Imperial College Of Banking

This week has been relatively quiet, in the world of A. Geek. A few complaints, the occasional lecture, the ever-encroaching shadow of Boris Johnson’s magnificent rear end. One thing did get me though. A friend of mine – we’ll call him E, because it has nothing to do with his name whatsoever – asked me to apply for a bank internship in his name. Think about that for a bit.

Now, E isn’t the sharpest nail in the coffin of my sanity, but he’s hardly a bastion of friendliness and co-operation either, so I did the socially respectable thing to do, and ignored his request religiously until the bastard went away.

Little did I know it was the Moneybags Conference Fortnight, sponsored by Two Short Planks, PLC; yes, that cheery time in the Imperial calendar where seventy percent of you admit you couldn’t give a monkey’s toss about science, and would rather have cloth sacks with dollar signs on thrown at you to sit in front of Excel spreadsheets until the guy above you dies, or you commit seppuku at the fruitlessness of it all. My money – and current national statistics – are on the latter.

Now, as you know, nothing makes me happier than idiot magnets, as it not only increases the odds of a gas leak finally doing some good, but also allows me to avoid a higher proportion of fuckwits during the week than I might normally do by simply not going to the Union.

However, having so many companies leeching off of a college that is, for some subjects at least, in the top ten worldwide, raises some questions for me. Most prominently, “Are we completely screwed as a species, if our brightest minds are going to milk money out of Hong Kong all day?” But also secondary, more article-extending ones, like “What exactly are you looking to compensate for with a fifty thousand pound salary”, or “Are you looking forward to the 2011 currency crash”, and my favourite, “Please just leave my course right now, you shits” which, while not actually being in the form of a question, is probably the most pressing of all.

I’d say that I didn’t know why you were doing it, but that – like Goldman Sachs’ recruitment presentation – would be largely bullshit. You’re doing it so you have a comedy-charity-donation-cheque-sized pay packet to cover up any shreds of self-respect you may have showing. That’s fine. We all do things that are a bit silly because of our crippling sense of personal failure. For instance, the other day I realised that no-one was taking me very seriously, so I decided to run for London Mayor. The difference here is that, whilst I’ll lose the vote due to my tricky policy on Underground elevators (if someone is on the left, and moving slower than you, you’re legally allowed to throw them off the side), the long-term effect is just that I’ve got a failed attempt to enter politics on my Mi5 file. Whereas you’re adding yet another five-foot seven collection of genitalia to Canary Wharf’s already massive pile of schlongs.

And to you, obviously, this means very little. Because you’re only one person, you’ve only got one vote, you’re only driving one car (until Goldman Sachs recruit you, naturally) and you can only have one job. Why shouldn’t you get the best for yourself? That’s what life’s about, we do live in America, after all! And you’ll probably buy a wind farm, or adopt a small Ethiopian cow, or use energy-efficient paint on your bedroom door and things like that, and slowly become right-wing as you realise the government is taking most of your hard-earned… well… earned cash. And that’ll be that.

Or is there something more to that lecture course you took on immunology? Is there some truth in what that PhD student told you about the importance of research? Sure, it seems boring now. And it’s definitely very poorly paid. Plus, even if you escape Imperial, you won’t escape the feeling that every scientific institution has – that unsettling air of homework. And probably, the idea of a moral duty to study rats in a laboratory somewhere is laughable to you. But while you’re applying alongside E this week for some faceless management firm, consider this – if you don’t go and move green pieces of paper around, some other jerk will step in and take your place. But if you don’t use your intellect to further our understanding of the world, no-one will. And in this day and age, the world could probably do with being understood a little better.

Democra-what?

For my Fresher readers, prepare to be alienated. Those of you who voted in last year’s Union elections – yes, all twelve of you – I understand that you thought voting ‘Felix for Felix Editor’ was funny. I get it, there was a funny man on the posters and everything. It’s hilarious, after all, when you do something silly in a serious situation. It’s like farting whilst giving evidence at The Hague, or wearing a spinning bow tie when you go to speak at your grandfather’s funeral. However, real democracy – yes, the kind that actually affects things – is subtly different to the Union elections, and so before I hear one more person tell me they’re going to vote for Boris ‘Gosh, Golly and Blige’ Johnson in the mayoral elections “for a laugh”, let me run through a few of the finer points.

First of all, unlike the Union elections, I can’t avoid the fallout if you get your way. That means that if you dick things up this time “for a laugh”, I can’t just stop eating in the JCR for twelve months and wait for them to bring back wholemeal rolls again. It’s an entire city, guys, and the only reason you know Boris’ name is because, in order of importance, he has silly hair, he was on an episode of Have I Got News For You, and he shagged someone he wasn’t supposed to. Now, whilst I accept that those three attributes cover 70% of Kensington and Chelsea’s inhabitants, that’s not exactly how choosing a political candidate is supposed to work.

And I know, I know, the papers call the other guy “Red Ken” and say bad things, and the papers are always right because the other day they told you to buy a man’s trenchcoat from Marks And Spencer and then that cute guy smiled at you in Starbucks. I get it. Thing is, though, they’re occasionally wrong about stuff, and even if you dislike Ken “Face Like A Cabbage That’s Been Through At Least One, If Not Two, Digestive Systems” Livingstone, it doesn’t really follow that you should vote in some nincompoop as some kind of spiteful backstab.

