That's Entertainment!

Apparently it's World Poetry Day, so without further ado here's a poem:

Why have a girl who can play her guitar

When you could have a stick in a push-up bra?

She can't sing a note, but that's just fine,

She looks so pretty, and she can mime.

Why have an author who can actually write

Getting plots, characterisation and apostrophes right?

Celebrity biographies, that's where it's at

Or mommy porn, Dan Brown or ghostwritten tat.

Why have a pint of the nice local brew

When there's fizzy lager that'll make you spew?

And there's no point trying an unusual wine

When Blossom Hill is going for £3.99.

Why see a thought-provoking play?

No one wants to think after working all day.

There's a musical on with that guy off tv -

Mindless sing-a-long? Suits us perfectly!

So sit back, relax, turn brain to off,

Consume whatever gumpf comes up on the box,

Be a good citizen, conforming and quiet,

We don't want you going and starting a riot.

The Coffee House Players present ‘Prime’

The Coffee House Players are an amateur theatre group based in Exeter. ‘Prime’ is the third production of theirs that I’ve seen, and it is far and away the most professional. The play, by turns comic and creepy, is based heavily on Jean-Pierre Jeunet’s film Delicatessen. In fact the resemblance is so strong that I was subconsciously expecting the actors to speak in French rather than English.

The plot is simple but weird. We are plunged into a post-apocalyptic city where everyone is starving except the family of Auger, the butcher who, somewhat suspiciously, always has a plentiful supply of meat for his sausages. No explanation is given as to why the world is in such a state, but none is really needed: it simply a plot device. Accompanied by his partner in crime, the buxom prostitute Madame Offelle, Auger rules over his daughter Sanguine and a collection of other misfits with an iron fist.

However, the feeling that all is not as it seems has spread and a band of terrorists under the command of the mysterious Baroness are out on a quest to destroy the butcher once and for all. It’s a suicide mission, but the fear of death is tempered by the promise of Utopia, a promise that the well-meaning but intellectually-challenged bunch have fallen for hook, line and sinker.

The butchery and terrorist elements of the play complement each other well; without the light comic relief of the latter the whole piece would risk getting rather heavy. Indeed, the parts were even written by different playwrights, namely Jules Gill and Rosen Trevithick, but this isn’t in any way detrimental. My one criticism would be that the first half at times feels like a collection of scenes rather than a coherent whole. However, any perception of disjointedness dissipates as the momentum mounts in the second half, building towards a satisfying, bloody conclusion.

The acting ranges from fine to excellent. Especially good was Matt Roberts, who plays the butcher himself, and seems born for the role. His expressive face is full of menace, and he wields a knife with disconcerting ease. Also worth mentioning are Dan Thomas as the old man Mr Sustan, who initially appears to be completely sane (an illusion that is brought crashing down to hilarious effect), and Laura Garnier as Aristotle, who is definitely mad but delightfully and believably so.

The performance takes place in the cellar bar of the City Gate Hotel. This has both advantages and disadvantages. On the plus side, the atmosphere is perfect: a dark and dingy subterranean cavern with old stone walls, a solid wooden bar and copious pillars and arches provides plenty of character, and allows the scene to be set with little extra decoration. On the negative side, it is rather small, and so only fifteen audience members fit in each night. This is a shame, as the play deserves a wider audience. If the group revive it, it will be well worth seeking out.

The Coffee House Players

Richard Thompson at the Colston Hall, Bristol

Richard Thompson is generally regarded by those in the know as one of the finest guitarists and songwriters the world has ever produced. He plays what can best be described as angst-filled folk-rock, with more upbeat-sounding tunes interspersed with pared-down tales of failure and bitter heartbreak. He’s hardly a household name however, instead having a small but devout following, some of whom were at the Colston Hall in Bristol on Saturday night.

He’s touring to promote his latest album, concisely called ‘Electric’, and indeed the acoustic guitar stays mostly in its case. Often found performing alone, he is here accompanied by drummer Michael Jerome and bassist Taras Prodaniuk, who together manage to produce far more noise than should be possible from a mere three men on a stage. Jerome is hugely entertaining to watch, tending towards ‘Animal from the Muppets’ levels of enthusiasm as he bashes hell out of his minimalist drum kit. Prodaniuk has the air of a mildly deranged chemistry teacher with his tall, skinny frame, narrow-rimmed circular glasses and mop of unruly greying frizz. Judging by the ever-present grin on his face, he is also rather enjoying himself.

