Science is boring

Science is boring.

Science is hard.

Science is irrelevant.

Scientists are all men with crazy hairy white coats.

Scientists are dull.

Scientists have no social skills.

As a scientist myself, I disagree vehemently with the statements above. However, I'm willing to bet that if you plucked a random member of the public off the street and showed them this list they’d nod their heads in agreement. This is something that frustrates me deeply.

We can live to a ripe old age. We can travel all over the globe. We have plenty to eat. We can talk to pretty much anyone, anywhere, from anywhere. We don't all have to slave away at manual labour. We have ridiculous amounts of entertainment available. Thanks to what? Science and engineering. Are these things bad? No! So why, as a rule, do people hate science?

In the UK we have a culture that worships wealth and celebrity. We no longer care about actually making things or discovering things. Instead it's all about the marketing, the advertising, the 'doing business'. We are concerned more with the superficial appearance of products than with their inner workings.

From an early age children are taught that science and maths are hard, only for geeks and nerds. There's no shame in not understanding; in fact to fit in with our peers ignorance is positively encouraged. Once these views are introduced they quickly become entrenched, with disinterested kids becoming adults who boast at dinner parties of their inability to add up.

This is a monumental reconditioning. By our very nature humans are curious, creative creatures. We begin life fascinated by how things work. And the whole point of science is to find out how things work. How every single thing in the entire universe works. How can that possibly be dull? How can people look at the world around them and have no desire to understand it? Yes, the understanding is sometimes hard. But many things worth having are hard to get, and often the greater the challenge the more satisfying the rewards.

The lack of scientific understanding in the general public causes many problems. For scientists themselves it's pretty rubbish as we are unappreciated and looked down on. But that's a minor issue. Much more important is the fact that if people lack knowledge they can be easily manipulated. The media can whip up scare stories and people are unable to filter the truth from the fabrications. Ill people can be persuaded to go and see homeopaths instead of doctors, parents deprive their children of vaccinations against terrible diseases, politicians don't think that changing the composition of the atmosphere will change the climate. This is dangerous.

I love learning new stuff. Most people don't. Why?

 My old lab looks a little like this. I think lasers are cool.

Mark Thomas at the Exeter Phoenix

Mark Thomas is a political activist/comedian who makes a living by getting worked up about various causes, going on trips to find out more about them and then returning to the UK to tell us all what he's discovered via books and shows. Previous issues that he's tackled include the arms trade and human rights violations committed by Coca-Cola, but this tour he's turned his attention to the Middle East. His slightly deranged plan, which he's termed 'extreme rambling', was to walk the entire length of the separation wall, the barrier constructed by the Israelis ostensibly to prevent suicide bombers crossing into Israel. Along the way he would speak to both Israelis and Palestinians living nearby, to try to better understand what they believed and to work out whether this wall could possibly be a good thing.

Given the militarised state of the West Bank, and the fact that people get shot and gassed all the time for going anywhere near the wall, this was quite a big ask. However, being British (fake-Scottish to be more specific) and having the assistance of a local 'fixer' proved considerable boons, and he actually managed to complete his walk. Along the way he met a whole host of fascinating people and learned an awful lot, experiences which he is truly eager to share.

Like most comedians he's a bit of a lefty, and so his natural sympathies lie with the oppressed Palestinians. However, he doesn't attempt to ram ideology down our throats; rather he tells us stories about what he saw, the people he spoke to, and leaves his conclusions until the epilogue. The subject matter is at times utterly horrifying, but Thomas simply states these facts in a low sombre tones, then quickly moves on to a more light-hearted anecdote. This deft way of mixing serious issues with laugh-out-loud comedy is what makes Thomas so successful. The audience gets the message but goes away uplifted rather than depressed, and doesn't get bogged down in the horror of it all.

