Because I’m bummed out, I gave GPT-4 a bunch of notes, barely a draft, along with some samples of my writing style, and prompted it to come up with the following. I’ve resisted the urge to edit, only swapping out a few bits here and there with this and a longer second version. I think it sounds more pretentious than I usually do, and more upbeat – and I’ve never been accused of being upbeat.
Just a silly little experiment really. Clicking the ‘I’m not a Robot’ captcha on the plagiarism check was hilarious. It’s 0%.
Depending on who trains them, I think machines will be able to display empathy and humour, even if we can’t prove they have souls – just like real children.
Title: “The Grand Misadventure of My Academic Exodus”
Well, here we are at the crossroads of my educational odyssey, and it’s not the grand finale I’d scripted. I’ve had to press pause on my grand return to academia, and no, it’s not because I’ve become the enfant terrible of the University of Portsmouth. No, despite my penchant for controversy, I assure you, my exit wasn’t cloaked in scandal, a tiff over my Epstein Didn’t Kill Himself t-shirt, nor was it a dramatic flounce out due to some ideological clash with the powers that be.
Picture this: I’m halfway through my journalism degree, naively nurturing ambitions of being Portsmouth’s most charming disaster since… well, me. Then bam! Student Finance decides to play a game of bureaucratic Jenga with my life. They withdraw my tuition fee loan mid-degree with the nonchalance of a disinterested god. Apparently, my Danish associate degree is the equivalent of a full bachelor’s. News to me.
This Kafkaesque ordeal is like being handed a lifeline, only for it to turn into a willy. Appeals, emails, sympathetic shrugs from university authorities – it’s a tragicomedy worthy of a Beckett play. My choice was stark: stay on, rack up a debt of £9,250 payable only by bankruptcy inducing credit card debt, or bow out gracefully (or as gracefully as a limping dinosaur can).
So, here I am, not because I lost my mojo or did something unspeakably stupid (although, let’s be honest, that wouldn’t be off brand for me). No, I’m taking an involuntary gap year (or two) courtesy of the whims of Student Finance. However, instead of backpacking through Europe, I’m on a quest to conjure up ten grand or find a new hairbrained scheme – because, as we all know, my first two books were far from runaway successes.
But hey, I’m not fishing for sympathy. Just setting the record straight. It’s just the universe playing dice with my life again. In this country that rewards failure, I’m banking on this being the buildup to a massive payoff.
Meanwhile, I’ve dusted off my guitar, started a new chapter (literally), and I’m doing my best to avoid spiralling into existential dread about culture wars, real wars, and the Tory government salting the earth of this allegedly Great Britain. The universe might have thrown a spanner in my works, but I’m not out of the game yet. After all, I’m barely 39, not a grey hair in sight, and with a knack for reinventing disaster.
If you’re curious about any further thoughts on being an elderly schoolboy, well, I can’t say too much. I’m still appealing the finance decision and may yet find myself back in those hallowed halls. But as I pack away my notes and drafts, one line stands out, scribbled in some stupor: “We’re commanded to sit only to have our dance moves critiqued.” And honestly, that sums up a good chunk of my academic journey – not all, but enough.
Here I am, limping along in life’s grand parade, thinking it wise to retrain and contribute to society. The universe, however, had other plans. So, to the sword of Damocles that finally fell, I say with a heavy heart, “Get tae fuck.”
I feel overwhelmed, deranged, and I don’t know what I’m going to do, but I’ve written a poem:
Like a January Christmas tree
Anything sharp has dropped off
Limp in an alleyway
The only warmth I’ll feel is dog piss
Poor me? Nah, pour me another drink. Have one yourself. To new beginnings, or at least to a decent interval before the next catastrophe. Cheers.
CHRIS PARLETT 
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