It had slipped off my radar until I learned that three people I know would be attending. Two had been given free tickets at a similar event some months prior. The other had booked a complementary ticket via Mr. Howard’s own website.

So here was an event with an attendence in the hundreds, at €1,200 per person, being offered for free. Say just 200 people signed up – that would be almost a quarter of a million euro down the swanee. I thought that strange. Wouldn’t you?

Where was the catch?

Three long days. From early morning to late evening. People would opt to stay in the hotel rather than travel to and from. Could Mr. Howard be getting a kickback on accommodation?

Merchandise perhaps. Would there be all manner of expensive goodies on offer? Books, CDs and DVDs.

Neither would come near softening the blow of dropping a quarter of a million.

Krishna De wrote on her blog that a previous client of hers had attended the event and immediately “signed up for the US$30,000 programme”. Krishna, with feet firmly on the ground, went on to warn “if you do not want to invest at that level, keep your credit card at home!”.

So that was it. Here kid try this. A gift. From me. For free. There now, see how good that makes you feel. And little Johnnie ends up doing horse at €500 a day.

The only difference is the drug being pushed by Mr. Howard is knowledge not heroin. But as a self-confessed knowledge junkie, I know that craving, that thirst, comes from within. Though it can be nurtured, it cannot be forced.

Some religions do force their teachings upon the masses in the guise of knowledge and enlightenment.

Take a look at Mr. Howard’s US website. What do you see? I see Jim Jones. I see the faithful with arms aloft in adoration of their saviour. Long days being preached to and little rest is one of the tools of brainwashing.

Take a look at the menu. CH Crew and Community. I read priests and followers.

Take a look at the UK website. Far more subdued. But then religion is a more subdued affair in Europe than in the US. The same message just tailored to suit the demographic.

Of the three I know, two attended. One has booked another course. At an asking price of £5,000, but for a special lower rate offered to previous attendees.

Their argument: Another outfit is running the same course and they’re not as good and they’re a lot dearer.

My argument: €100k for a car is expensive. €80k for the same is less so, but still damned dear.

Their argument: This is a masters programme.

My argument: It is not like an M.A. or M.Sc. Mr. Howard is abusing the word “masters”.

Their argument: It’s a level II course. I can go on to the highest then – a level III.

My argument: At £7,000 for level III that makes the car far too expensive.

Their argument: Once I have it under my belt I can give courses myself and make a lot of money.

My argument: A pyramid scheme. You progress from follower, to postulant, to novice, to knight or whatever, then bring more followers onboard and the cycle begins again.

I admit a bias in that I have as much faith in NPL gurus as I do SEO experts, but the whole hype and marketing strategy behind Mr. Howard’s programmes just reeks. Splashing buddy-buddy pics of Richard Branson about doesn’t convince me of anything. Even Jim Jones had followers in the upper levels of the establishment.

My reply:

| Thanks for getting back to me so quickly, FC. I will work on this over the weekend.

| In the meantime, I beg to differ on a small point of grammar:

| That the word data is the plural of the singular datum – from the Latin meaning a given (thing).

| While the use of data as the singular form has become acceptable in general usage, in particular in US English, it is, nevertheless, incorrect and in my opinion, should never be used in scientific or academic texts.

| This is not to be confused with the incorrect usage of referenda as the plural of referendum. Referendum, as it is from the Latin meaning that which must be referred, is by its definition, a gerundive and therefore has no plural in Latin. Hence the correct English plural is, by default, referendums.

| Similar debates have been had for centuries as to whether the word trousers is singular or plural. No doubt this is fuelled by it’s being commonly prefixed by a pair of or two pairs of. It is my assertion that the word trousers is at once both singular and plural – singular at the top and plural at the bottom.

| Until such time as all nations have held referendums on trousers, can we agree to differ on data?

| Le gach deá-mhéin
| – Primal

His reply:

| You’re correct, Primal. I don’t know what I was thinking there.

| Lgd

| – Fat Controller

| ps. Permission to use the “trouser” one down the pub?

I really shouldn’t be slagging him – he’s one of the soundest lads you’d meet. As sound as a €1.27 and he’s been a great help. And one of the few I’ve crossed paths with in academia who understands that my day job, the one that puts beer on the counter, has to take precedence over writing 100 pages of bumph that only a small few will ever read.

