The Open University and Tracy Jackson's Bra

Today is Open University results day. With passes in S282 Astronomy and MS121 Exploring Maths, I edged a little closer to getting those OU degrees. How much closer? Well, if I'm represented by me, which seems fair, and my degrees are represented by the surface of Pluto, I've moved from the living room into the kitchen. There's a long way to go.

I may have mentioned it before but I love the Open University. And I think most OU students do too. It consistently comes top of university student satisfaction surveys. That's quite an achievement when you consider that they have more students than the population of India. You would think that with all those people to organize something would go wrong occasionally, but apparently in forty years of operation the worst thing to happen was when, during a residential course in 1985, a Mr Barry Mansfield of Oswaldtwistle, Lancashire snapped his favourite pencil. It was a black day for everyone involved.

But maybe I'm looking at it all through too rosily-tinted a pair of spectacles. Maybe question papers don't turn up in time for examinations, or perhaps people register for courses and then slip out of the system, or maybe maths tutors routinely machete tutorialfuls of students for failing to grasp calculus. But it's never happened to me and so it doesn't count. Allow me to adjust my glasses. Yes, it's all very nicely pink, thank you very much.

But what's really great about the OU is that it gives you a second chance. You may have messed up at school, spending more time trying to catch a glimpse of Tracy Jackson's bra than knuckling down to your GCSEs (or O-levels as it was when I was at school back in 1741) but that doesn't mean you have to consign yourself to the academic dustbin along with things like board dusters and canes and pupil discipline. No, you can reinvent yourself. You can become a scientist, or a linguist, or a philosopher. You could even become a trawlerman, but I'm not sure the OU has a course for that. Maybe next year.

Some people are nervous about returning to education but the OU eases you in gently with its Level 1 courses. And Level 2 builds on Level 1, increasing the complexity and preparing you for the big stuff. It's not until Level 3 that they hit over the head with concepts that makes your brain want to leak out of your ears. But it's a degree. It shouldn't be easy. If you didn't want to work for it, you may as well have bought your certificate on Ebay. (Speaking of which, if you've got twenty quid I've just uploaded a lovely PhD in Molecular Engineering. First come, first served.)

So I'll keep at it, taking those little steps each year heading for my final destination on the surface of Pluto. And - who knows? - perhaps next year you might find I've got as far as the garden.

Toodle pip!

Being mad

Since I first mentioned this trip to family, friends and online OU students, my sanity has from time to time been questioned. I know that these accusations are made with a tongue in cheek, but there's something worrying about proposing an idea and then being told: "You must be mad". Have I made a mistake? Have I underestimated what's involved? If I'd suggested eating a tree or indulging in a session of heavy petting with Ann Widdecombe then these people might have had a point but I haven't. It's just a bike ride. Yes, it's a thirty thousand kilometre bike ride, but it's still just a bike ride.

Some long distance cyclists however clearly do believe that they are mental. One of the best websites for cycling blogs is www.crazyguyonabike.com, originally set up by, well, a guy on a bike who thought himself crazy. Some people revel in the idea of their own insanity. They love nothing more than to think that they're utterly, toad-lickingly bonkers. But I've yet to meet a self-confessed madman who was anything more than a bit wacky. Real loonies tend not to know that they're barking. No, they think that they're Napoleon, or they're Scientologists.

Y'see, I'm not mad. I'm the sanest person here. The nutty ones are those who say that they'd love to do something like this (or some other type of adventure), but then never get around to it. They get old, and by then it's too late to do anything useful. And then they die. Or they enter the House of Lords.

Personally I think it's more insane to sell your finite existence to a company you hate, to work with people who get right on your areolae and to slowly decompose in traffic for an hour in each direction just for the privilege. Of course everyone needs to earn some money but in this short life you get what you settle for and if you're in a job that makes you want to take an AK47 to your co-workers, or if you're not enjoying the majority of your life for whatever reason, then it's you who's off your rocker. But of course you can change all that. Go on, buy a bike. Or an AK47.

So now that we've established that I'm not mad, I can tell you the details of my next charity venture. Yes, you've guessed it. After a lunch of deep-fried elm, I'm going to indulge in a session of heavy petting with Ann Widdecombe. Tongue in cheek? Only if she asks nicely.

Toodle pip!