There are currently some 700,000 university students in Australia, which I would estimate represents 145,478 cases of Chlamydia, 49,678 one-night stands and 4,567,099 packets of instant noodles consumed in the last calender year.

We have institutions aplenty (39 at last count) which are excellent at pumping out graduates who have gained little beyond a vague understanding of post-structuralism and an impressive repertoire of drinking games involving Sambucca.
But Julia Gillard thinks we need even more university students: 300,000 more to be precise. All part of the Education Minister‘s plans to give the higher education system a bit of a face lift.
Somehow we’ve gotten to a point where the prevailing wisdom is that a half-decent UAI means you must beat a path to the nearest university for a spot of learning the minute your Gold Coast strap marks have faded and you’ve gotten the Midori out of your hair.
If you are intent on becoming a doctor or a lawyer or an accountant or dentist, then years of rigorous education and swotting up on the finer points of property law or how the knee bone connects to the thigh bone, is a good thing.
But for those who are stumbling into tertiary education with the idea that they’ll spend several years wandering through ivy-covered sandstone courtyards, only to come out into the world educated in the ways of D.H. Lawrence and life and Sub-Ski-Soc parties, there are a few things we need to discuss.
We seem to be surrounded by people (usually baby boomers with fond, stoned memories of watching free Fellini films and furtive fumblings in the bar after a shandy too many) who speak nostalgically, glowingly, of the so-called ‘university experience’.
But in my five or so years at various institutions studying a veritable swathe of subjects, I found nary a hint of this collegiate, intellectual ambience.
If you go to university you will learn how to negotiate your way through the mire of Centrelink bureaucracy.
You will learn how to drink, nay, truly appreciate wine supped from a 4-litre box and you will become quite deft at fending off the feeble overtures of an engineering student.
You will learn to treat with abject distrust, tinged with antipathy, anyone with a Jesus fish on t-shirt, anyone from the Womyn’s Collective and a certain philosophy lecturer with a penchant for post-lecture private tutoring.
But no one sits on the lawns, hanging. You will not think particularly great thoughts beyond coming up with new ways to fiddle your youth allowance form and you will read no more than a brief chapter here and there by great writers.
You will not come away with any momentous amount of knowledge or any particular qualifications that will make you that much more of an attractive prospect to any employer who does not require hairnets to be worn at all times.
If you’ve ever pondered the question, what does a 2.1 in History and a post-graduate qualification in Journalism get you, then you’re looking at it - a HECs debt, 18,000 poetically un-spell-checked words about something to do with social protest movements of the 21st century (a page-turner and a half) and several Ikea shelves full of half- read books.
Then there’s a lingering sense I could have somehow better spent four years of my life actually reading books or helping save the third world or just sleeping in. I’m starting to wish that I had thought more about what I really wanted out of the whole tertiary gambit before I plunged in head first and had to spend hours of my life reading Brecht.
To those 300,000, (most of whom are currently learning how to use scissors and the important lesson why we should never eat Clag), and to the HSC students of 2009, I ask you this - think very carefully about your university choices, because frankly, why don’t you choose not to?
I propose this instead - have the awkward drunken sex, live in abject poverty , eat the bad food and pretend to understand Marshall McLuhan for a couple of years without the burden of having to knock out 5,000 words on Ford Maddox Ford’s ‘‘The Good Soldier”.
Make the choice not to rack up an IOU to the federal government to the tune of tens of thousands of dollars and have only a vague understanding of Foucault to show for it. Choose to tread your own beer-stained path to nebulous maturity unfettered by Union fees or having to actually read Ulysses (or pretend you’ve even started the damn colossus).
Spend several years drinking with abandon and do away with the pretence of higher education and tertiary qualifications and then actually do something that will help the country- like take up hairdressing at Tafe.
Now a nation of hairdressers, surely, that’s something Julia would really like.
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