But only one tantrum: getting it right and wrong on TEF results day

The TEF results have come and gone, and the press has predictably declared some of the nation’s best universities to be ‘second-rate’. One lesson to be drawn from the past few months is that there are plenty of people determined to kick the British university system for no better reason than that it remains world-class despite an overriding spirit of national decay. The TEF has fed such commentators an easy line.

But setting aside those frustrations, what might we learn from initial responses across the sector? What might they tell us about the faultlines in debates over TEF as we move forward?

 

Only the one tantrum? Really?

Just a hunch, this, but I reckon that when Christopher Snowden, VC of Southampton, cut loose within hours of his university’s bronze award being announced, he rather expected to be leading a chorus. A concerted vice-chancellorial spitefest might have battered a hole in the TEF.

Tantrums there must surely have been, but Snowden is to date the only one (as far as I know) to have taken his into the public domain. I suspect he’ll regret it. Meanwhile there are some outstanding examples of how to present mediocre news. Bristol, for instance, takes the opportunity to boast about other league table successes, and lists some ‘ongoing improvements’. UCL’s Michael Arthur boldly concedes that there remains another level beyond silver: ‘UCL puts education firmly on a par with research and we will not be satisfied until we have achieved a gold standard’.

Maybe those statements are easier to articulate when one’s institution has outperformed expectations, but their focus on the future is smart. In my mind that’s also preferable to the vainglorious puff produced by some of the golden ones. But perhaps the dominant impression, certainly from non-gold Russell Group universities, is a desire that this whole bloody thing will just go away. Some don’t even mention the TEF on their websites. Others waited a day or so to do so, when they had had the information two days before its release. Listen carefully: that’s the sound of institutional passive aggression.

All of which suggests that the TEF has roughly the same level of security as Brexit. It will probably survive, but plenty of people will try to soften it or blow it out of the water in the months and years to come.

 

But when did words ever matter?

What, then, do responses indicate about the possible shapes TEF might assume? For me, one surprising aspect of the post-results commentary has been criticism  that provider submissions have influenced the panel’s judgement. In other words, a set of metrics that indicated a lower grade has in some instances been trumped by sixteen pages of prose – or, in a couple of PVC-career-wrecking cases, vice versa.

Goddamn, the university system in this country is addicted to metrics. We’ll bicker forever and a day about what those metrics should be, then we’ll cry foul when they aren’t followed slavishly by the experts we’ve put in place to exercise some discretion. Why not just use a computer next time?

I’d argue, on the contrary, that those submissions are a critical part of the process. When I was involved in producing my university’s statement, I was vaguely aware that it probably wouldn’t much matter since our metrics were already good. Yet, as I’ve written before, the process of that document’s composition, which involved senior figures across the university, was part of the TEF’s point. It focused minds on what we were doing well, and what we could be doing better. Now we’ll work through the submissions of other successful universities, looking for further ways to improve.

Anyone who argues that these documents should be disregarded doesn’t understand the relation between self-reflection and transformation. But it seems that this point might need to be made to metrics-heads in reviews to come. Moreover, those arguing that a gold rating will lead to complacency similarly fail to understand how such levels of performance have been achieved. My university’s gold award is the result of a decade or more of relentless attention to the student experience. Nobody can expect to slack off for a couple of years and revive things in time for the next assessment.

 

Future medalling

I think I’ve made my disdain for the olympic-style medals clear enough already. But I appreciate the dilemma. The architects of TEF wanted something that couldn’t easily be brushed aside. They also wanted to avoid the silliness of meaninglessly fine league-table gradations, of the kind produced by the National Student Survey. Chris Husbands, the TEF Chair, has been quick to rubbish league tables produced on the basis of the TEF results.

It seems to me that some of this year’s silver medallists might have pointed the way to the future in their press releases. Warwick’s headline, for example, states simply: ‘Government declares Warwick teaching “excellent”’. And so it did. By implication it declared certain other universities to be ‘outstanding’. Perhaps those bronze universities, meanwhile, were ‘good’. Maybe that sounds a bit OFSTED-ish, but there’s a value in that kind of recognition.

One interesting question, though, is grade-inflation. A system of medals suggests there will always be a decent proportion of bronzes. But what if TEF does its job and raises levels of performance? Will panels of the future reward those improvements, or systematically raise the bar?

 

I’m betting the TEF will continue for a while, though it’s bound to change. Focusing on proxies of teaching quality, though unpopular with some, remains the only feasible method. Medals remain irredeemably mad. Subject-level assessment looks as cumbersome and impractical as ever, and might quietly be shelved. Linking the right to raise fees to a silver rating or gold rating, and not messing around with gradations between them, looks like a sensible modification of the crazily finely-grained model originally proposed. And honestly, even the LSE might be able to get a silver if they set their minds to it.

Widening participation and the demise of the great British university

Let’s think, for a minute, about why British universities might be slipping down the international league tables. The figures are fairly clear: 51 of the UK’s top 76 universities, including sixteen from the Russell Group, have dropped in the latest QS rankings.

