrast with my own experience in the 1990s could hardly be starker. Back then, you had to convince the university that you were worth admitting. Today, even many once-proud red-brick universities are locked in an existential scramble to secure your 30 grand.

The presentations are slick and relentless, drenched in the usual buzzwords: “opportunity”, “real-world experience”, “state-of-the-art technology” and “student welfare”. Bright-eyed current students give slick pitches to the rows of anxious parents, telling us how “amazing” and “transformational” their course has been. Lecturers who’ve drawn the short straw for the Saturday shift do their best to look inspirational while describing what a vibrant, supportive environment they work in. For one queasy moment I picture Alan Partridge in green lederhosen, seductively cooing “Would you like me to lap dance for you?” to his horrified producer, but quickly dispel it.

I glance around the auditorium to see whether other parents share my scepticism. The audience is strikingly international. It’s clear that universities now depend heavily on students from countries such as China, India and Nigeria, whose fuller fees are essential to their business models. The past really does feel like a foreign country, ironically. 

A telling moment comes during the double act by two course administrators. First up is an ageing, tweed-waistcoated professor with the air of a man who enjoys real ale and Prog Rock. His tone is dry and slightly sardonic, as if he too recognises the performative absurdity of the occasion. I warm to him instantly, reminding me of the louche, popular lecturers from my own student days. He can’t be far from retirement. By contrast, his colleague is a couple of decades younger: sharp trouser suit, purposeful stance and a thick Chinese accent. Her presentation is a fluent stream of corporate scripture: “achievement”, “outcomes”, “competitiveness”, “excellence”. It sounds business-like, but feels utterly vacuous. Here, surely, is the changing of the guard.

Away from the open days, the ‘pick me!’ desperation continues. One of my son’s favoured universities has clearly recruited a small army of students to phone prospective applicants to ask how things are going. The same relentlessly peppy young woman – like an insecure girlfriend demanding commitment – calls him three times. On the fourth call, he lets it ring out with a muttered, “Just fuck off, will you?”

Perhaps most bizarre of all is a letter from another university. Beneath the obligatory “We really enjoyed meeting you!” it informs my son that the campus is currently full of cute rabbits. To hammer the message home, it has included an A4 sheet of blue paper with instructions on how to fold an origami bunny. My son raises an arched eyebrow and mutters “Jeez.” I couldn’t be prouder – I have clearly educated him well.

So, what to do? 

The barmaid’s cheerful “yet” still echoes. She is bright, articulate and personable, but by any measure, the system has failed her. My son’s generation deserves better than glossy brochures, origami rabbits and lifelong repayments for experiences that deliver neither wisdom nor wages. The quiet madness I glimpsed in that pub is not irreversible – but it will only change when enough parents, students and politicians stop pretending that more university is always better.

Dave Summers is a Sixth Form teacher and his name is a pseudonym.