After the show we stayed for a beer, and after a while were shocked to see Thomas appear in the bar area wearing a suit. A suit? Crikey, that's not what we expected. However, it fit well with his professionalism, and he took the time to have a decent conversation with everyone who had hung around. He seemed genuinely grateful that people had come along rather than being resentful that he had to sign stuff. We had a good chat and shook his hand. It's nice when your heroes don't disappoint you.

 

Mark Thomas

The Smoke Fairies at the Exeter Phoenix

The Smoke Fairies are not your usual kind of group. The music produced by Katherine Blamire, Jessica Davies and their backing band defies easy categorisation: a mix of folk (but not in a hippie-with-guitar way) and bluesy Americana with occasional smatterings of rock combine to produce a shivery, soulful sound. This is music filled with winter, best listened to in the woods at night in the freezing cold with a full moon rising (probably).

It was therefore a bit of a shame to see them indoors, in the hot and stuffy auditorium of the Exeter Phoenix. The advantage of the venue is that it is rather small, and so everyone is close to the action and can admire the skill with which the girls play their licks and slides. The guitar work looks pretty complicated, and is perhaps the reason why they never looked like they were enjoying themselves; too much concentration required to crack a smile. They did however engage with the crowd in spurts of banter between songs, revealing at one point that they were tanked up on an odd mix of Lemsip Max and whisky.

Thankfully no hint of a cold was evident in their voices, which are sublime. They complement each other beautifully, weaving their way through luscious harmonies and counter-melodies. Their slightly nervy, Home Counties-accented speaking tones seem jarringly ordinary in comparison.

Normally I prefer music at the rockier end of the spectrum, but the Smoke Fairies work best when pared down. This was illustrated perfectly when the rest of the band went out back, leaving just the two girls on stage to perform the song 'Erie Lackawanna'. A slow and melancholy tale of old age, this was truly haunting. Faster numbers such as 'Hotel Room' were also very good, and provided a welcome change of pace, but lacked the shiver-down-your-spine quality.

Support came from Sea of Bees, whose performance was elevated by the lead singer's unique voice, although it did at times feel like an on-stage therapy session. The music was well done, but not really to my taste. Overall though, the evening was excellent and an absolute bargain at just seven pounds for a ticket.

Smoke Fairies

Hash House Harriers: the drinking club with a running problem

Running? Not my cup of tea, thanks. All that Tarmac pounding and extra effort in order to move marginally faster than I can walk? The expensive shoes, the fluorescent jackets, the god-forsaken Lycra? The near-guaranteed knee problems? No, I'm definitely not interested.

Unless ...

What if the whole aim of the exercise was to work up a good thirst for the beer afterwards? What if you didn't trudge up and down the same route time after time, but had a different trail each week? What if you could pause and walk whenever you felt in need of a breather, and no one would think any less of you? What if there were enforced sweetie and beer stops along the way? What if you were running with a big group of friendly, and utterly bonkers, people?

That sounds much more appealing.

But does such a group exist? Brilliantly, yes it does. Not just in the UK but all over the world people calling themselves hashers are running riot through the countryside and the cities, confusing passers-by and livestock alike with their cries of 'On on!' and 'Checking!'. What's more, they've been doing this since 1938, when the whole idea was devised by a group of British officers in Kuala Lumpur.

 

Picture stolen from Isca website. Don't worry, they won't mind.

So what exactly is it they are doing? Well, the whole idea is based on paper chases, whereby a person known as the hare sets the trail and the rest of the pack follow it. It isn't an easy route however, being littered with false trails, dead ends and loops of differing lengths. Various symbols are marked out in chalk, flour or sawdust, the most important being the circular check. When a check is reached the hashers at the front of the pack (known affectionately as the Front Running Bastards) go off in search of dots which mark where the trail goes next. While the FRBs are doing this hunting the rest of the group can catch up, ensuring that everyone is kept together and that things don't get unpleasantly competitive.