The Telegraph had a go at this exercise this morning, and concluded that ‘experts [blame] the decline on pressure to admit more disadvantaged students’. In response, I’d start with the word ‘experts’. It seems to me they had just one, from the University of Buckingham (and I’m not even sure that he would be comfortable with the way his words have been used). Their other interviewees seemed to be pulling in different directions; but, hey, why miss an opportunity for a spot of reactionary elitism on the day of a general election?

What this extraordinary explanation for the fall of Britain is doing, after all, is blaming a programme of social mobility – the longstanding commitment to widening participation in higher education – for a decline in quality. Or, in a not wholly subliminal way, it’s suggesting that our top universities could be great again if only they didn’t have to admit so many of the wrong kind of persons. Those poor people from underfunded schools: they really pull us all down.

Another way of analysing these results might have been to start with the QS methodology. It encompasses six metrics:

  1. Academic Reputation
  2. Employer Reputation
  3. Faculty/Student Ratio
  4. Citations per faculty
  5. International Faculty Ratio
  6. International Student Ratio

As hard as I look, I don’t see anything here about the average net worth of the parents of a university’s students. Funny that; if we could only take ourselves back a few generations, it was all so much more straightforward.

So where else might we look for explanations? First of all, we might consider the level of international competition. There are countries around the world, not least in Asia, that have methodically and ruthlessly targeted success in the international league tables. They have increased investment across the board, and also concentrated resources on identified elite groups of universities. They’re not relying on reputations rooted in the past; they’re aggressively building those reputations right now.

Secondly, let’s pause on the final two measures, which are all about international outlook. For all our ‘we are international’ hash-tags, British universities are hamstrung by a government that is and insular in its outlook and hostile – at least in its rhetoric – towards international students. Other countries are increasing their numbers of international students while we are going backwards on this measure. Our participation in EU research funding schemes, which have been the single greatest engine of international collaboration, is in serious doubt.

Which leads us to Brexit. After an election campaign in which both major parties have made promises about this and that while determinedly ignoring the fact that Brexit will rip a bloody great hole in the nation, it seems appropriate that we should be looking every which way other than Brexit for an explanation for these league table trends. Because it couldn’t have anything to do with Brexit, could it? It surely couldn’t – or not, anyway, for The Telegraph – be influenced in any way by this historical act of insularity and xenophobia?

No: there must be someone else to blame. It must be caused by our dreadfully misguided efforts to drag forward all these frightfully uneducated oiks. Britain was an altogether greater nation when those folk knew their place, and when the higher education system was designed to damn well keep them there.

Still loving the bomb: Britain and Trident, 2017

What is it with the British and nuclear weapons? I’ve lived in the UK half my adult life, but it’s only the current election campaign that has prompted me to ask this question. My answers, so far, are depressing.

It’s not that I’ve never before had to think about nuclear weapons. If the Americans had invaded Japan in 1945 rather than dropping those two bombs, my father, interned as a prisoner-of-war and slave labourer in the city of Kobe, most likely would have been shot. I exist because nuclear weapons were invented and I’ve never been passionately anti-nuclear; I just think there’s something peculiar about what I see today in Britain.

Britain acquired nuclear weapons at the very historical moment when it was losing its empire. While there was no causal relationship between these two developments, I can’t be the first person to suggest that this has led to the inflated significance of nukes in many British minds. Do I need an expert to demonstrate a correlation between nostalgia for the empire and a deep attachment to Trident? Probably, but I’ll go out on a limb regardless.

And so, despite any evidence that nuclear weapons are more likely to be used now than at any other time in the past sixty years, despite all the evidence that what the military needs most of all is more conventional equipment, and despite the fact that both main political parties are wilfully leading us into economic decline and diplomatic irrelevance, many people are clinging to the bomb as a sign of British greatness. For Lynton Crosby, it’s doubtless a wondrous dead cat. For the rest of us, it’s a symptom of national delusion. Clinging onto Trident gives us cause to feel powerful beyond our means.

Nuclear bombs, to state the obvious, are the ultimate weapons of mass destruction. Even the testing of Britain’s early bombs, in supposedly uninhabited desert in Australia, caused damage to lives that is still evident decades later. Maybe, at a time when warfare has transformed into something that happens in faraway countries, that most of us watch only on television, that’s somehow hard to grasp. After all, we’re capable of watching the destruction of Syrian cities on the telly, then grumbling about the bloody refugees.

In the current election campaign, we have a candidate being pilloried for refusing to abandon his lifelong distaste for nuclear weapons. It seems that some people actually want him to say that he would strike first, slaughtering hundreds of thousands of, well, different kinds of people in the cause of a fantasy of British ‘safety’. For a start, this is all a desperate irrelevance; I mean, how many nuclear standoffs has Britain actually had, ever? More disturbingly, it’s an insight into how many British people appear to assess the ‘strength’ of their nation and its leaders.

Actually, I’m not sure Britain has ever had a prime minister who would have dealt with a nuclear crisis any differently from how Corbyn might end up dealing with one. Not many outright sociopaths work their way through the Westminster system, whatever their opponents might think of them at the time. But for me, what’s telling about this upsurge of emotion masquerading as rational debate, is what it reveals about the people – maybe many millions of them – who love our nukes. It seems to me this reveals rather a lot about a desire to approach complex problems in simplistic, binary, confrontational, aggressive terms. And it perhaps reveals a lot about Britain in 2017.

