Understudies

Ontological part timers: that’s who we were. We weren’t meant for a full time role. We were back ups – at best. Ancillaries. Spares. We were nothing in and of ourselves.


Understudies. Secondaries. Replacements. That’s who we were. We didn’t deserve to be front of house. We didn’t deserve star billing.

Which is why Livia thought we deserved star billing. Which is why Livia placed us front of house. We didn’t deserve to become full time lecturers – which is why Livia thought we deserved to become full time lecturers. We should never have been given a chance – which is why, of course, Livia gave us a chance.

Not out of a sense of justice, of course. But out of perversity. Because she just had to do otherwise. She couldn’t resist doing otherwise.


We were part timers of spirit. We were casual staff of the soul. It was natural to us to be second best. To lag behind.

But we knew our place! We knew our rank in the great chain of academic being! We were humble, in our way. We never pretended to be what we were not. We never put on airs and graces.

We were modest – as we should have been. We were second raters – as had been shown. By all the measures. By any academic standards.

Bottom of the rung: that’s what we were. Scrapings swept from the factory floor. Like reconstituted meat. Made of this and that. A reading of Hegel there, of Freud there. And all compacted together, scrappily …


It wasn’t meant to be: our elevation. It wasn’t in the order of things. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t natural. Anyone could see that. We could see it. It didn’t have to be explained to us.

We’d already found our part-time level. Our hourly-paid rung on the ladder. We knew where we belonged. We knew what we were.

Cap-doffers. Who paused for breath when a great academic went by.


There was a reason why things were as they were. There was a logic. An institutional wisdom. That allocated a role to all. That gave us all our part to play. And ours was a part time part.

Everyone had their role in the great academic Production. We could all take our bow when the time came.


Things were as they were for a good reason. There was no point getting uppity. Getting above ourselves.

And it was part of our role to know our role. Part of the way things were. Were we among the brightest and best? Of course not. Were we academic players, university movers and shakers? No, and again no.

You could see it in our physiognomy, probably. In the shape and size of our skulls. You could do genetic tests, and it would be clear. Handwriting analysis. Iris scans. Measure the relative length of our fingers. All that kind of stuff. These things aren’t hidden …

Let’s not pretend. There are hierarchies for a reason. Not everyone can do everything. There’s a role for academic drawers of water and hewers of wood. And that was our role.

But Livia had to overturn things.


It’d just be wasted on us, any opportunity. We’d simply squander it by trying to drink away our impostor syndrome.

We didn’t have the  intelligence – obviously. Raw IQ: we were lacking in that. Let alone the CVs. Let alone the references.

We never had the confidence. The bonhomie. The swagger. The natural air of authority. We didn’t look as though we should run modules and mark work and all that. We had our place on the bell curve.

We wouldn’t be happy in an exalted role. We’d panic. We’d freeze. We wouldn’t want it.


No one ever predicted great things of us. Our supervisors, for instance. Our examiners – internal and external. Our lecturers as undergraduates. As MA students.

Not much was expected of us. We were part of the churn, that’s all. Part of th slop. Part of what needed to be processed. The university was a numbers game, after all. And they needed numbers! Warm bodies! And at least we had those.

Our peers didn’t look to us with admiration. We didn’t startle them with our brilliant comments in seminars. We never got 90% in an essay. We were never encouraged to try to publish part of our MA dissertation, or turn our PhD theses into books.

We were always low on the bill at the conferences. Never headliners. Never keynoters. And we never would be. We’d make up the numbers. We were there for the headcount. 


It’s like good king Wenceslas … the poor man at his gate, the rich man in his castle. The hourly paid lecturer, all busy, the star researcher in his study … it’s only right. It’s a question of bearing. Of accent. It’s a matter of how we come across. Of body language, probably. These things aren’t hidden.


Shouldn’t we be teaching in Further Education? Shouldn’t we be schoolteachers, really? Shouldn’t we be carers? The country is crying out for carers. And schoolteachers. And Further Education teachers, probably. Our kind are needed elsewhere. Our skills, such as they are.


We’re British – this is how we do things? Hundreds of years of natural order. A few shake-ups now an again, but in general things are as they should be.

Things are settled. Things are in their place. It works at the level of instinct – the deepest level. It’s a matter of deep history. Deep culture. We just know how things ought to be.

It’s all very well coming from Central Europe or wherever and throwing a bomb into the midst of it all. Some chaos agent bullshit. There are orders and hierarchies for a reason. Things aren’t as they are by chance.


A protest against Livia. For saving us! For lifting us out of the mire! Against her – we’re churls, ingrates – for upsetting the natural order.

Livia got it wrong, we want to say. We didn’t ask for this, we want to protest. We don’t think we deserve these jobs. This station!

We’re not up to it – we admit it. But never pretended to have been up to it. We didn’t make the grade – of course not.

We’ve been overpromoted. Overexalted. Overextended. That we’ve been lifted too high. Overelevated. That we – we – should be representing European philosophy. That we – we – should talk about ourselves as European philosophers

Shouldn’t we be able to sue Livia? For upsetting the balance. Our sense of the order of things. Livia offends us, too, we want to say.

We’ve been put up to this! We were desperate! If we weren’t desperate and broke and horribly in debt we’d never have accepted it! We’d never have come to Tyneford. We’d never have soiled Tyneford university. We’d never have polluted the corridors. We’d never be shaking the hands of real academics – of course not.

The excruciation, the torture, the horror of our elevation! We felt it. We burned with it. We’re afflicted by it. We’re crushed by it. We’re ruined by it. We know all this shouldn’t be. That we shouldn’t be – not like this. Not elevated like this. Not lifted, like this. We know that.