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124 pages

English

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Bumbling British graduate Tom Toft is a man without a plan. Struggling gallantly with his own antipathy, he stumbles into a doctorate in political philosophy at a prestigious American university, determined to find his purpose in life. When, in an uncharacteristic moment of luck, Tom secures a scholarship from an obscure philanthropic organisation, suddenly his future is looking bright across the pond.The result of the 2016 presidential election galvanises Tom to put theory into practice by joining the political activism sweeping campus, through which he finally finds a purpose - and a girlfriend. But before long fate steps in and the budding progressive's life is thrown into chaos through a series of unfortunate and publicly humiliating events.Will this modern-day Adrian Mole ever make it out from underneath his desk?Witty and thought-provoking in equal measure, Pond Life is a satire of contemporary academia that questions the institutionalisation of privilege and highlights the dangers of unequal power.

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Publié par	Distributed by eBookpartnership
Date de parution	29 septembre 2022
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781839785337
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	2 Mo

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Extrait

POND LIFE
Jack R. Williams

Published by RedDoor www.reddoorpress.co.uk
© 2022 Jack Williams
The right of Jack Williams to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
The US News and World Report by Elie Wiesel. Copyright © 1986 by Elie Wiesel Reprinted by permission of Georges Borchardt, Inc., on behalf of the Estate of Elie Wiesel
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the author
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manne r. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Cover design: Clare Connie Shepherd
Typesetting: Jen Parker, Fuzzy Flamingo www.fuzzyflamingo.co.uk
For Myri
Life is not about regrets, it is about reciting those regrets for the amusement of others.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Chapter 1
My first professor at York used to say that philosophy isn’t about finding the answers, it’s about asking the right questions. I liked the idea, though wasn’t entirely sure what she meant. I still hadn’t worked it out when I returned for my final year to a campus gripped by post-graduation angst.
Despite starting university in the midst of the great recession, finding a job had always seemed to me an unwelcome inevitability, rather than something to worry about. Scouring the lists of graduate positions online, I soon discovered that a bachelor’s in Political Philosophy isn’t a golden ticket to a fulfilling career. In fact, the world generally seemed to suffer from a lack of fulfilling careers. The lists of vacancies swarmed with companies in the financial sector, proponents of a capitalist system I’d spent the last three years rallying against. I wasn’t going to be lured by promises of personal development and a dynamic work environment. Sadly, many weren’t so discerning. I watched, appalled, as presumed comrades fell over themselves in pursuit of lucrative appointments. What signs had I missed during all those two-for-one Tuesdays?
I wanted something practical, something a little different; an honest profession with a dash of adventure. Amongst the postings for jobs in sales, marketing and recruitment, only one tickled my fancy – a graduate position at the British Port Authority. I pictured myself atop a ship’s deck in the mist of the early hours, cup of hot cocoa in hand while lamenting the loss of a dozen souls to a watery grave. Besides, what was more poetic or ingrained in British blood than seafaring? Enthusiastically, I described these expectations in a preliminary phone interview to a nice lady from Human Resources. She listened politely, before asking: ‘What exactly do you think we do at the British Port Authority?’ I didn’t make it through to the next round.
My nautical ambitions crushed, things started to look decidedly wobbly. The prospect of scuttling back south to my hometown of Eastbourne and my parents’ comfortable semi loomed before me. My return would vindicate those school friends who’d forgone further education to earn a living, while I accumulated debt debating the finer points of political economy.
As the clocks went back and icy winds penetrated the walls of my student hovel, my principles began to waver. Was rejecting the whole of a market-based economy really such a good idea? In the end, a voicemail from my mother broke my resolve.
‘Hello, darling. Just thought I’d give you a call to see how you’re doing? All fine down here, though your granny’s causing problems again. She called the postman a… Well, it’s all sorted now. Oh, I bumped into Chris yesterday, she said to say hi, asked what you’d been up to. Any more thoughts on that front? Brenda from the flower club will be away for a month next summer, visiting her Greg in Australia. Means we need someone for an hour a week to pick up the foliage. Could be a possibility, for the short term? Would bring in a bit of cash for going to the cinema. I’m happy to have a word, if you like? Anyway, let me know…’