The trails tend to be circular, between 4 and 7 miles long, and finish off at a pub. Before the serious business of drinking can be undertaken however, all the hashers have to form a big circle so that the Religious Adviser (a member of the Mismanagement) can dish out the Down downs. These are awarded to thank the hares, to punish those who have been 'naughty' during the run, or for any other tenuous reason that can be conjured up. As can be guessed from the name, those given a Down down have to drink half a pint of (usually) beer all in one go, whilst being jeered at by the rest of the pack.

One additional idiosyncrasy is the fact that no one goes by their real name. This custom derives from hashing’s colonial beginnings, and allowed men of all different ranks to run together as equals. Names range from the gently teasing to the crude, and once chosen can't be changed. To give you a general idea, my hash name is Twice Nightly.

I've been a hasher for about three months now and I'm in danger of becoming addicted to it. I'm still terrible at running of course, but that isn't the point. What could be more fun than careering through the muddy countryside with a bunch of great people followed by drinking proper beer at a nice pub? Not a lot, I reckon.

Find a hash near you:

The UK Hash House Harriers website

Groups I've hashed with:

ISCA

City of Exeter

Devon Lunatics

North Wilts HHH

On on!

Felix Dennis at the Exeter Phoenix

Yesterday I went to see a poet. This was a rather odd thing for me to do as poetry isn't usually my thing. Or rather, the kind of poetry I got forced to study in English classes at school isn't my thing. I truly thought that the vast majority of poems in the GCSE syllabus were dire.

There was one occasion when we were all bundled into a coach and driven to London in order to listen to some poets read their work. One by one, they took to the stage to regurgitate their poems, robot-like, with monotonous voices and no detectable enthusiasm. The teenage audience fidgeted and yawned. But then Benjamin Zephaniah entered the room, and everyone was transfixed. It wasn't just because he was a colourfully-dressed Rastafarian with long dreadlocks tumbling down his back, although that certainly helped get people's attention. It was the poetry: it rhymed, it was funny, it had a beat, and most importantly, it was performed.

In my mind, performance is an essential part of poetry. Verse intended only to be read silently from the page whilst sat alone in the corner of an empty room often seems to end up dry, boring and pretentious. The aim is no longer to put together a bunch of words that sound good and mean something, oh no. Instead, those writing such poems seem to compete with each other to see who can produce the most inaccessible, obscure, unpopular work. If ordinary people actually enjoy reading the stuff, it is somehow seen as having less value. But what is the point of writing words that never get read?

Despite the fact that he is one of the country’s richest men, I had never heard of Felix Dennis until a flyer fell out of my copy of the New Statesman. And I must also confess that I probably would have remained blissfully ignorant and said flyer would have gone straight into the recycling bin if it hadn't been for the sentence 'Did I mention the free wine?' emblazoned across the top.

I'm a student. Go figure.

My interest thus piqued, I looked Dennis up on youTube and found a video of him performing his poem 'I love the French ... the bastards'. It was hilarious, it had rhythm, and it rhymed, and so I duly booked tickets. They were pretty cheap, and hey, there was going to be free wine, so I thought it wouldn't really matter much if the poetry wasn't that great.

So, yesterday evening I arrived at the Phoenix having just staggered off a train from Birmingham, where I had spent the day trying to understand quantum dynamics calculations (this is a distressingly difficult thing to do). I was exhausted, and my brain was fragged, and so a nice glass of red was exactly I needed. We staggered up to the bar, expecting cheap plonk, only to be confronted by a whole array of bottles containing wine that looked really rather nice. We had a sip: crikey! This was good wine.

We spent the best part of an hour lounging around, contentedly drinking, before being called into the auditorium, which was packed full of people of a certain age and a certain demographic (as usual, a demographic to which I do not belong). Once everyone was in, the lights went down and a deep booming voice resonated out from somewhere backstage. Moments later, the owner of said voice strode out onto the stage, accompanied by a microphone and, of course, a glass of white.

Felix Dennis is an interesting-looking chap. He has the scruffy nonchalance of a man who could afford to dress much better but chooses not to. His hair and beard are grey masses of unruly frizz, his eyes are alert but slightly sozzled; he is short of stature but wide of girth. He wears a baggy shirt and trousers, just about kept under control by a tan-coloured waistcoat, and seems perfectly at home upon the stage.