The one thing I really hated about this was having to cite references throughout. You can’t say “the cat sat on the mat” unless you can back it up with a paper paper given by say, Catologist, Dr. F. E. Line, at the 5th International Carpet Conference in Caracas in 2005. On a Tuesday. About teatime.

The Fat Controller was brilliant at finding such wonderful bedtime reading as this in the labyrinth the university call a library.

Now the CEO of the railway, the course co-ordinator, was a different kettle of horses altogether. A fish of a different colour. About as useful as an ashtray on a motorbike. He caused more confusion than father’s day in Tallaght.

He asked us all to attend a workshop in July. “Who will be doing a work based thesis? A show of hands please.” All hands went up. “Who will be doing a research based thesis?” (Yes, he really did ask!) No hands obviously. He talked for two hours about research based theses.

Before the Feathers, I sent him the same email three times: “Your website states three hardbound copies of the thesis must be presented … Where do we present them? What are the specifications? Does the university have a preferred print supplier? [And so on]“. No replies. I phoned. No answer.

I went by his office the week before last. Not there. I dropped in next door to the Fat Controller. We bitched for a while. I suggested renumbering his office 665 – the neighbour of the beast. He opted not to, but promised to put my queries to the beast himself. In a neighbourly sort of way.

Just in the door and I get a mail from the CEO: “I am doing a survey. Can you tell me where you heard about the course?” I felt like telling him to go fcuk himself – that information was already provided on my application form if he’d bother his arse to look in his filing cabinet. But I didn’t. I was far more polite: “You answer my questions from before Christmas first. Then I’ll gladly answer any you have”. That was more polite, wasn’t it?

I did a survey of my own. Some of my fellow students were struggling to finish their work like me. Others were done and dusted. Three already had their theses bound (at up to €60 per copy) and were waiting to be told by the CEO where to submit them.

Last week, the Fat Controller called. “Good news, Primal. You only need to soft bind two copies – one for me and one for the external examiner. Once approved, you have until September to worry about hard binding the three copies for the exams office. Do not, for the life of you, hard bind now – the extern may suggest edits”.

Writing a thesis is hard enough without having to cope with plonkers like the CEO. Such incompetence wouldn’t be tolerated outside of academia. As a wise man once said, if you did that in Russia, you’d be fcuked in the Liffey.

But there was sunshine, or maybe moonshine, throughout all this too – You folks! Thankee all very many for the encouraging comments. Without them I would have been, I don’t know, sniffing boot polish or something. A particular hat-tip to Aonghus who unwittingly, or wittingly, I’m not sure, gave me the inspiration for the concept I was seeking that would bind the whole thesis together when he quoted Tony Hoare: Simplíocht an praghas atá le n-íoc ar iontaofacht. It pulled it all together. G’raibh maith agat. Mo ceol thú.

Six long days under mouse arrest and all I’ve got to show for it is 20,000 words. They are good words though. I’ve used the word the a lot. It has to be good – it’s in thousands of other theses so it must be. I’m going to use the word conclusion at the end. What do you think? A good move?

So anyway, blogging’s going to be light the next day or two. I may not even get to read yours. I won’t get to read the newspapers. I won’t even get to read the text from aunt Nell asking me to mind her cat.

Before I sign off though, just some quick messages to my most frequent commenters:

Daniel – Listen here, dick head! If you’ve enjoyed every single post on my blog but would “like to check some references” then you are just plain thick and shouldn’t be reading blogs. Get the fekin Beano or a lad mag or something and leave me alone. Fek off!

Samantha2267 – Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know you “love my blog and will be back”. Just stop telling me that 20 times a day. Bitch! Fek off!

Ryexf and your mates Grskiq, Lfpwic and the rest of yez – No, I do not need any Superclorofiedunction with or without prescription. In tab form or otherwise. Oh, and I like my lad the size it is, thank you. The lot of yez, just fek off!

Carlos, Mario, Antonio etc. – Right, so you found my blog while “searching for information on dromedary scrotal hair / Zen and the art of lawnmower repair / fur-lined sky-hooks / whatever”. Know what I think? You need help! Help with Google. Yee lot, fek off too!

