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In my final year at Uni it dawned on me that, having utterly wasted the previous three years generally larking about and doing as little actual work as I could get away with, I would actually have to study really, really hard or I'd end up flunking the whole thing.

So I did. And I started doing really well, too. My grades were well up in all my courses, except one.

Partly it was because I really wasn't interested, partly it was because the tutor was a total fuckwit. As it happens, he was gay -- a fact that he somehow managed to crowbar into whatever subject we were discussing. Christ, he was a tedious bastard.

Anyway, my grades on this course were bringing my average down quite considerably: drastic action was required. So I began to flirt with the tutor. Nothing too overt, but a lingering look here or there, the odd glance at a significant moment. You know, subtle-like.

Bingo! my grades began to improve. And kept improving. It never progressed: even if I were gay myself, I don't think I could ever have induced myself to have anything to do with such a ghastly little troll of a man.

Anyway I graduated with a 2:1, but only after having to sit through a viva with Mr Troll to convince him to up my borderline grade -- one of the most uncomfortable hours of my life.

I do feel guilty about it now: it was manipulative and unfair, not qualities upon which I pride myself. But hey-ho, at least I never had to take it up the Gary.
( reallywittyname veraciously conspues lexiphanicism on, Fri 31 Aug 2007, 12:54, Reply)