I have a friend who, on regular occasions, tells me that this country is great because of its proud history of Democracy. Not real Democracy, obviously, the fake kind where people ask your opinion and then spend four years subtly getting you to look the other way by pointing and shouting “Taxes!” but Democracy nonetheless. Needless to say, she hasn’t been in this country for an election, because if she had she’d realise just how much of a joke it’s become since we were lopping heads off of Kings and the like.

Presumably the desire to joke-vote your way into oblivion comes from the notion that your vote doesn’t actually count, as if the auditors at the Polling Booth look at each card and just say, “Well, he’s voted for Boris, but this guy’s a kidder. Put it in the incinerator, Geoff.” The idea that one voter is insignificant was fine when it made you stay at home and not give a toss – that was bliss, it meant that those of us that did vote could just tell you to where to shove it when you complained about the government six months later. Now you’ve decided to be post-modern and individual by voting for someone you find amusing, without realising that everyone else is going to do the same thing. Don’t get me wrong – people are just as cripplingly lazy in real elections as they were in the Union ones – but there’s nothing the general public likes more than doing pitifully ridiculous things en masse. See also: war, religion, buying throw rugs for sofas and Diet Coke.

Now, at this point you may be thinking, “But if everyone votes for Boris, that’s democracy, right? Whatever we wanted him for, at least we chose him.” And that’s fine, if you’re an idealist who thinks that Greece had it right all along. Unfortunately, we don’t live in a futuristic utopia where people take drugs to purify their minds and make clear-cut decisions about which colour to paint the living room. We live in a world where people take normal drugs, paint the living room disgusting variations on the same shade of beige, and vote for whoever they’re told to. So don’t try and tell me that the people get what they wish. The people get what they’re told to wish for. And on that note, I’d ask you – be careful what you wish for. You might get it.

Facebook Losers

To get the most out of today’s column, you’ll need an internet connection, because I’ve got some interactive fun for you this week. What I want you to do first is surf to your favourite website. Really. Go on – actually do it, don’t just read on and spoil the magic.

Now, be honest – are you on Facebook? If you’re not, skip on a paragraph or two. Otherwise, put your right hand in front of the monitor, fingers spread out and palm facing towards you. Yes? Okay, then stare at the gaps between your fingers, and move your hand very fast towards you, so that it slaps you in the face, as hard as possible. Do it a few times, just to get the feel of it. Are you with me yet, or would it be easier if I created a “First Up Against The Wall, Come The Revolution” group and invited you to it?

Here are the things that terrorism is responsible for bringing into my life – occasional worried phone calls from my mother. And that’s really about it. Here’s what Facebook users are responsible for bringing into my life – constant, unending badgering by others to join inane, curly-fingers-quotation-marks “political” groups about completely fuck all; page after page of pointless writing in the papers and on news sites covering “the power of the internet” as if email had never been invented; the dullest conversation I have ever, ever had, involving the latest Facebook meta-gossip; Madeleine sodding McCann; and probably worst of all, the four-in-a-million retards who haven’t joined Facebook, ostensibly as some ridiculous statement of personal integrity, but really because they can’t trust themselves not to start posting photos of their nipples, who delight in impressing their “alternative choice” upon me every waking hour of every day.

Woop-di-do. You discovered social networking. Here’s how you find out what my ‘Favourite Movies’ are if you’re a Facebook user – you become my friend. And I don’t mean you click on a strip of text and write something in a box about me having really nice eyes, or thinking you knew me from some club in north Wales. I mean you, you know, talk to me and get to know me and things.  Don’t get the wrong end of the meme here – I’m just as up for buying into internet-based group masturbation as the next student. But unlike the rest of the Imperial ‘network’ on Facebook, I’ve managed to contain my burning desire to share my relationship status with half of South Kensington and some moron from New Jersey. People I don’t know aren’t listed as my friends; do you see the subtlety here? I don’t list my favourite music for my friends to see, because my friends already know what that is. That’s why they’re my friends. It’s like how when a burly gentlemen standing outside Tesco at midnight asks you if you’re on your own, you don’t say, “Why yes, I have no friends in the immediate area and am a little bit lost. Also, maybe you’d like to know my top three Orlando Bloom films?” Instead, you walk on, because hey! That’s kind of how society works.

I don’t care if you think it’s a good way to meet new people. So is serving a jail sentence for indecent exposure, but we don’t spend our lunch hours attempting that, do we? Nor do I care if you think it’s an upmarket version of MySpace – at least the people on MySpace knew they were geeks with a self-respect lobotomy. Facebook is MySpace, but with any shred of entertainment sucked dry, replaced with a blue-and-white colour scheme, and given a copy of The Sun to read. Honest to god, a cursory glimpse of my News Feed tells me that people I know – people I have been in the same room as – have joined a group for “Hot Chinese Girls”. Now, there are literally millions of ways to connect to other human beings on this planet. Religion. Politics. Being born in the eighties. But no, we’ve actually chosen to hook up with people who have a thing for Far Eastern women in tights. Awesome. One up for the next generation.

But you don’t care, and neither do I. Because frankly, if you’re on Facebook for seven hours a day, at least I know where to avoid you.