And in my next post, I promise, I’ll return to higher education stuff. This election campaign is winding me up a bit.

How old is a voter? A peculiar British media obsession with age

I may be an immigrant, but I’ve passed my ‘Life in the UK’ test and I understand that people in this country can vote from the age of eighteen. But what’s really winding me up in this election is that you wouldn’t bloody well know it from the way the media behaves.

So, with apologies to those who flock to this blog for my considered views on higher education, I’m going to have a media-studies rant. I figure the BBC – though they’re not alone in this – has a view of a voter as being about sixty. And given the powerful data on age as an influence on voting intention, which suggests that age now has more influence on choice than class, I reckon this is distorting their professedly unbiased representation of the election.

 

Exhibit A: the vox pop

Journalists apparently love going out into the big wide world to gather the views of ‘the public’. Actually, I think they really hate it, which may be part of the problem, but the model is predictable and occasionally illuminating.

But I swear – and maybe I’ve missed things, but I’ve been stuck at home for the past two weeks after an operation, getting bored and listening to lots of news programmes, and I really mean that I’d swear to this – every time I’ve heard a BBC radio journalist doing this in the course of the current election campaign they’ve spoken only to people over the age of about fifty.

Now I accept that it might be easier to find huddles of older folk in the daytime; I accept also that it can be catchy to have someone saying ‘I’ve always voted X, but I’m buggered if I’m going to do that this time’; and I also accept that the average journalist might feel more comfortable approaching a sixty-year-old than a nineteen-year-old. But it’s unrepresentative and it’s crap. Every time we get the nice retired chap saying that Theresa May will be strong and stable, without a student chipping in with an opposing view, we’re actually getting an insidious little bit of bias.

I’d also bet that if I asked one of these journalists to visit a university campus, I’d be told that they know what the majority of students will say, so it would be unrepresentative to do so. Well, frankly, on that I’d rest my case. See you at the bowls’ club.

 

Exhibit B: Andrew Neil and the IRA

How much of his interview with Jeremy Corbyn did Andrew Neil devote to the IRA? Ten minutes? Eight minutes? Five minutes? Honestly, I couldn’t bear to drag myself back to it in order to check. And if it wasn’t the IRA it was other historic conflicts.

I wouldn’t argue for a minute that this isn’t relevant, nor would I argue that Corbyn’s political backstory isn’t an issue in this election. I’m one of those people who blew £5 by becoming a Labour ‘supporter’ last year in order to vote for Owen Smith. But is it really all that important as we look forward to the next five years?

I mean, there are millions of voters who can’t remember The Troubles. Maybe they need to learn their history, but perhaps most of all right now they’re worrying about the future. These are the people who voted overwhelmingly against Brexit, and whose lives are going to most affected by it, for decades to come.

But Brexit, Andrew Neil? I think he mentioned it once in that interview. The unmade costings of Brexit render all other calculations in this election pretty much meaningless. We’re living in a fantasy land in which we talk about education, social care and nuclear weapons without anyone questioning just how devastating a hit the economy is about to take.

I can’t believe I’m the only one who would rather hear Corbyn’s views on this – and, by the way, that could be the best tactic to expose him, because I don’t think he has any more idea about Brexit than May – than on the IRA. But the wait is becoming a little frustrating.

 

And so the press will turn around in due course and say that younger voters don’t turn out on the day. Frankly, the way they’re represented, who could blame them? In fact, though, this has been exposed as a bit of a myth in relation to the referendum, and I wouldn’t be surprised if younger voters surprise us again this time. I’m not sure any party has the answers they need, but they have every right to be mightily pissed off.

 

The idea of the university in the Conservative Party manifesto

On the evidence of their election manifesto, universities make Theresa May’s Conservatives uneasy. Something about the modern university worries the authors of this document, as they pick away at higher education policy in one section after another. While Labour’s manifesto mentions universities only in relation to fees, it feels like there’s a lot more at stake for the Tories.

So I’d like to consider what’s troubling them, and also what they propose instead, by dwelling on some of the manifesto’s language.

 

‘We will toughen the visa requirements for students, to make sure that we maintain high standards’

The curious thing about this sentence is not the commitment – hugely disappointing though it is – but the justification. What does it mean?

In technical terms, David Morris identifies two alternatives: ‘standards of visa compliance or standards of quality in higher education’. It’s also effectively meaningless; who’s asking for lower standards, of anything? But there’s perhaps something more fundamental, even philosophical at work here as well. It’s an anxious sentence. It has the tone of a head-teacher fretting that her pupils’ are being distracted by the latest social media fad.

British universities are accustomed to working in a global higher education network. Their ideal would be a world with frictionless movement of students, researchers and ideas. Mass movement of students is a good thing for the exporting country since it raises skill levels, and for the importing country since it generates income. And we talk about a ‘fourth age of research’, in which international collaboration makes our work more effective and visible.