At 63 years old Thompson is no spring chicken, but he is certainly no decrepit grandad either. His lined face is full of character and often breaks out into a rather cheeky grin as he engages in sarcasm-laced audience interaction between songs. Atop his head sits an ever-present black beret; I should imagine few if any people are aware of the state of the hair (or absence of) that lies beneath it. For most of the time he stands fairly rigid on the stage; any movements seem a little jerky apart from his hands, which run lightning fast but effortlessly up and down the guitar.

The gig opens with ‘Stuck On The Treadmill’, a moan about the slog of working life incorporating a firm beat and a cracking riff. The next few tracks are similarly up-tempo until the audience is brought crashing down by ‘My Enemy’, which floods the hall with beautiful melancholy. ‘I’ll Never Give It Up’ can only be described as rollicking, ‘When Love Whispers Your Name’ is heart-wrenchingly painful (in a good way), the murder ballad ‘Sidney Wells’ seems very cheery if no attention is paid to the lyrics. Many of the songs are from the new album, for which Thompson very insincerely apologises, but towards the end the proportion of crowd-pleasing older tracks increases. In encore one of two he even breaks out a bit of Hendrix with an extremely popular rendition of ‘Hey Joe’.

The faster songs showcase Thompson’s intricate guitar work. His solos are long without being self-indulgent, and the skill involved is incredible. Most musicians would need to play four or five guitars simultaneously to get the sound he gets out of one. In contrast, the slower numbers highlight his stunning voice: deep and smooth, with a rich timbre that resonates throughout the hall, caressing the audiences’ eardrums. This voice, alas, is woefully reproduced on recordings. It seems a trifle unfair that one man should be so doubly talented. Perhaps he made a pact with the devil.

Blizzard

Blizzard.

It’s winter in the mountains.
There’s snow, wind and ice.
There’s danger.
But that’s ok, we know what we’re doing,
we’ve done the training, we’re prepared,
we’ve got the equipment, we know how to use it.

But the weather’s coming in,
it’s changing.
It’s changing fast. Too fast.

Whiteout.

Where did everyone go? Hello? Hello? (louder)
Hello?
It’s cold. It’s freezing.
Hands are stiff, thoughts are slowing.
Maybe someone will come to help.

Wait.

Wait more.

Ok, maybe they won’t.

Try alone.

But can’t see to take a step
can’t see to read the map
can’t think to read the map

Panic?

No, too cold to panic. Just wait some more.
Go numb. Go number. Then? Nothing.

And everyone says
“Take comfort in the fact they died doing something they loved.”

Drabbles

Two pieces of 100 word fiction, one light-hearted, one miserable, originally published on Indie Book Bargains back in December. Have a look at the site if you'd like recommendations for cheap, independently-published books.

 The question

 We stood there in silence for a few moments, staring at the grey, dirty water of the river. Each deep in thought, wondering if it was time to ask the question. If it was too soon, too outrageous. If it would cause excitement and delight, or discomfort and uncertainty. Did we really know each other well enough? The tension became unbearable. I took a deep breath, turned, and just as I was about to open my mouth he said “Do you want to hire a pedalo?” I smiled, nodded, and off we went.

What will we do when all the engineers have gone and we are left with a country full of advertising executives?

A man named Rodney, in a flat cap and boiler suit, with a bulbous nose. Old, rugged and calloused, face crossed with a gentle smile. Grease under his fingernails, creases around his eyes. Joints swollen with arthritis, but still moving skilfully over levers, pushing and pulling with practised not-quite-ease. He works the crane. Like his father before him. He used to unload cargo; now he just shows it off to tourists. He doesn’t mind though, he simply enjoys the work, the being one with the machine. He’ll be dead soon. And the crane will turn to rust.

I bust my tendon running

I bust my tendon running,
And didn’t even know,
There was no pop or crack or stab,
I just got very slow
And by the time the finish came
My feet would hardly go.

I gave myself some blisters
Running the day before
I should have stopped much earlier
When they started getting sore
But no, I kept on going
Being greedy, wanting more.

If I had been unwise then
I got unwiser the next day
When I covered sores with plasters
Then set off on my way
Careering ‘cross the Common
Up steep muddy pathways.

The first four miles were fine
But the final one was not,
I stubbornly still jogged along
Then walked then limped then hopped
All the way back to the car park
Where I found a seat and flopped.

I took my foot and prodded
As hard as I would dare
But however much I pressed it
The pain just wasn’t there
Though as soon as I stood up
It hurt enough to make me swear.

There is no inflammation,
No redness, bruise or bump,
My foot - it looks just fine,
While I’m a proper grump
Cos instead of being active
I’m stuck sat here on my rump.

