I know it’s really for the 22-year-olds and the parents, but I found my MBA graduation at Warwick strangely enjoyable. (That’s me on stage in the pic, anonymity preserved by my parents’ fumbling with their new digital camera.)
In a way, this means more at Warwick than it does at ancient Cambridge or Oxford; as a new institution, built during Britain’s last wave of red-brick university rollouts in the 1960s, Warwick doesn’t have a legacy of a thousand years to call on. It’s had to drag itself up from 1960s shitabrick mediocrity, elbow its way into league tables and RAE scores, hold up a magnet to top academics by dint of marketing, results, and sheer hard work. I’m proud to get my MBA from this place, even if the PhDs have cooler hats.
And so 18 months of work is closed. But the next three years – where I’ll still be involved with WBS – have only just started.