But that’s not the way this manifesto sees the world. It wants the UK to be special, even as it struggles to put its finger on how. This is a document, after all, that positions the UK as a ‘champion of free trade’: using a metaphor from medieval chivalry to position a former colonial power as distinctive in endorsing a value that might otherwise appear to be all about international equality.

So ‘maintaining standards’, I’d suggest, is about having a little bit of globalization while maintaining British universities as a little bit insular. It is of a piece with the ongoing commitment to ensuring that international students return home after graduating, and that they pay more money towards the cost of the National Health Service. It says: you can be here, but just don’t affect us in any discernible way.

 

‘we will also launch a major review of funding across tertiary education as a whole’

In practical terms, one might ask: why on earth would they want to rip this hornets’ nest right off the branch, immediately after passing the Higher Education and Research Bill? The commitment is made in the context of a vision of a revived ‘technical’ education sector, yet it’s another statement that betrays more fundamental anxieties about the university.

There was a moment, not so very long ago, when vice-chancellors fantasized about freedom from state control. The state, it was said, was an unreliable partner. The fees settlement meant that primary educational contracts were now between students and providers, while research councils and independent funding bodies further served to keep the state at arm’s length.

But this election’s Tories don’t like this. Moving higher education into the Department for Education was symbolically important in this regard, indicating a perception that universities are fundamentally not independent businesses but part of a national educational system. This manifesto is a record of their scrabbling around in the dark looking for new levers to pull.

Not that all their ideas are uninteresting. There’s a proposal to ‘build up the investment funds of our universities’, enabling them ‘to enjoy the commercial fruits of their research’. But there’s also a reiteration of the Industrial Strategy commitment to a more interventionist approach to research funding. And there’s the controversial commitment that universities must involve themselves in secondary education: ‘We will make it a condition for universities hoping to charge maximum tuition fees to become involved in academy sponsorship or the founding of free schools.’

Hence that ‘major review of funding’. Maybe differential fees according to an institution’s graduates’ record of repayment? Who knows? Maybe they don’t know themselves. It might never happen. But it’s important as a statement of authority: the state is in charge.

 

‘It is why we want to see universities make their full contribution to their local community and economy’

Universities argue that global recognition and local influence are symbiotic. This is powerfully stated in University College London’s strapline: ‘London’s global university’. But the Tories – the declared party of the ‘somewheres’, sceptical of the ‘citizens of the world – are suspicious.

Hence the free schools and academies. They also want to ensure that universities create ‘opportunities for local people, especially those from ordinary working backgrounds’ – frankly, the HE equivalent of a commitment to the family. But there’s more: new technical colleges will be linked with ‘leading’ universities (a phrase that, as Andrew McGettigan has noted, might leave the ‘non-leading’ post-92s feeling painted into a corner – most likely the Tories envisage some repurposing); and the relocation of government departments and agencies, which will supposedly create further opportunities for local development.

 

The Conservative Party manifesto moulds an idea of the university from the clay of British nationalism. It’s a university of ‘high standards’ and Nobel laureates, recognized in global league tables while maintaining an arm’s-length approach to the messy business of globalization. It’s a university that can be turned to address government priorities, from battery technology research to training more doctors, at the flick of a policy switch.

At one moment the manifesto declares a commitment to ‘enable top scientists to work here’. While perfectly in accord with its idea of the university, this statement is telling in its assumption that top scientists will actually want to buy into the Tories’ insular, containable, malleable model of a British university. They – like international students, like existing academics in UK universities, indeed like all those other potential migrants scuttling their way through the netherworld of Tory policy – may very well decide to go elsewhere.

What next for the TEF?

The fact that the first Teaching Excellence Framework results will be published the week after the election wasn’t planned that way, but feels appropriate. Somehow it seems as though that the entire process of TEF-construction has been conducted in the shadow of a dysfunctional political system with other things on its mind.

Indeed, looking back on the hurried, slightly chaotic passing of Higher Education and Research Bill in the days after the election was announced, I wonder whether we will this as the moment when the TEF started to assume rather more docile a shape than we had been led to expect. The review of the TEF, scheduled to happen ‘by the end of 2019’ – in other words, about as soon as possible – looks ominous.

So here, having followed the TEF through its development (like, here and here, and a bit more here), and having got a couple of predictions right already, I’m going to make a few more. I have no evidence for my claims; I just reckon I might be right.

 

Gold, silver, bronze: bin

This is the easy bit. The ‘gold’, ‘silver’ and ‘bronze’ rankings, announced in the euphoric wake of Australia’s (or maybe that was Great Britain’s – but surely not) medal haul in 2016, is universally accepted as bonkers. It belittles the whole process of assessing teaching excellence, and it unreasonably stigmatizes universities that are in actual fact doing a perfectly good job.

So this will go, as soon as it can be shuffled off stage in a seemly manner. I’d even bet that people in the Department of Education – maybe even the halfwits who dreamt it up in the first place – have discussed whether it might be ditched for this round, given the way that it undermines the image of the entire TEF enterprise. But that possibility looks just a little implausible, even in these turbulent times.