So I went off to the doctor
To see what he would say
Hoping for nothing serious
Like a fracture, tear or sprain,
Instead a little bruising
That would clear up in a day.

The brave man took my foot
Twisted it from side to side,
Did some more expert prodding,
Then seemed to decide
His inspection was sufficient
And pulled out a fat guide.

He opened at a picture
Of a big foot all laid bare
Pointed at the ‘Peroneous brevis’
Saying “Look, it’s that one there,
You’ve probably inflamed it
Just rest and take some care.”

So it seems it’s ok really,
But I’ll have to take a break
And pop some paracetamol
Or put up with the ache.
I just hope it gets better quickly
For my sanity’s sake...

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!

Selby shines, but Perry and Carter fail to ignite the Crucible

Snooker’s most prestigious tournament, the World Championship, is currently taking place at the Crucible theatre in Sheffield. It’s a fantastic, intimate venue in which the very best players are on show, and hence tickets get snapped up as soon as they become available. Fortunately I managed to put up with the theatre’s ear-gratingly bad hold music for long enough to secure some, and so yesterday morning four of us found ourselves tucked up in the back corner of the back row ready to watch the second session of Mark Selby versus Stephen Hendry.

The atmosphere at snooker matches is always great, but at the Crucible it is perhaps even better. The crowd of students, middle-aged men and silver-haired grannies mingles together happily, with the occasional player or referee casually thrown into the mix. Snooker is a sport where fans can get close to their heroes: I strode alongside Willie Thorne for a good few paces on the way in; my friend Mike walked past Rob Walker at the train station; as we left we spotted Jan Verhaas chatting up a couple of ladies in a nearby Starbucks. It's all about the action on the table, however, and we had what could turn into a good match on our hands: a star of the future versus a star of the past.

The first session had turned out evens, with Selby and Hendry having four frames apiece. However, the situation became rapidly one-sided as the Jester from Leicester started to demolish his opponent. Hendry did start reasonably in the opening frame, but then the first of what was to turn into a series of avoidable errors allowed Selby to get straight back in, and he took no hesitation in powering through a break of 96. And so it continued. Hendry for a moment looked like he was going to get a frame on the board, but a bad miss let Selby in, and the younger player ruthlessly cleared up. Hendry sat in his seat with his head hanging low, unable to watch as the frame that should have been his inexorably slipped away. The score was now 4-8 in Selby's favour.

Any hopes that the 15 minute mid-session interval would allow the former champion to get himself together and put up a fight were quickly dashed. He did manage to come out tops in one frame, but Selby's cueing just got better and better and Hendry found himself unable to respond. Up in the commentary box Willie Thorne was getting increasingly excited about Selby's cue ball control, waxing lyrical about 'deep screws' like there was no tomorrow. This control, combined with some superb potting, earned Selby every remaining frame in the match.

We walked out pleased to have seen a player on top form, but disappointed that it hadn't been more of a contest. Maybe the afternoon session would hold more promise: Joe Perry and Ali Carter should be quite evenly matched and so surely we could look forward to some good safety exchanges and the odd dash of drama. We grabbed an improvised lunch of satsumas and Club cake bars from Somerfield, then strolled back to the Crucible.

Carter had established a decent overnight lead, and at 10-6 he had just three frames left to win in order to progress to the quarter-finals. However, he seemed to have left all his form in his hotel room and struggled hugely to pot anything. Perry was better, but not by much, and together they made a complete mess of the table for the first few frames. We looked at each other and shook our heads. This was not good snooker.

It didn't help that on the other side of the theatre there was a cracking match between Ronnie O'Sullivan and Mark Williams taking place. It also didn't help that our commentating team was Neal Foulds and Terry Griffiths. Now Neal can be okay when teamed with someone able to add a bit of excitement to proceedings, but Terry's utterly inane observations, delivered in his usual soporific tones, soon had us all yawning. One by one we either took out our earpieces or switched over to listen to John Parrott and Dennis Taylor discussing the action on the other table.

How we wished the dividing screen would just go up! It seemed that Ronnie was having a good day, and that Williams was playing superbly. Alas, unless the action was taking place around the yellow spot (which we could just about see from our back-row position), we were unable to get a glimpse of it. Oh, the frustration!

Back to our table, and things did admittedly improve a little. Whatever Ali Carter did during the mid-session interval, it woke him up and he remembered how to play. In the first half of the session Perry had caught up to level the score 10-10, but a century break, followed by a solid 82 took Carter back into the lead. The final frame was again scrappy, but Carter clinched it, and with it the match. He may be through to the quarter-finals, but he'll have to play a lot better if he hopes to defeat Shaun Murphy later today. As for us, we got up, stretched, said goodbye to the Crucible and began the long drive south.

