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It’s university entrance season, and so begin the trials of the personal statement, which now takes the form of three questions: “Why do you want to study this course or subject?; How have your qualifications and studies helped you to prepare for this course or subject?; What else have you done to prepare outside education, and why are these experiences useful?” – 4,000 characters for the Ucas form, in which every 17- and 18-year-old has to express their uniqueness, while at the same time answering the same generic questions. I can’t help my own kids with this because they’re Stemmy (as in science and maths-oriented). their scope of interests is expressed in formulae, and if I ever have the audacity to ask them to translate it back into words, they shake their heads and go, “You’re never going to understand electron configuration”, in the exact tone of voice you’d use to tell a dog sitting in a suitcase that it isn’t allowed to come on holiday.
But I have had a number of kids doing work experience with me, wanting to study such things as politics, sociology, English and international relations. I should theoretically know my way around the language of persuasion on this territory, but to the Great Admissions Tutor of the collective imagination, nothing is ever good enough.
All the plucky, regular-person stuff you’d have put on such a form in the 90s – I helped an old lady once; I have a babysitting syndicate; I’m a keen crocheter – is completely out. Today’s applicant can be a lieutenant of 10 years’ standing in the climate activist army, with three A* predictions, but still conclude mournfully that everyone’s been on 20 Extinction Rebellion marches, and you’ll only stand out if you’ve been on the flotilla with Greta Thunberg. They have this madly impressive private school kid in their heads who spent the summer in Beijing interning for the Central Military Commission, and maybe they’re right, but when you tell them that admissions tutors can also read, and will be able to decipher the word “Eton”, they don’t believe you.
They pore over the thesaurus trying to find different ways to say “passionate” and “fascinated”, then it all comes out sounding like ChatGPT, so they put it through ChatGPT to make it sound less like ChatGPT. Then they’ve sailed over their character limit, so they change all instances of “incredibly” to “so”, and so sound like Nancy Mitford. I just want to get a big red pen and scrawl: “I’d like to see you get three A* predictions and also save the world, Mr/Ms Pointy Head. These are great kids. Let them into your university.”
Zoe Williams is a Guardian columnist