That doesn’t necessarily mean, however, that it would revert to becoming a pass/fail exercise, like a parallel version of a QAA review. I expect there will be gradings of some kind, and that these will be fed into existing league tables; however, they will be more nuanced – and, frankly, also more useful – rather on the model of REF results. In this way assessments will provide objective and constructive information, both for universities and applicants, without being unnecessarily damaging.

 

TEF results linked to ‘fee-rises’: believe it when you see it

So TEF results were all set to be linked to ‘fee rises’ (albeit that these were never rises at all, merely – at best – increases in line with inflation). But here’s me back in November last year:

One question I’ve been asking since the TEF was first proposed goes roughly along the lines: what happens when people at the highest levels of government realize that some of the universities most likely to lose from the exercise are some of the country’s biggest higher-education brands?

I must admit that I never equated the House of Lords with ‘the highest levels of government’. I rather overestimated the capacity for people elsewhere to behave sensibly, and underestimated the influence of this curious remnant of British elitism.

But it happened. In my imagination it was just a matter of a couple of VCs of high-profile universities that were looking down the barrel of a ‘bronze’ sitting down to dinner with a few inluential alumni in the House of Lords and explaining the outrage about to unfold. Their grand alma mater will be forced to charge lower fees than the scruffy post-92 down the road. Really. Perish the thought.

And so, one way or another, I’d bet this will happen again. The sensible compromise option – submit yourself to TEF, get a satisfactory rating (i.e. anything from bronze upward, in this round’s terms), and you can raise your fees in line with inflation – seems to me like a long-term solution. Such an outcome would also help to revive the battered reputation of the National Student Survey, on the back of the National Union of Students’ boycott. (That worked a treat, didn’t it guys?) Maybe those running the TEF might even see their way to promoting the NSS, rather than questioning its value.

 

Subject-level TEF: yeh, right

Sorry, but I just see the prospect of subject-level TEF as madness. I was involved in preparing Exeter’s institutional response, which was hard work but served a purpose, usefully prompting us to reflect on what we’re doing. Moreover, when the institutional statements are all published, universities across the land will have at their fingertips a huge bank of ideas for educational innovation. That’s great for everyone, most of all the students.

But what’s to be gained from a subject-level exercise? In sheer bureaucratic terms, I can’t see how the labour – on the part of the academic departments or the reviewers – will justify the outcomes. In financial terms, I can’t realistically see how results could be factored into course fees, creating a weird patchwork of slightly different fees across any university. And – most importantly – as an exercise in driving forward innovation I’m not sure this will add in any credible way to the achievement of the institutional exercise.

 

Get a future; get a logo

Finally, the TEF is suffering a serious branding deficit. It needs a logo. It needs some pictures on its website, for God’s sake. Everything about it screams: ‘bleak and bureaucratic’. It sits up and says, ‘Hate me’. I’m predicting this might change; although, to be honest, I’m less confident about that than any of the above. In the meantime, for the sake of an image for this blog-post, I offer you a kitten (nicked shamelessly from the web).

 

So that’s all settled, then. What could possibly go wrong from here?

Note. This piece has been republished by wonkhe.com. But they didn’t publish the kitten. I mean, seriously, it’s only me giving you the cuteness factor.

The great arts, humanities and social sciences skills audit

When predicting the value of skills that students acquire at university, science, technology, engineering and maths subjects appear to have some advantages. Nuclear power, for instance, depends on highly trained nuclear engineers – or we all die. English graduates can become prime ministers and CEOs, but the link between disciplinary learning and career effectiveness is rather less direct.

The British Academy is trying to do something about this, through a ‘flagship skills project’ titled ‘Celebrating Skills in the Arts, Humanities and Social Sciences’. This is driven by a grand ambition: ‘to articulate the skills that are inherent to the study of arts, humanities and social sciences (AHSS), their value to the individual, and the contribution they do make and could make in future to society’. Utopian in some respects, the project nonetheless demands attention from everyone involved in these fields.

 

Skills, skills, skills

Skills matter. It’s critical that those involved in higher education should be able to demonstrate the skills their students learn, and equally critical that graduates should be able to articulate the value of what they have learned. This matters in the undergraduate admission cycle, when potential students want to know where their degree – coming, as it does, at considerable cost – might take them. It also matters in terms of the Destination of Leavers from Higher Education survey, which in future will assess not just destinations but perceptions of the connection between learning and career success.

In public discourse the skills debate has been monopolized by STEM advocates. We’re all familiar with the phenomenon of HASS-educated politicians asserting that the only degrees with any real value are STEM ones. HASS disciplines have been slow to rise to this challenge. Our lists of ‘transferable skills’, buried away on module descriptions, are copied and pasted from year to year without much reflection. Maybe some academics feel uneasy about a skills agenda; many surely lack confidence in the non-academic value of what they are teaching.

