The Form.

I filled in a form this week.

Actually, that’s not true. I filled in several forms. One of them was to request permission to complete another form.

Universities love forms. Not because they achieve anything. But because they create the comforting illusion that something has been achieved.

Need to change a module? Form. Need some paper for the printer? Form. Need to supervise a student? Form. Need to attend a conference? Three forms. Need a replacement keyboard? Form. Need to order a pen? Probably two forms. Need to breathe? Please complete the online declaration confirming you intend to continue breathing for the next academic year.

The beauty of university forms is that the form you complete is never the correct form. You carefully locate it on the staff intranet. Exactly where you were told it would be. You download it. Complete every section. Attach every document. Double-check everything. Send it off.

Three days later an email arrives. “Unfortunately you’ve completed the wrong form.” How? “The correct version is Form 7b.” You ask where Form 7b is. “The same place as Form 7a.” You point out that Form 7a is the only one available. “Yes.” “So where is Form 7b?” “It hasn’t been uploaded yet.”

Naturally.

Eventually someone emails you the correct form. It is identical. Except one box has moved three centimetres to the left.

You complete it again.

This time the problem is the date. Not the actual date. The box containing the date. The university has thoughtfully automated the form. Unfortunately, the date field is locked. You cannot edit it. You cannot delete it. You cannot overwrite it. You cannot persuade it. You cannot swear at it. You cannot sacrifice a goat and convince it to change. So, like any reasonable person, you submit it anyway with a polite note explaining that the system won’t allow the date to be amended.

Three days later...

“The form has been rejected because the date is incorrect.” You explain, again, that the system won’t allow it to be changed. “Yes, we’ve had a few people mention that.” “So... it’s a known fault?” “Yes.” “Will it be fixed?” “We’re looking into it.” “What should I do?” “You’ll need to complete another form.”

Of course I will.

The really impressive thing is that none of this is ever considered a systems problem.

The form doesn’t work. The workflow crashes. The mandatory field isn’t mandatory. The date won’t change. The drop-down menu still contains departments abolished during the last restructure. The automated email goes to the wrong person. The attachment disappears. Yet somehow the conclusion is always the same. User error. Which is a remarkable achievement for an organisation whose systems appear to have been designed by somebody who actively dislikes people.

Then there are the forms asking for information the university already has.

Your name. Your staff number. Your department. Your email address. Your office. Your line manager. Your Head of Department. Your CV. Information already stored in approximately seventeen different university systems. Apparently none of them speak to each other.

The forms also have expiry dates. Not because legislation has changed. Not because policy has changed. Not because the process has changed. But because somebody in Marketing has unveiled a bold new institutional brand. The logo moves. The colours change. The font becomes slightly rounder. The slogan changes from: “Transforming Lives.” to “Creating Futures.” Or perhaps “Empowering Potential.” Nobody can remember.

Congratulations.

Every form you’ve completed this year is now obsolete. The only difference appears to be that the university crest is now three millimetres further to the left. Apparently this represents innovation.

Nothing else changes.

Student recruitment is still down. Staff are still leaving. The IT still crashes every Monday morning. The printer on the third floor still hasn’t worked since 2019. But at least the logo is blue now.

The people responsible for forms occupy a fascinating place within the university ecosystem. They don’t teach. They don’t research. They don’t supervise students. They don’t appear to produce anything tangible. Yet they defend forms with the sort of passion normally associated with medieval crusades.

Suggest removing a form and you’ll be told it’s essential for governance. Ask why it’s essential and an awkward silence descends. Nobody really knows. Because nobody reads them. How do I know? Because every few weeks I receive an email. “Our records indicate you haven’t completed the required form.” I have. Twice. Sometimes three times.

I attach the original email. The confirmation receipt. The automated acknowledgement. The PDF copy. The screenshot. Occasionally a witness statement.

A week later another email arrives. “Could you complete the attached form?” My personal favourite is the reminder email. “This is a reminder to complete the mandatory form.” I’ve already completed it. “Our records don’t show that.” I attach the receipt. “Unfortunately we can’t accept receipts as evidence the form was submitted.”

I read the sentence twice. Then a third time. I briefly wonder whether I’ve misunderstood the English language. Then I complete the form again. Because resistance is futile.

By this point I’ve completed approximately 678 forms this academic year.

There are forms confirming I’ve attended meetings. Forms confirming I’ve completed mandatory training. Forms confirming I’ve read emails. Forms confirming I’ve completed other forms. I’m half expecting to receive a Form Completion Completion Form. Most disappear into whatever administrative black hole universities use to store documents nobody will ever look at again. Not one has made me a better teacher. Not one has improved my research. Not one has helped a student. Not one has solved a single problem. But somewhere, in an office I’ve never visited, someone is probably completing a form confirming that all the other forms have been completed.

They’ll file that form. Nobody will read it. And another email will arrive reminding me that I haven’t completed the mandatory form. Apparently.

Sometimes I wonder what would happen if universities simply stopped creating forms.

Would teaching collapse? Would research cease overnight? Would students wander aimlessly across campus, unable to locate a lecture theatre without first completing a risk assessment and an approval workflow?

Probably not. I suspect nobody would notice. Except, of course, the person responsible for creating the new form explaining why we no longer needed quite so many forms. Who would almost certainly ask me to complete a feedback form.

Right. Time to complete another form.