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insane, the result, in Wilt's opinion, of fourteen years continuous

effort to get Gas-fitters to appreciate the linguistic subtleties of Finnegans Wake, but although

he had twice spent a year's medical sabbatical in the local mental hospital he was relatively

amiable and too hamfisted to use a cine-camera, and as for crocodiles... Wilt gave up and went

along to the Audio-Visual Aid room to consult the register.
    'I'm looking for some blithering idiot who's made a film about crocodiles,' he told Mr Dobble,

the AVA caretaker. Mr Dobble snorted.
    'You're a bit late. The Principal's got that film and he's carrying on something horrible.

Mind you, I don't blame him. I said to Mr Macaulay when it came back from processing, "Blooming

pornography and they pass that through the labs. Well I'm not letting that film out of here until

it's been vetted." That's what I said and I meant it.'
    'Vetted being the operative word,' said Wilt caustically. 'And I don't suppose it occurred to

you to let me see it first before it went to the Principal?'
    'Well, you don't have no control over the buggers in your department, do you Mr Wilt?'
    'And which particular bugger made this film?'
    'I'm not one for naming names but I will say this, Mr Bilger knows more about it than meets

the eye.'
    'Bilger? That bastard. I knew he was punch-drunk politically but what the hell's he want to

make a film like this for?'
    'No names, no packdrill,' said Mr Dobble, 'I don't want any trouble.'
    'I do,' said Wilt and went out in pursuit of Bill Bilger. He found him in the staff-room

drinking coffee and deep in dialectics with his acolyte, Joe Stoley, from the History Department.

Bilger was arguing that a truly proletarian consciousness could only be achieved by destabilizing

the fucking linguistic infrastructure of a fucking fascist state fucking hegemony.
    'That's fucking Marcuse,' said Stoley rather hesitantly following Bilger into the semantic

sewer of destabilization.
    'And this is Wilt,' said Wilt. 'If you've got a moment to spare from discussing the millennium

I'd like a word with you.'
    'I'm buggered if I'm taking anyone else's class,' said Bilger adopting a sound trade-union

stance. 'It's not my stand-in period you know.'
    'I'm not asking you to do any extra work. I am simply asking you to have a private word with

me. I realize this is infringing your inalienable right as a free individual in a fascist state

to pursue happiness by stating your opinions but I'm afraid duty calls.'
    'Not my bloody duty, mate,' said Bilger.
    'No. Mine,' said Wilt. 'I'll be in my office in five minutes,'
    'More than I will,' Wilt heard Bilger say as he headed towards the door but Wilt knew better.

The man might swagger and pose to impress Stoley but Wilt still had the sanction of altering the

timetable so that Bilger started the week at nine on Monday morning with Printers Three and ended

it at eight on Friday evening with part-time Cooks Four. It was about the only sanction he

possessed, but it was remarkably effective. While he waited he considered tactics and the

composition of the Education Committee. Mrs Chatterway was bound to be there defending to the

last her progressive opinion that teenage muggers were warm human beings who only needed a few

sympathetic words to stop them from beating old ladies over the head. On her right there was

Councillor Blighte-Smythe who would, given half a chance, have brought back hanging for poaching

and probably the cat o' nine tails for the unemployed. In between these two extremes there were

the Principal who hated anything or anyone who upset his leisurely schedule, the Chief Education

Officer, who hated the Principal, and finally Mr Squidley, a local builder, for whom Liberal

Studies was an anathema and a bloody waste of time when the little blighters ought to have been

putting in a good day's work carrying hods of bricks up blooming ladders. All in all the prospect

of coping