In this context, the British Academy initiative is timely. It begins with a pragmatic acknowledgement of a ‘need for a better understanding of whether the UK has got the right balance of skills levels and disciplines for the future’. The ‘call for evidence’ document provides a useful, if not comprehensive, review of existing literature on the subject of HASS skills. On this basis it proposes an excellent list of core HASS skills:

  • Advocacy and the ability to present a case
  • Analysis and evaluation of evidence, weighing up arguments and understanding multiple perspectives, awareness of the possibilities and limitations of data, methodological rigour
  • Ability to notice and describe, and to contextualise, pointing out and unravelling complexity
  • Imaginative objectivity, persuasion, diplomacy, negotiation, listening, empathy
  • Leadership, independence, initiative, problem solving
  • Creative enthusiasm, emotional intelligence, self-awareness, self-management
  • Resilience, cultural awareness, adaptability, flexibility and the ability to navigate change

As the document acknowledges, however, it’s easy enough to assert that HASS subjects teach these skills but another to be able to demonstrate it. And the question of whether we do it well is another question again. It would be great to have some hard evidence to support claims such as these.

 

Trawling for evidence

As much as I want to see the BA’s project succeed, I admit to a degree of scepticism. While the Academy can claim a measure of success in its previous, more focused work on quantitative skills and languages (not complete success by any means, given the seemingly unstoppable decline in language learning), this programme is of another degree of complexity altogether.

If the ‘call for evidence’ document was a grant application, it has to be said that it wouldn’t get past peer reviewers. It makes the mistake of foreshadowing its findings before undertaking the research: this is a project, as the title proclaims, aiming to celebrate skills in the arts, humanities and social sciences. Its questions, meanwhile, are unnervingly broad and open-ended. Respondents are asked more than once whether they know of ‘any other evidence’, while at one point they are canvassed for advice on how this project might be done. We’re assured that this will all be processed in time for a final report in autumn 2017. I’ll believe that when I see it.

I also fear that this project has not achieved the level of recognition that it deserves. There was no mention of it at the annual general meeting of my own subject association, University English, last week. Maybe the association executive members were overwhelmed by the bank of questions; more likely they (like me: sorry) simply had not been aware of the project. The deadline for responses has been extended once (to today, in fact), and maybe the process will need to be stretched again.

 

If the people charged with leading this project can get a grip on it, this may still be a hugely valuable initiative. The call for evidence document alone is rich in its outline of the field; if this sense of purpose can be maintained, there’s cause for hope. There should be much to celebrate, once the evidence is gathered and analysed.

Industry with the creativity taken out

In order to become a citizen of the UK, an immigrant needs to learn a lot about the nation’s creative past and present. Life in the UK: A Guide for New Residents introduces its readers to Britain’s theatres, museums and galleries, and a host of poets and novelists. Those aspiring to British citizenship are warned not to take the ‘Life in the UK Test’ without having grasped, among other things, ‘the development of British cinema’.

But what happens to this proud appreciation of the creative industries should the aspiring British citizen enter the world of government policy? Faced with the Building our Industrial Strategy Green Paper, a very different kind of nation emerges. This document sees industry through a prism of science and technology. It contains eight references to battery technology but no mention of the film industry. Its perception of research and skills barely glances beyond ‘STEM’ (science, technology, engineering and maths) subjects.

Of course it would be absurd to claim that the sciences are free of creativity, just as it would be foolish to deny the importance of battery technology to the sustainability agenda. But people working in the film industry – or, for that matter, the still more lucrative gaming industry – have cause to feel marginalized, even patronized.

 

Putting creativity back in

The creative industries include film and television, publishing, architecture, design, advertising, music, software and gaming. While the Green Paper might prefer a model of ‘industry’ forged in the heat of the Industrial Revolution, creativity is a big deal in 2017.

In January this year the Business secretary, Greg Clark, acknowledged the creative industries as the fastest growing sector of the UK economy. Figures released in 2016 by the Department of Culture, Media and Sport demonstrated that the creative industries generated £87.4 billion of value to the UK economy in 2015, and that they were creating new jobs at more than twice the rate for the economy as a whole. And if we stretch our focus a little, almost 10% of the UK workforce is employed in creative occupations, which is more people than are employed in either construction or financial services.

At their most successful, the creative industries draw upon people with a wide range of skills and training. A recent report on a cluster of high-growth creative firms in Brighton found not only that a mix of disciplinary expertise brings success, but also that 48% of the entrepreneurs were arts, design or humanities graduates. Maybe that shouldn’t be a surprise. Steve Jobs described Apple as ‘existing at the intersection of technology and liberal arts’. We know also that roughly a third of FTSE100 CEOs hold humanities degrees, along with a significant proportion of politicians and senior sivil servants.

 

Creativity? We can teach that

But somewhere along the line, education in STEM subjects became the priority. ‘STEM’ wasn’t even a thing until the present century; people studied science and technology disciplines, but not under this brand. The coinage of the acronym dates back to 2001, and has been a little piece of public relations brilliance that has transformed public discourse on education across the world.