In other news, Grandad’s not giving up blogging, even though a lot of folk thought he was. MacDara said he was slowing down because of his new job. And he did. For a while. Now he’s in full flight again. Eolaí intended blogging more than ever, then the customs officials and other assorted wankers put the brakes on him. Sweary gave up totally. Kav doesn’t know if he’s stopped or not and neither do we. Seanachie has ceased indefinitely. Annie said she’d be taking a blonky break. See above. Sam took a break for the summer. Things are strange in blogland of late.

So where am I in all this? To be honest, I don’t know. I’m not running out of material. That’s impossible with the neighbours I have, the way this country’s run and the fact all manner of piffle pops into my head unannounced any time of day or night. But I am under pressure to find time to put it all down on screen. A major work project. That’s good. That means money for beer and all going well there’ll be some left over for food. A major academic project. That’s not good. Long hours for no money, just to be able to add another three letters after my name. Haven’t I enough already? A major construction project. That’s good. It went on so long. But it’s now nearing completion which is when the householder not the builder takes on the greater share of the work. So that’s not good for my supply of free time.

So the bottom line is … the one at the end … but I’m not sure what it should read. Blogging might be weak and/or weekly for the next fortnight or two. Or maybe just fortnight and a half. Or maybe 2.5 fortnights. I can’t say. I can guarantee that I’ll be back in full swing toward the end of December. Around the time of yer man’s 2007th birthday. Clients, lecturers and builders all take a fortnight out then so I’ll have time.

Annie’s heading back to school today to study her film stuff. Fair play! Good on you girl! That’s what reminded me I never finished this series.

It also reminds me I was working on a film set shortly before going back to school myself. On the last day it drizzled non stop while we were shooting scenes of a country fair. A year later I saw the final product at the cinema and there I was, cheering on a Pit Bull terrier (don’t ask) in glorious sunshine. My hair, such as it is, wasn’t even wet. This must be the magic Annie will be learning at Hogwarts Motion Picture Academy. She may also learn how to make scenes shot at 8am on a Sunday morning in a gay bar look like midnight in a buzzing singles nightclub bursting with hot Russian nymphomaniacs.

But anyway, back to the back to school thing.

Exams. Jayzez! The very thoughts of them had me in bits. Remember the nightmares you had for months about the Leaving Cert? You walk into the hall for your maths exam only to be handed the geography paper. Or the day before French you realise you had no teacher all year and the Head had said to study on your own, but of course you didn’t. Well I had those same ones again in the run up to the set in January of the year one. They lessened after that but never went away totally.

Just arrived in the carpark the morning of my very first exam in 16 years I got a call to say my best friend had died. All academic worries flew out the window narrowly missing a groundsman, fluttered about for a minute then transformed into how I was going to get to the funeral. Could I get flights? Could I afford them? Would their availability mean I would miss more than one exam? On the other end of the line, his wife calmly convinced me that my exams were more important than a religious ceremony that not one of the three of us believed in. I wrote a line at the top of the answer book: Dedicated to the memory of the best friend I ever had. Eemondt, if I make a bollix of this, it’s your fault, mate.

As the weeks passed the thoughts of exams faded. Until the days before the results were due. The hardened students said they’d be out two days before the official date and they were. First class honours in most subjects, 2.1’s in the rest. I was ecstatic and very, very tired and emotional (just like a celeb) that evening.

But hold on. I genuinely didn’t do that well. Okay, I had built up good scores in my lab work which counted for 30-40% of the overall. But I had lost the plot in a couple of exams and knew in my heart, liver and kidneys I’d made a rat’s rectum of them. If I performed as poorly during my primary degree all those years ago I would have been failed or just passed. I knew this because I did and I was.

The standards had slipped. It was obvious when I thought about it. It was glaringly obvious the day year two began when I seen all the people I assumed would fail and not be allowed back. People who quite literally couldn’t string two lines of code together by the end of year one. People who still hadn’t grasped the concept of a binary tree. People who hadn’t the slightest interest in the course.

Marking standards were lowered for sure, but so too was course content and quantity. How often had we been told not to worry about the public static void main (String[] args) line in Java? Apparently we didn’t need to know what it’s purpose was. It might be explained in third year undergrad.

Some of the labs were painfully and embarrassingly simplistic – type this in and see what happens. No need to report your findings. No need to understand why the outcome is as it is. Just observe.

