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From: D.Staniford, PhD Student
Date: 6/4/98
When the Internal Complaints Procedure has been exhausted, the thoroughly exhausted student now fans the flames of the ivory towering inferno by 'going public'. Faced with the bare-faced cheek of a student whistleblower, the University of Armageddon now adopts the teflon Don approach to complaints management. Such is the logic of the Infernal Complaints Procedure. When most institutions would dowse the fire and ire by mediation and arbitration the University of Armageddon prefers to adopt the "no fires on me" approach. Its fingers of fudge may have been burnt but such a hellish institution prefers to fudge the issue still further. The student now blows the firey top and all hell breaks loose. Even when faced with First-Degree burns the University of Armageddon plunges deeper in the fire by denying everything. Meanwhile, the student whistleblower is whistling whilst they work. Amidst this utter confusion members of Faculty either resign in blind panic, take early retirement or suddenly contract a devilish new disease; namely "medacious myopia". Such victims can be spotted stumbling around the corridoors of power at the University of Armageddon clutching copies of THES, Concrete shoes and muttering "the CIA are after me" under their bad breath. In worst case scenarios - often where the University has Extra Air - certain individuals have been known to self-combust. This is more serious than the usual hot-air most members of Faculty expire. The student, on the other hand, has long scarpered as the Infernal Complaints Procedure is too hot to handle even for Paul Newman. Members of the University of Armageddon, however, intoxicated by the fumes of fumbling idiots fan the flames of failure still further by electing, as new Dean, Professor Global Warming himself. In the hot-house that is the University of Armageddon votes don't matter. He may have tabled half as many votes as Professor Piss but in the halcyonic haze nobody notices how many hands are up; they're too busy with their heads up their own arses. As he watches his own academic career go up in smoke, the student whistleblower has to find it ironic that he's now demonised and called mad as a haddock. He looks back on the supervisory meeting in which he said: "excuse me, Mr Brown, may I just point out that you're a piss-poor supervisor". He chuckles at the reply from said supervisor: "bear in mind that I'm being followed by the CIA; they've tampered with my brakes, shot at me, left maggots in the shape of a smiley face on my dining table and a toffee-crisp wrapper in a china vase". As he writes a letter - "Dear Her Majesty the Queen..." - he comforts himself that Mr Brown now only supervises thirty postgraduates and can almost taste those cucumber sandwiches with the Visitor. As his nightmare in the University of Armageddon draws to a close he sees Jonathan Aitken unsheathing his sword of truth. Then the Privy door shuts....