This is not to argue that more expertise in the sciences and technology disciplines may not be a good thing. That would be madness. But the easy over-reliance on ‘STEM’ in the public arena all too quickly becomes exclusive, creating a binary that looks rather like: ‘STEM’ v ‘the less useful stuff’. The Green Paper dives right down this tunnel of vision, promising to ‘boost STEM skills’, increase PhDs in STEM, and so forth. ‘STEM’ is mentioned twenty times, the social sciences and the arts and humanities not at all. The spring budget fell into line, promising 1000 new PhD studentships ‘in areas aligned with the industrial strategy’. It’s boom-time for batteries.

It’s surely time to think about ways of articulating more powerfully the skills that students develop through studying other disciplines, in the arts, humanities and social sciences. These skills – qualitative and quantitative analysis, communication, critical thinking, team-working, design, entrepreneurialism, and so forth – take our graduates into all sorts of important places. Educators need to remember that, and we need to ensure that our graduates don’t forget it when they become CEOs and government ministers. And, by the way, we can teach creativity.

 

Creativity? We can research that

For the UK’s researchers, the big proposal in Building our Industrial Strategy is the creation of an ‘Industrial Strategy Challenge Fund’, worth around £2 billion. Though not intended as exhaustive, the Green Paper lists likely priority areas, including: robotics, satellites, biotechnology, supercomputing, and – yes – batteries.

Much research in the arts and humanities has no obvious implications for the creative industries. This is also true of much STEM research. But the Arts and Humanities Research Council and the Economic and Social Research Council have worked hard over the past decade to support collaboration at areas of interface. For example, the AHRC’s  knowledge exchange hubs experimented with models of engagement between researchers and industry, and demonstrated the economic impact of such investment. Specific projects ranged from innovation in gaming, textiles, medical products, intellectual property, through to the ambitious Creative Cardiff initiative.

After these developments, researchers were primed and ready for a bold, twenty-first century industrial strategy. We’ve proved that we can achieve a lot, in a fast-growing sector, with a fraction of the overall investment promised in the Green Paper. In terms of research synergies, just as in the area of skills and training, we have much to contribute to industry. But that’s not the vision we get from Building Our Industrial Strategy.

 

There’s a way to go in this process. The Green Paper is open for consultation until 17 April. Meanwhile Sir Peter Bazalgette, outgoing Chair of the Arts Council, has been commissioned to conduct a review of the creative industries. But shifting both the terms and the tone of the debate will require some energetic and collaborative – even, in the classic use of the term, industrious – labour.

Trash the NSS? Let’s be careful what we wish for

It’s been open season for attacks on the National Student Survey in recent months. The House of Lords, for instance, was treated to the old chestnut that students give better satisfaction ratings to easier courses. That’s not only entirely unsubstantiated, but disrespectful to the many thousands of students who actually want to be challenged, and in turn respond honestly to NSS questions. Even Chris Husbands, Chair of the Teaching Excellence Framework, has labelled the NSS as a ‘flawed … proxy for teaching quality’.

This has been music to the ears of many academics, who have long felt the NSS as a stick used to beat them, a key and resented manifestation of an audit-culture. Some objections to the NSS are fair, and indeed entirely helpful in limiting the uses to which it might be put; others, in my opinion, are knee-jerk reactions to students who dare to voice their dissatisfaction.

My point here is: be careful what you wish for. Because if we don’t stand behind the survey that gathers the considered responses of roughly 70% of all final-year undergraduates each year, just stand back and watch as other forms of quasi-research flood the public sphere.

 

Letting the journalists do the satisfaction research

Take the piece in today’s Times by Jenni Russell, which claims that many students are ‘getting a third-class education’. This contains no mention at all of the NSS. I mean, why should she worry about this longstanding and universal survey of finalists, when even the chair of the TEF seems so keen to run it down? And the piece demonstrates very well what happens when journalists go looking for other forms of evidence.

Russell has two sources of evidence. First, she uses students’ perceptions of ‘value for money’ as recorded in the Student Academic Experience Survey administered by the Higher Education Policy Institute. Fair enough: that survey gathered 15,000 responses in 2016. But to cry in horror at evidence that students became less convinced of value for money when the government transferred the cost of higher education from the state to the student, payable in the form of income-contingent loans, is a bit rich. Obviously this is a measure universities have to address, but of course students were going to react when their levels of debt soared.

Second, rather than turning to the NSS, Russell performed her own student satisfaction survey. In her words: ‘I’ve talked to ten students in the past few days’. Ten students: that’s a tough piece of research. And on this basis she concludes that Oxbridge is good, on the back of a chat with maybe no more than one student. But, you know, that feels about right, doesn’t it; after all, Russell herself is an Oxbridge graduate. She assures us also that the sciences are doing fine: maybe another two or three students there. So what’s left? Let’s have a go at the humanities and social sciences; that would be original, wouldn’t it? Sussex is slated on the word of one student. Feedback at Manchester is trashed on the basis of one tutor.

 

Reputation, reputation, reputation

Reputations for quality teaching are hard-won. And they matter; in a context of declining university applications, jobs depend upon them. There may well be programmes at Sussex or Manchester that are poor – I don’t know – but to pass judgement on dozens of academic departments, at a moment when applicants are making decisions about where to study, is desperately irresponsible.