The postgrads told me they had already covered topics like Huffman coding, hash tables and heaps in year one.

You can put on your conspiracy hats and tell me why this is so. I’m sure some of you will have plenty to say. Is it because fees are the lifeblood of a university and accepting all comers into year one and passing them into year two ensures funding? Is it so that Bertie can tell the world how many technical graduates Ireland is turning out each year?

This, needless to say, burst my bubble somewhat. To be honest to myself I would have to be scoring firsts or high seconds to achieve anything worthwhile. That is the goal I then set myself.

We were a group of six. From three different countries. Spoke three different languages – four if you count two distinct dialects of one. Varied in age from 20 to, well, to my age. Six different educational backgrounds: Maths, Agriculture, Economics, Physics, Civil Engineering and Robotics. Six different reasons for taking the course.

The initial social groupings were based in either language or gender. i.e. Who went for coffee with whom. Within a week, this had all changed and we became one big team. A six pack. We were all a bit surprised as each confessed to being poor team players.

We were taking 1st, 2nd and 3rd year modules. We were competing against the 2nd and 3rd years who obviously had an edge on us in terms of pure computer science. Even the 1st years had an advantage – Straight out of secondary school, a lot of scientific and mathematical theory was still fresh in their minds. But each of the six pack had an area of expertise and we would coach each other. Even the arts graduate, with no scientific or technological skills, helped those with poor English, and later proved invaluable, saving us hours of research when we were given a finance-based coding project.

The lecturers were as I expected. Some were excellent teachers and communicators, willing to go that extra mile, willing to stay back and answer questions. Others were droning twats who pretty much read from the same script they had prepared years ago. It was the same my first time around all those years back. Some things never change in academia.

What I didn’t expect was the attitude of some of the lab demonstrators. (Note I say some, not all). A more condescending bunch of jerkoffs I never came across. Most were Ph.D. candidates who just a few years previously would have been struggling with the material we were now. They would sit back against the wall chatting among themselves and ignoring requests for help. When they did get up off their arses it would be to tell someone the task was easy, just do this and punch a few keys for them. Who learns from that? Earwigging, I would hear thicko and the like peppered through their conversations.

Now before I go further let me say that in all honesty thicko did aptly describe quite a few of the students I met. Why they were attempting degrees in IT was beyond me. Numbers applying for such courses had fallen and the intake wasn’t of the standard of years back. That’s a separate post for another day. But it did gall me that these demonstrators were being paid for a job they were not doing. It was not their place to make judgements and to decide coaching students of poor ability was pointless and not to be bothered with.

I knew I would crack eventually. And I did. I was failing miserably to get some code working and asked one of them over. He grunted that I should have had that part done an hour ago. I would never survive in the real world by being so slow. Real world! That was a red rag to a bull.

Listen hear, sonny boy. I was working in the real world, as you call it, when you were still shitting yellow. Don’t you dare tell me about the real world – you’ve never been there. You never will in fact – no employer would hire an attitude like yours. I’ve fired people like you.

My fees are paying your wages for this lab session. You are working for me now. So sit down there and do what I’m paying you for.

There was an eerie silence in a room of 50. Not even the sound of a proverbial dropped pin. He sat down slowly. Glowing bright red. Which is a sight to behold when the one blushing is a dark skinned Indian.

From then on no-one had a problem getting help from him, or any other demonstrator, while I was in the room. It isn’t like me to freak out like that and I apologised immediately, but it really gets on my wick when someone is paid for a job they aren’t doing.

Now read #4.

Okay, I wouldn’t need to submit academic references, but I would need to send either a transcript of my results or the original parchment from my primary degree. I had the latter.

Very carefully, I took the frame off the wall and extracted the scroll. Two large envelopes taped together, with a cardboard insert and DO NOT BEND written in big red letters would ensure my prized possession would not be damaged. I delivered the application form, cheque and documentation personally.

Two weeks later I got notification that I was accepted. Weh hee! After a couple of days my scroll was returned. Folded in four and with a coffee stain! I was fit to be tied. These scrolls are made of heavy parchment and I knew getting the creases out would be hard. Very hard. Harder than the horns on a lorry load of leprechauns at a mini-skirt convention.

