University Life – untypicable.

Leftovers and Lanyards: A Conference Catering Mystery

AJ Wright — Fri, 25 Jul 2025 10:00:00 +0000

I first noticed it during the lunch break of a perfectly normal academic conference. The kind with lanyards, tote bags, and a programme that uses the word “dialogic” more times than is strictly legal.

The morning sessions had left us dazed: a blur of acronyms, half-declared paradigms, and PowerPoint transitions that felt like personal attacks. As the final panel chair announced, “Lunch is now being served in the atrium,” there was a hopeful shuffle towards the rear of the building—conference attendees moving like academic wildebeest in search of calories and social awkwardness.

And there it was: the buffet table.

The buffet stretched along one wall—a long, beige affair arranged with the precision of a still life, and the warmth of an airport lounge. It looked less like catering and more like the idea of food, as interpreted by someone who had read about eating in theory but never personally attempted it.

There were wraps. Always wraps. Wrapped in more wrap. Labelled with vague, lifestyle-forward adjectives like “vitality” and “plant-based brightness”, but no discernible ingredients. The salads were composed entirely of grains that looked like bird seed in a tax audit. Somewhere in the middle sat four pots of hummus—each a slightly different shade of despair. Beige, but make it conceptual.

I did the socially mandated loop—plate in hand, pretending to assess my options like a medieval scholar studying alchemy. I picked up a beetroot-based something, held it like a reluctant handshake, and then quietly returned it. It had the texture of regret and the scent of obligation.

That’s when I noticed something strange: people were disappearing.

The Migration Begins

It started subtly. One or two attendees stepped away to “take a call.” A few more whispered something about needing air. And then, in the space of five minutes, half the delegates had mysteriously vanished.

No announcement. No group decision. Just a quiet, collective slink towards the exit.

Rumours began to circulate: “There’s a place just round the corner…” “Someone said they do chips…” “It’s not glamorous, but it’s warm, and it has chairs.”

And thus began the lunchtime migration—the kind of unspoken mass movement rarely seen outside of David Attenborough documentaries. An unorganised, deeply instinctual exodus of academics, postgrads, and suspiciously well-fed keynote speakers heading for the golden glow of chain restaurants, fast-food joints, and anywhere that didn’t serve couscous in shot glasses.

Inside, it was glorious. Name tags tucked discreetly under jackets. Conference bags shoved under greasy tables. Quiet, unspoken relief. A burger in one hand, dignity in the other.

This, finally, was nourishment.

What Happens to the Leftovers?

Back at the venue, the food remained untouched. The wraps, now drying at the edges, sat like unopened fan mail. The hummus began to crust. The salads took on the texture of packing material. The pots of mysterious grain were eventually binned by a conference assistant who had long since stopped asking questions about life, or couscous.

And yet—no one spoke of it.

No one asked what happened to the food. Or who paid for it. Or whether it would be served again tomorrow under a different label. In a space overflowing with ethics panels and sustainability pledges, no one wanted to acknowledge that an entire buffet had been ghosted.

Sociology, Stomachs, and Shame

This, I realised, was the real conference experience—not the plenaries or the networking drinks, but this unspoken bond formed over hunger and low expectations. The shared glance across a greasy chip tray. The eye contact that says “I left during the Q&A too.”

Because there’s something strangely comforting about watching your colleagues—people who just spent 45 minutes discussing intersectionality and institutional decay—order a side of nuggets with a coke and sit in silence for a blessed, ketchup-stained moment of peace.

Back at the venue, someone was giving a paper on radical hospitality. No one clapped.

Final Thoughts in a Food Court

Next time you attend a conference and find yourself standing in front of a table full of food no one asked for, remember this: you are not alone. You are surrounded by others making the same calculation.

They too will quietly slip away, trailing lanyards and shame, to the safety of chips and seating.

Because sometimes, academic nourishment looks less like beetroot foam and more like a £4.99 meal deal.

And that’s perfectly valid.

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AJ Wright

AJ Wright is a quiet yet incisive voice navigating the surreal world of sociology, higher education, and modern life through the unique lens of a neurodivergent mind. A tech-savvy PhD student hailing from South Yorkshire but now stationed in the flatlands of Lincolnshire, AJ writes with an irreverence that strips back the layers of academia, social norms, and the absurdities of daily life to reveal the humour lurking beneath.

As an autistic thinker, AJ’s perspective offers readers a rare blend of precision, curiosity, and wit. From dissecting the unspoken rituals of academia—like the silent war over the office thermostat—to exploring the sociology of “neurotypical small talk” and the bizarre hierarchies of campus coffee queues, AJ turns the ordinary into something both profound and hilarious.

AJ’s unassuming nature belies the sharpness of their commentary, which dives deep into the intersections of neurodiversity, tech culture, and the often-overlooked quirks of human behaviour. Whether questioning why university bureaucracy feels designed by Kafka or crafting surreal parodies of academic peer reviews, AJ writes with a balance of quiet intensity and playful absurdity that keeps readers coming back for more.

For those seeking a blog that is equal parts insightful, irreverent, and refreshingly authentic, AJ Wright provides a unique perspective that celebrates neurodiversity while poking fun at the peculiarities of the world we live in. Also a contributor at Thinking Sociologically.

untypicable.co.uk

Why Real UK Universities Are Nothing Like the Ones on TV

AJ Wright — Sat, 30 Nov 2024 10:30:00 +0000

If you’ve ever watched a British TV drama, you might think UK university campuses are all ivy-clad walls, centuries-old libraries, and students earnestly debating philosophy under the dappled shade of an oak tree. Shows like Morse, Endeavour, and Lewis have created a vision of academia so idyllic it feels more like Hogwarts for grown-ups than a place where you’ll queue 30 minutes for a soggy sandwich.