But, to say it again, maybe that’s just what we get if we diss the NSS. It’s not hard to work through unistats and identify some programmes that are getting poor satisfaction results. It’s also easy enough to drill down, say, to satisfaction with feedback, or to compare results over a succession of years.

If a journalist were to identify a course that’s been underperforming for years, then seek out some students on that course, I’d applaud her. I’ve worked to turn around units getting poor NSS results, and this has convinced me: a) that the NSS gives us reliable data; and b) that concentrated work can turn the situation around. Poor practice should be exposed and addressed, but let’s be careful how we identify it in the first place.

 

Attacks on the NSS seem especially unfortunate given the excellent, considered revision the survey has undergone this year. It seems to me blindingly obvious that student satisfaction does matter in a competitive system, whether academics like it or not, and universities are being sensible and responsible when they respond, year by year, to NSS results. Jenni Russell has merely demonstrated what we get when we don’t stand with confidence behind this reliable evidence-base.

 

A one-way ticket to New DLHE

Farewell, then, Old DLHE; your passing is unlikely to be mourned.

The Destination of Leavers from Higher Education survey, which delivers ‘graduate outcomes’ figures for league tables, has reached the final stages of a review. The consultation document, published by the Higher Education Statistics Agency this week, has an air of finality. The proposed new arrangements will affect students currently in their second of year of three-year undergraduate degrees.

So for those of us whose departments are judged by DLHE results – which means, basically, all UK academics – it’s worth pausing to consider the proposed changes and what impact they might have. There might even be ways in which we can influence the first results, due for publication in January 2020.

 

Fifteen months is the new six months

The principle of Old DLHE was to ask graduates what they were doing on one day, roughly six months after their graduation. As the consultation document notes, this was always controversial, and had arguably become increasingly problematic as a result of ‘the changed structure of the graduate jobs market and expectations of longer transitions into a settled pattern of activity’. Hence New DLHE proposes to ask graduates what they were doing in one week, roughly fifteen months after graduation.

This feels right, and should produce more reliable data. Notably, there’s a provision that will still capture those on twelve-month MA programmes (‘graduates who are surveyed in the September – November period will be asked about the activities they were undertaking during the first week in September’). While these programmes are not always the best way to ensure long-term employability, this commitment will be welcome in the sector.

 

Show us the money

As well as surveying the levels of graduate employment, New DLHE will gather information on salaries. The methods for this investigation remain just a little bit of a work in progress, but will involve a combination of self-declaration in survey-interviews and figures drawn from existing national datasets.

We’re not unfamiliar with these kind of data. They tend to show that if you study economics at the LSE you’re going to make money, and if you study ceramics you’re probably going to make rather less. For most disciplines in between, meanwhile, the average figures tend to be more closely bunched.

So I’d put this in the category of: ‘bound to happen, nothing much to be done about it’. My only concern would be the potential uses of the figures. Given the accepted correlation, regardless of one’s degree, between social background and future earnings, one hopes they are never worked into league tables.

 

But tell us how you really feel about it

The most interesting aspect of the proposals is the inclusion of qualitative questions: or, as the consultation describes them, ‘“graduate voice” measures [designed] to capture alternative ways of measuring graduate success’. These questions will include:

  • Why did you decide to take up your job?
  • My current activity fits with my future plans (agree or disagree)
  • My current activity is meaningful and important to me (agree or disagree
  • I am using what I learned during my studies in my current activity (agree or disagree)

This promises to give us some fascinating data, reflecting in particular on the ways in which graduates understand the place of their degrees in their unfolding lives. Universities will also have the opportunity to add further optional questions. A year ago I facetiously suggested calibrating DLHE with a national happiness index; HEFCE has opted instead for ‘meaningfulness’.

These questions might also prompt academics to think afresh about how we help our students make connections between their learning and their future careers. If Old DLHE has encouraged a utilitarian approach to employability – just getting graduates into jobs – this is altogether more idealistic.

But how will these questions be made to matter? I’ll be watching to see whether responses end up being factored into league tables. If this doesn’t happen – and it’s not obvious to see how it would – then their effect will be limited. They could even come to be seen as more trouble than they’re worth.

 

The rise of the entrepreneur

Entrepreneurship is the new black on UK campuses. Hence the predictability that the definition of ‘graduate employment’ in New DLHE would be adjusted accordingly. It will aim ‘to capture graduates pursuing non-traditional career-paths, such as those developing creative portfolions or setting up businesses’.

That will be welcomed in particular by academics in creative disciplines, who have argued that Old DLHE fails to recognize the more dynamic and entrepreneurial routes taken by many of their graduates. But the calibration with earnings data may well cut in the other direction, exposing areas where ‘entrepreneurship’ often boils down to taking bar-work while struggling in vain to get a creative career off the ground.

 

Will it work?

Kind of. Response rates of 70% per provider are predicted on the basis that they do something similar in Australia and get 39% – but, hey, we’ll do it better. That smacks just a little of wishful thinking. I’ll also be curious to see whether some of the idealism – and length – gets whittled away somewhere along the line. But hopefully this is pretty much what we will get; it looks like a better destination than Old DLHE.