Then I screwed up. After pressing it under a mountain of magazines for weeks, I put the lot in the recycle bin. This was to come back to haunt me.

The next task was to tell everyone. My family expressed their support: You’re fekin mad! At your age? Jayzez, what are you thinking of?

My friends were supportive too: Ya mad eegit! You’ll be penniless! Centless. Senseless. Don’t come scabbing off me for bus fare.

The lads in the pub would be the real challenge. It’s gone 7pm. Do you have an adult with you? Someone dug out a CD of The School Around The Corner and it was played again and again. Until I etched Wankers on it with my keys that is. The weekend before I was to start I was presented with a gift-wrapped parcel. A Simpsons pencil case and a Transformers lunch box.

Registration day came. I was asked for my scroll. I didn’t have it. Of course I didn’t – it was turned into a cornflakes box or something by then. I asked why they needed it anyway, seeing as I had already sent it to the computer science department. Can’t you call them and have their photocopy sent over? They’d be on their break now, Mr. Sneeze. You could go get it yourself. How can they be on their break, I asked. It’s 10 o’clock and they only started work at half nine? I was met with a scowl and Glenda Gilsen eyebrows. Ok, ok, ok, I’ll go get it.

I returned with it 30mins later and skipped the queue – I just need to drop this off with Glenda, that’s all. Glenda, her eyebrows now on the nape of her neck, took it reluctantly and directed me onward to the finance desk.

What do you mean? Of course I’ve paid the fees. Here’s the receipt from the bank. But it is not showing on our system, Mr. Sneeze, so I can’t proceed. You will have to come back in two weeks for late registration. Look, I pointed out, this is a case of me and Jolene Blalock. I’m sorry sir. What I mean is, it’s just not going to happen. Now take the receipt and go find someone who can fix this. I’m staying put.

All this was torturous but it did open my eyes to something. I was Mr and Sir while mainstream students were addressed by their first names. Age was bestowing a modicum of respect, even from the trolls in admin. I had a weapon of mass disruption at my disposal. And use it I did. More on this later.

Why did I do it? A lot of reasons. I figured if I didn’t do it then, I never would. The older I would get, the harder it would be. Later I was to meet students 35 years my senior. This reason didn’t count for much then.

After years of learning by doing, reading and experimenting I had developed a lot of skills and know-how. But without a piece of yellowing parchment in a pretty frame it was difficult to prove this to employers and clients.

I discussed it at length with the dog. He was straight out of the education system himself having just learned how to growl on command and stuff like that, so he provided excellent counsel. Plus he was very accommodating. As long as I got him up and dressed and fed in the mornings he was fine with being on his own most of the day.

How would I do it? This was the first challenge. Money. I had to balance value for money and course quality. I would also need some free time to take on enough small jobs to pay for dog food and beer. The need for time also meant the shorter the commute the better.

Luckily, and I’m not usually lucky, just ask Ladbrokes or Paddy Power, there was a course on offer in the university closest to me. It was a good match content wise and just 25 hours per week. The clincher was it was supported by an EU/Irish Government skills retraining initiative. If your primary degree was not in IT or pharmaceuticals you could take a postgraduate diploma in either and pay only 10% of the fees. I didn’t tell the dog the money we’d be saving. He’d be throwing lavish steak parties for his bitches every night of the week.

If I got a first class post-dip, and I was confident I could, I would be allowed into the second year of a masters programme. It was all too good to be true. It couldn’t get much better. At this rate I’d find Jolene Blalock in my bed some night and she’d be refusing to leave. Ever.

Then it came to the application form and I hit a stumbling block. Two academic references were required. Which lecturers from 16 years ago would remember me? I got on well with many of them. But of these, some were no longer in the land of the living. Others had retired and were untraceable. Two lived nearby but were on holiday and wouldn’t be back until after the deadline. I didn’t have much trust in my old faculty following through on their promise to aid my search.

After two weeks of tearing my hair out and sleepless nights (from worry – Ms. Blalock is running late) I called the university to plead for extra time. I would pay a late application fee if needed.

Oh, that won’t be necessary. Only those coming directly from a degree course need references. You don’t.

But that’s not what the form says!

I know. It’s terrible isn’t it? They’ve been talking about changing it for years now.

This was my introduction to bureaucracy in academia. It was to get worse. Now read Back to School #2.