It's never too late to learn and I love every minute

So, if my lecturer were reading this and feeling particularly pedantic, he'd pick me up on both parts of my opening statement for neither are true.

But this is creative writing, not academia, so I won't let the facts get in the way of a good story – or, in this case, column.

School's out, or, rather, school's in. Unlike millions of other students around the UK, still recovering from the hangovers of fresher balls, I'm fit and raring to go. In a few short months, I'll be heading back to the classroom; 25 years after leaving and vowing never to return. Truth is I can't get enough. My appetite for learning and creative work is insatiable. And that, were my lecturer reading it, is fact, rather than inaccuracy.

Five years ago, I decided I wanted to get a degree. My friend, Kiran, had achieved a triple first from Cambridge, and my only qualifications were from the university of life. I'd left school – Menzies High School, in West Brom, if you're interested – at the age of 18. I knew what I wanted to do: write. University for me would have been about two things: drink and girls, and I'd been devoting enough time to both in my old stomping ground without having to move 150 miles away to invest.

So I applied for jobs at my local paper – yes, the one you're reading now – which ran a training scheme. There were 500 applicants that year and only 10 jobs. Eight of those went to graduates and two to A-level 'kids'. I was one of the kids.

I didn't get a degree, nor spend years immersed in thought, admiring lofty towers, debating French philosophers or doing the other stuff that people do in universities (drink and girls).

A long-time partner and young son means I no longer chase the ladies, which, at my age, is probably a good thing – for them and for me. And an inability to know when enough is enough means my love of the sauce has long since been subsumed by the need to stay sober. My thirst for knowledge, however, grows stronger.

When January comes, I'll be starting my PhD, or, at least I hope to be. During my three years in higher education, I've learned not to take things for granted. Before then, I need to surmount two academic hurdles. After that, for the next six years, my nose will be poked into a book every Sunday morning from 7am to noon, every Wednesday from 6pm until midnight and at other unsociable hours of the day.

It's not just learning from lecturers that thrills me. I'll also be lecturing others, part-time, in music journalism, fitting that around the all-consuming requirements of a full-time job that I love. I lectured for the first time last year, working with 18 students. It was challenging and difficult. But it was also inspiring, rewarding and remarkably cathartic. I learned from the students, rather than the other way round. Seven achieved firsts, which, apparently, is an unusually high quotient. Get me, blowing my own trumpet. Toot toot.

When term starts, or, as we say at university, 'semester', I won't be popping into the uniform shop to pick up a navy blue jersey and grey trousers. Nor will I be visiting WH Smith to buy over-priced stationary and a bag of sweets. My laptop will see me through.

Some things don't change, however, and when term starts I'll have butterflies in my stomach, humility in my heart and a determination to learn as much as I can from those who know much better.

By Andy Richardson