👩🎓Prologue: the adventures of Dr Dickhead👩🎓 As some of you may know, I have been undertaking a PhD programme since June 2021. I look at AI implementation and its impact on marginalised communities, and my research has latterly evolved into understanding the new ways in which AI discourse conceptualises power and how this shapes public policy. After a year at a standstill, I recently decided to withdraw from my programme. Reader, I have never felt so free. So by popular demand (well, @Sue Black asked for it), here it is, the dramatic retelling of my PhD saga nobody (except Sue) asked for. It's a long one, so settle in with a cup of tea. I’d love to say that I went into my PhD programme in search of intellectual rigour, the pursuit of truth, and to expand the parameters of AI research (having barely worked in AI at the time, of course). I did not. I chose to do a PhD because it was offered as a perk of working for the university in question, and I really wanted people to call me Dr Dickhead for some reason (the Dawn of 2019 - when this odyssey of nonsense first started - was an exceedingly different beast from the Dawn before you). But, in spite of myself, I actually got into the whole academia thing and genuinely started producing good research, novel (gasp) concepts, and the occasional bout of existential dread. The university’s jacket was always on a shoogly peg with me (you get what you pay for) but I was making progress, my Viva was planned for December 2025, and I was looking forward to becoming Dr Dawn. Then came July 2025, piles of apparently unpaid invoices, a block on enrolling and a protracted institutional horror show in which I was apparently expected to pay for services not rendered, nod politely while my data was hacked and the finance system imploded, and then behave as though this were all some charming quirk of higher education. 💸Act One: the invoices from hell.💸 There are few things more brazen than being charged for something you did not receive. It has the same moral texture as being happy slapped by the Honey Monster and then sued for bringing Sugar Puffs into disrepute. This, apparently, was the first act of my doctoral education: fees for phantom services (almost £6,000 in unpaid invoices apparently), some light administrative necromancy, and the general sensation that someone somewhere had decided to trial extortion as a means of plugging the university’s £14m budget deficit.