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Be too dumb to get in: do university on the cheap with the penny-pinching expert

THIS time of year sees university towns infested with students, all being ripped off for nasty accommodation and piss-poor education. But not me. I’m thick. 

Sounds too simple? But it’s true. Simply by being shite at academic subjects, failing my GCSEs and never progressing to degree-level, I’ve saved myself tens of thousands.

University these days is like flushing money down the fucking bog, without even the chance of heading to the beach and catching it emerging from the sewage outfall. Especially if you’re doing a BA in English Language when spellcheckers exist.

But if you’re too stupid – or fake it – you can swerve the whole scam entirely. Student loans? Not your problem. Eye-watering interest hikes on said loans? Not your problem. And with a lower income from not having a fancy graduate job, you’ll pay a lot less tax.

But how can I get the benefits of university, you ask? How can I enjoy cheap beer, bad hash, heartbreakingly gorgeous girls who aren’t interested in me and not going to lectures?

Well, if you want the experience of being patronised by lecturers who will go to any lengths to avoid you, pop along to an open day. Totally free to attend and you can truthfully list ‘attended Durham University’ on your CV. Who’s the smart twat now?

Want the good stuff? Every town has a student pub, and you can get an NUS card simply by attending two French lessons at a night school. You’ll get cheap pints, knobheads spouting misunderstood philosophy from their seminar, wannabe Footlights stars doing shit material and the real sense that you don’t deserve to be there if you’re not rich.

But how do I waste three years of my youth doing fuck all that’s any use to employers? No need for uni. Just read at texts random, gaze longingly at the back of a crush’s head while ignoring a lecture on YouTube and make misguided decisions a parent bails you out from.

Don’t worry about not standing out in the job market. This country no longer tolerates intellectuals, meaning stupidity is both thrifty and good for your career. You’ll be managing postgraduate tossers in no time.

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Why I shot Tupac Shakur, by Sir David Attenborough

NATURALIST and filmmaker Sir David Attenborough, aged 96, is known for shows including Life on Earth and Frozen Planet II, but not his murder of Tupac Shakur in 1996. He explains: 

My rap career had stalled

I’ve led something of a charmed life. From Cambridge to my time as controller of BBC2 to my career as a broadcaster. But in the 1990s, jealous of my brother’s success in Jurassic Park which should really have been mine, I branched out into gangsta rap. Keeping it real, I spat bars about orang-utan behaviour and melting ice-caps and sales were terrible.

Tupac stole my look

I’d been wearing a knotted bandana, diamond crucifix and baggy jeans around the Natural History Unit for years, ask anyone, so at least my look was fresh. Then one day my copy of The Source dropped onto my Richmond doormat and there was this young pretender 2Pac, biting my style. The clothes could be a coincidence. The Thug Life tattoo across his stomach most certainly was not. I’d had mine since the Navy, pissed as a bastard on overproof rum. He’d stolen it. I’m afraid a grudge grew in my heart that day.

Biggie encouraged it

Biggie, or Christopher as I called him, and I knew each other from when he’d enquired about the purchase of a shipment of macaws. Wonderful company, a very erudite man, crazy for pussy. Anyway, he and Tupac had fallen out and I confess his constant nagging about what a bitch-ass motherfucker his rival was did seep in. We all like to think we’re not influenced by peer pressure but we’re apes really.

I’d lost a shitload on the roulette

I’d hit Las Vegas wanting to get loose, drink heavily and play poker. I lost about £400k, went to see Siegfried and Roy to unwind, but spent the whole show whispering poignant and thoughtful commentary about their albino tigers. I was getting emotional so I set off rolling around Sin City in my Cadillac and, well, I saw him. Tupac. And like a dominant lion scenting a rival, I let instinct rule.

I’ve regretted it ever since

I may be the nation’s granddad but I’m only human. Hand me a piece and I immediately transform into a stone cold killer. I hold my hands up. I put four in him with my Glock 22. I’ll never forgive myself, no matter how many endangered species I save. I’d give it all back. My knighthood, my BAFTA Fellowship, all of it if to bring Makaveli back again.

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