That evening I filled out a raft of applications for everything from wealth management to the invaluable art of actuarial risk assessment.
Having struggled so furiously with my own antipathy towards the merchants of capital, it came as a surprise to find the feeling was mutual. Automated rejection followed automated rejection, each one a stinging reminder of the worthlessness of my ethical compromise. It felt as if I’d anguished over selling my soul to the Devil, only to discover he wasn’t interested.
In desperation I turned to one of Satan’s own, my brother Edward, for advice.
‘It’s a tricky situation, I must say. I think you had the right idea with the maritime gig. Why don’t you go abroad properly? The empire’s long gone, of course, so opportunities for young gentlemen with no prospects or discernible skills have diminished, but there are plenty of less glamorous postings overseas. You could join the ranks of those brave neo-colonial souls teaching English as a foreign language?’
Besides the allure of the high seas, the possibility of seeking my fortune elsewhere in the world hadn’t occurred to me. Leaving the British Isles would certainly open up a new vista of possibilities. Teaching English wasn’t an option, as Edward well knew. We’d so relentlessly ridiculed our cousin’s ‘life-changing’ two months reciting nouns in Lisbon, that my pride wouldn’t allow it. Maybe I could learn another language myself? I remembered a few phrases of secondary school German, and French couldn’t be that difficult.
The next day I battled to suppress images of Venetian canals and sun-drenched vineyards while explaining the idea of my undergraduate thesis to my supervisor, Professor Simon P Barker. I basically wanted to construct a new model for defending the existence of the state as a political entity: an endeavour of no interest to ninety-nine per cent of the world’s population, but still a pressing concern to those in political theory. Barker nodded sagely as I talked, gazing out of the window as if distracted.
‘Have you ever thought of pursuing an academic career?’
I was taken aback. I hadn’t thought my idea was that good. ‘No, not really. I’d sort of thought of doing something a bit more useful…practical.’
‘Plenty of opportunities in academia for practical research, especially in political theory. It can be a great living, it really can. If you have an aptitude for research, as you appear to have…’
I smiled sheepishly. ‘It could be something I might be interested in…though I’d sort of had the idea of going abroad…’
‘If you like… I have a colleague, Kenneth Atlee…’ He paused, as if awaiting a sign of recognition. Obligingly I narrowed my eyes and nodded slowly.
‘We were at Oxford together. He’s the Chair of Political Theory at Laughton now. It’s a bit dull out there, but not far from New York and the department is very good. He always moans that not enough English students go overseas to study. In the States they combine the masters and doctorate, so it would be a five to six-year course in total. Certainly stand you in good stead for a permanent academic position. I’d happily put you in touch?’
I struggled to remain composed at the mention of Laughton. Though not one of the most well-known Ivy League Schools like Harvard or Yale, Laughton was more than their match for academic excellence and historical prestige, boasting three former presidents among its alumi.
When applying for university, I’d purposefully avoided Oxbridge, partly out of an ad hoc socialist disdain for elitism and partly because I doubted my grades would prove sufficient. Still, when during the first weeks of York those venerable institutions came up, I enjoyed declaring I hadn’t even applied. Only later did I realise this is the same explanation the pudgy prepubescent gives for their failure to make the school football team. Three years on and stung by my capitulation to the good people at Goldman Sachs, Laughton shone like a beacon of salvation from across the sea. Besides, principles are all very well for people with options.
Despite my giddiness, I composed myself enough to stammer a question that made clear my financial resources were not limitless. Barker overlooked my embarrassment.
‘The thing in the States is that very few people actually pay to complete a PhD. Utter dunces and rogues, withstanding. Usually, the university waives the tuition fees then you earn money by giving classes. Some students manage to secure some sort of additional funding to help with living costs too. There are a lot of problems with American academia, of course, but then again isn’t there everywhere. The situation here is…’ He shook his head in resignation ‘…in what world does it make sense to rank universities on how many students pass their degrees?’
I tried to mimic his gloom, eager to leave before he questioned whether I too belonged to the ranks of the undeserving, pushed through the programme to improve the university’s standing in the league tab