The evening began with the obligatory thank yous and plugs for The Week’s wine club and travel service. But these were quickly over and we entered the meat of the proceedings: the poems. Read in a voice whose timbre ranges from the everyday to the husky and dramatic, these were in equal parts amusing and melancholy. Many were accompanied by animations projected onto the back screen. These, produced by a mixture of collaborators and fans, were on the whole well-made and apt, but most of the time I found my eyes drawn to Dennis himself.

Dennis clearly holds similar opinions to my own on modern poetry, and takes aim at the concept of 'free verse' at several points during the evening. Although he occasionally points out that a poem follows a particular style, it is clear that the technicalities are irrelevant. What matters is that his poems sound good, and that they have meanings that the audience doesn't have to go hunting for. They are enjoyable, accessible, but still provoke thought. Each one was met with enthusiastic applause.

The first half lasted for around fifty minutes, followed by an interval in which there was ample time to top up our glasses. The second half was of a similar length to the first, but was kicked off by Alyson Hallett, a local poet who read a handful of short works. She was fine, but lacked Dennis’ vigour, and I found I actually preferred her ‘pre-poem chat’ to the poems themselves. This addition to the programme was however a nice idea, and as the tour continues it will hopefully give a few under-appreciated poets the chance to reach a wider audience.

When Dennis returned the atmosphere took on a less light-hearted tinge, as he recited poems ruminating on age, death and regret. It wasn't all doom and gloom however, with plenty of laughs squeezed in before his rock star-esque double-encore finale. Then it was back out to the bar for more wine and book signings. We came away with two of his collections, his latest 'Tales from the Woods' and 'Nursery Rhymes for Modern Times': one to make us think, one to make us laugh. Dennis signed both, and to his credit seemed to be genuinely engaging with each person who queued up to speak to him. He didn't however seem overly taken with my suggestion that he should take the role of Poet Laureate; a shame because if he did I think poetry would become much more popular.

Go see him!

Felix Dennis

La Bête at the Comedy Theatre, London

Molière, the real one.

Written in 1991 by David Hirson, La Bête is set in 17th-century France and apparently aims to be a light take-off of plays by Molière. It is a comedy with a serious undercurrent, namely the age-old debate of quality versus commerciality in the arts. Now, I know virtually nothing about Molière (my only contact with his plays has been an abridged version of one that I saw whilst doing A-level French), and so can't comment on how it compares with the more esteemed playwright's work, but this didn't detract from the experience. In fact, my relative ignorance may have even enhanced my enjoyment of the play, as it was by far at its weakest when trying to have a 'message' or 'deeper meaning'.

The play opens to the scene of a dinner party, the guests of which are members of an acting troupe retained by a Princess who sees herself as a patron of the arts. However, all is not well and the troupe’s leader Elomire (can you see what Hirson did there??) soon stomps off to sulk in his library, where he proceeds to moan to his loyal friend. The cause of his disgruntlement is soon revealed: the Princess has declared that a new playwright and actor, Valere, must join the troupe. This Valere is not, however, a purveyor of the kind of 'high art' that Elomire likes to produce, rather he is little more than a street clown.

The audience doesn't have to spend long wondering if Valere can really be as bad as all that; within scant minutes he bursts onto the scene in all his dishevelled, tramp-like glory. We quickly become sympathetic to Elomire’s point of view as Valere embarks upon a drunken monologue that, astonishingly, lasts a full half-hour. During this time the clown doesn't just talk, he also relieves himself and hides away in a box. Elomire just stands there, his expression becoming increasingly pained.

Thirty minutes seems like an awfully long time for one actor to be speaking, especially when you combine this with the fact that the entire play is written in rhyming couplets. Remarkably, it works, and it works extremely well. This is mostly due to the skill of Mark Rylance, the actor playing Valere, who is superb throughout. With his raucous delivery the script becomes laugh-out-loud funny. David Hyde Pierce is also excellent as Elomire, even if all he has to do a lot of the time is look annoyed.