Real university life? Let’s just say it’s a little less dreamy Oxford and a lot more semi-functional chaos. Here’s how reality stacks up against TV’s romanticised portrayal of higher education.

1. The Campuses: Where Are the Concrete Cathedrals?

On TV, campuses are all cobblestones, Gothic arches, and stately quadrangles. In reality, unless you’re in a handful of ancient universities, your “quad” is probably a patch of grass between Brutalist lecture theatres and a science block that hasn’t been painted since 1984.

Instead of romantic spires, you’ve got a building named after a donor no one’s heard of, lovingly nicknamed “The Carbuncle” for its architectural crimes. And let’s not forget the looming, soulless library that smells faintly of despair and spilled coffee.

2. The Professors: Not Everyone’s a Tweed-Clad Genius

In shows like Morse, professors are often eccentric geniuses, always on the verge of a groundbreaking theory or a scandalous affair. They wander around in tweed jackets, puffing pipes, and quoting Chaucer at dinner parties.

In reality? Most lecturers are juggling three admin deadlines, four modules, and a research paper no one will read. Their “eccentricity” is more about forgetting to unmute during a Zoom seminar or losing their train of thought halfway through a lecture on their specialist subject. And the closest thing to a scandal is their fiery hatred of Turnitin.

3. The Students: Less Debating, More Netflix

TV students are impossibly eloquent, discussing morality, justice, and existential philosophy over a glass of sherry. Real students? They’re debating whether it’s worth walking to the kitchen for more toast or just staying in bed until their next lecture.

Sure, you might stumble upon an intellectual discussion—usually five minutes before a deadline when someone Googles “What is utilitarianism?” and reads the Wikipedia summary out loud.

4. Dining: Swap Banquets for Meal Deals

In TV land, university dining halls are places of candlelit grandeur where students feast on roast dinners and sip wine as though they’re at the Last Supper.

In reality, university catering consists of an overpriced cafeteria where the highlight is the “jacket potato station.” The nearest you’ll get to a banquet is splitting a Tesco Meal Deal on a bench outside because the student union is hosting yet another silent disco.

5. The Societies: Not All Rowing and Poetry

TV campuses are filled with glamorous societies: secret debating clubs, elite rowing teams, and shadowy groups where people wear robes and discuss arcane matters. Real campus societies? Think Cheese Appreciation Society, Flat Earth Society (ironically run, we hope), or the annual brawl between Quidditch players and LARP enthusiasts over who gets the sports hall on Wednesdays.

Rowing might exist, but unless you’re in Oxbridge, it’s more “let’s hire a dinghy” and less “majestic oars slicing through morning mist.”

6. The Murder Rate: Why Isn’t My Campus This Dangerous?

In Morse and its spinoffs, a university is the ideal setting for murder—where jealous scholars, ambitious students, and secret societies collide in dramatic fashion. Real campuses, however, are more likely to host stolen bicycles and passive-aggressive notes on fridge etiquette than any high-stakes crimes.

If anything, the biggest mystery on campus is why the printer never works when you need it and who keeps leaving their pasta in the communal microwave for three weeks.

7. The Libraries: Not Quite Cathedral-Like Temples

TV libraries are majestic sanctuaries of learning, with oak shelves and leather-bound books that smell of wisdom. Students study in hushed reverence, poring over ancient tomes lit by soft golden light.

Real university libraries? They’re war zones of students fighting over the last available power socket. The air smells of instant noodles and desperation, and the books you actually need have been “accidentally” taken home by someone two terms ago. If you’re lucky, there’s a beanbag chair left in the corner, but don’t expect it to be clean.

8. The Weather: Always Lovely on TV

Have you noticed how TV campuses are bathed in perpetual sunshine or romantic drizzle? Reality is somewhat less cinematic. Half the academic year takes place under grey skies, with gale-force winds turning your umbrella inside out as you trudge to a lecture. Spring? It’s the brief fortnight when campus looks like it might be photogenic—just in time for revision season.

9. The Student Accommodation: A Sobering Reality

TV shows rarely bother with student digs, but if they did, they’d probably depict quaint shared flats with vintage furniture and a cosy communal vibe. Actual student housing, however, is a mix of peeling paint, dodgy wiring, and suspiciously sticky carpets. The heating works sporadically, and the kitchen appliances are older than the lecturers.

10. The Drama: Much Less Intrigue, Much More Spilled Tea

On-screen, campus life is filled with love triangles, whispered secrets, and philosophical duels. Real campus drama is more about who borrowed someone’s milk without asking or how the Wi-Fi went down right before an essay submission. The only “duel” you’ll witness is two flatmates passive-aggressively one-upping each other’s cleaning rota contributions.

Conclusion: Real Campuses Are Their Own Kind of Wonderful

While TV universities give us a gloriously unrealistic slice of academic life, real campuses have their own unique charm. Sure, they might lack the glamour, intrigue, and suspiciously high murder rates of their on-screen counterparts, but they’re full of awkward, brilliant, funny moments that you won’t find on Morse or Endeavour.

Because let’s face it, no matter how idyllic TV makes it look, you wouldn’t swap a rowdy student union karaoke night for a candlelit poetry reading. Would you?