Any play written and performed by Valere is almost guaranteed to be awful, hence we are left wondering why the Princess would wish to employ him. The reason becomes clear when she first enters the scene: she is really rather silly herself. The original script called for a prince, but in this version the part has been rewritten as female in order to accommodate Joanna Lumley. Here, Lumley is rather out-acted by her co-stars, but she is nonetheless perfectly adequate. It would be hard for her to be otherwise; in a role as a ditzy aristocrat she is essentially playing herself.

The action unfolds on a truly sumptuous set. Crammed bookshelves take up three walls, rising ever upwards, concealing hidden doors that lead to, amongst other places, the toilet. A lot of effort has also been put into the costumes, most notably the wigs, and, I suspect, Valere’s teeth! I was sat as usual in the upper circle, in a seat with a slightly restricted view, but this wasn't much of an issue - such a stage setup will look good from any angle.

The play's message is one that we have heard many times before, and the whole thing is hardly a work of genius. Without such high quality acting it would undoubtedly struggle. However, in its current form at the Comedy Theatre La Bête makes for a thoroughly entertaining evening out and therefore is to be recommended.

Three small butterflies

Lawns are not very interesting. Green, freshly mown grass may be good for walking on, for playing sport on, and for admiring from afar if orderliness is your kind of thing, but it isn't so useful for creatures. Short, neat stumps of grass aren't great for hiding amongst and don't provide much to munch on, and hence if a field is so manicured that it could be mistaken for Astroturf, it is unlikely to have much living in it. Let the grass grow just a bit longer however, so that the ends tickle your calves as you walk through it, and as if by magic the previously-barren spot will be teeming with life.

All manner of creepy crawlies like to hang out in long grass, from tiny ants and flies to bumblebees and dragonflies. Most colourful, however, have to be the butterflies, which flutter skittishly from perch to perch in search of tasty nectar. Larger varieties such as the Peacock and Red Admiral are easily recognised due to their distinct patterns, but just as attractive are some of the less well-known smaller species. I managed to spot three of the latter recently.

This little fellow is a Brown Argus Butterfly. Confusingly, it is a variety of blue butterfly, despite it not being in the slightest bit blue-coloured (the undersides however are similar). They are most commonly found in the south and east of the UK, preferring to spend their time in chalk and limestone grassland. With a wingspan of only about 25 mm they are about half the size of a Red Admiral and so can be tricky to spot in dense vegetation. If you do manage to clap eyes on one however, you won't have to worry too much about losing it for these are truly lazy butterflies. They rarely travel more than 200 m from the site where they emerged, and like nothing better than to lie around soaking up the heat of the sun. Interestingly, their caterpillars are tended to by ants: the ants provide protection in exchange for a honey-like secretion from the caterpillars’ 'Newcomer’s' glands.

This is another butterfly from the same family, but this time at least the males are actually blue! Such Common Blue butterflies are, as the name suggests, regularly seen all over the UK. They are not fussy about their habitat, and will happily live in gardens, on verges, or even on sand dunes. Similarly, they will contentedly guzzle nectar from all kinds of sources, with thistles and clover is being just two examples of the many plants they feed on. During the day they flap around casually from flower to flower, then at night they become quite sociable, and it is often possible to find a whole group roosting on the same grass stem.

This final specimen is the ominously-named Gatekeeper butterfly. There is however nothing remotely unsettling about it, it is simply a very small (20 mm or so) creature that likes to frequent scrubby grassland. The males tend to pick a shrub they like the look of and from there establish a little territory. The females find a mate and then set off to lay their eggs, of which there may be a couple of hundred. Unlike other butterflies, which tend to get through several generations each year, Gatekeepers only go through one cycle, which peaks at the beginning of August. This time of year is in fact when many butterfly populations peak, meaning that the countryside should be swarming with them. Go out and find some!