Snooker on the BBC

Snooker and ice hockey: a comparison

On Sunday I went to see an ice hockey match. No, not Canada vs the United States at the Winter Olympics, although that was taking place at a similar time. It was the rather less glamorous line-up of ‘Guildford Flames’ vs ‘Milton Keynes Lightning’, taking place at the Guildford Spectrum leisure centre.

Ten years ago or so I used to go and watch hockey matches quite regularly, supporting what was then known as the ‘Swindon Chill’. Alas, this team was as lousy as their name and the attraction of seeing them lose every week soon wore off. Nowadays they appear to have reverted to the infinitely better name of ‘Wildcats’, but are alas still languishing near the bottom of the league.

Ice hockey is a rapidly-moving sport in which the players alternate between highly skilful puck passing and beating hell out of each other. Only the most blatant infractions are called up by the referees, who then give out penalties with wonderfully euphemistic names: ‘hooking’ appears to mean jabbing a stick violently into an opponent’s stomach and trying to haul them backwards, ‘holding’ can mean physically sitting on another player to stop them from moving, and my absolute favourite ‘roughing’ means attempted murder.

As I watched what was a very entertaining match it struck me that ice hockey is the diametric opposite of snooker, the ‘sport’ (yes, I know that any game with Stephen Lee as a top player can’t really be called a sport) that I go to see most often. Now, this may seem a senseless comparison, what with hockey being a team game played on ice and snooker being a rather more sedate affair played on a posh table, but I’m going to make it nonetheless. I also can’t confess to knowing a great deal about ice hockey, but then again I’m not convinced there is a great deal to know.

My first point regards tactics. Snooker matches are as much down to clever thinking as they are down to skill with the cue. Players have definite strategies and plan out several shots in advance. When taking a shot the goal isn’t simply to get the object ball in the pocket; in addition the white needs to land in the perfect position for the next pot. If no pot is obvious then the white needs to bring a ball into a pottable position and finish neatly lined up with it. The precision required, and the rapid calculations of velocities and angles, are extraordinary.

In ice hockey on the other hand, any tactics employed are rather less obvious to a casual observer. The aim is to get the puck into the goal. That’s pretty much it. There don’t appear to be any great over-arching strategies, and indeed there is no need for there to be. Play moves so quickly up and down the rink that there simply isn’t any time for carefully planned-out formations. The players don’t have the opportunity to consider their next move; they have to react at almost the same instant that they receive the puck. Hesitate for even a second and they’ll find themselves bashed up against the wall by an opponent.

An entire ice hockey match is over in 60 minutes of play, separated into three equal periods. Given the constant stops and starts, and the need to resurface the ice, it does in reality take rather longer than this. However, it's still pretty short for a sports match. One of the reasons for this is that it's a supremely knackering game. The players charge up and down the rink at ferocious speeds and bash into each other at full-force. To allow the team to cope with this constant exertion there are plenty more players available on the bench than are needed on the ice at any one time, and they chop and change constantly.

For the snooker player there is no hope of a substitute when feeling Tired. Here the exhaustion is mental not physical and the match is very much head to head. It also lasts for much, much longer. Ronnie aside, most players take a good few seconds over each shot, and can deliberate for well over a minute if it's a tricky snooker. In the same period of time in ice hockey there could well have been two goals and a handful of penalties. Snooker frames can be over in 15 minutes if one player dominates and has a good run of the balls, but the majority will contain more safety play and so will last for rather longer. And of course one frame is not the entire match; the final of the World Championship is the best of 35 frames. 35 frames! That's insanely long.

Another difference is that struck me was the behaviour of the crowds. At the ice hockey there was constant cheering and chanting and bashing of drums, and the rink positively exploded each time a home goal was scored. In contrast, snooker audiences keep incredibly quiet, bursting into applause after good shots but rapidly quieting down lest the referee turns and tells them off. I can't imagine any hockey referee complaining to a fan unless they actually chucked something onto the ice, and even then if it was something small and fluffy they’d probably get away with it. After all, the refs are too busy trying to stop the players from committing grievous bodily harm to pay much attention to such minor matters.

Strangely, and despite the differences of the loud and brash versus the quiet and collected, the atmosphere at both sports is really rather good. The ice hockey crowd is more obviously entertaining and being entertained, but the tense excitement at a snooker game can't be matched. Both are niche sports and have small but dedicated fanbases which give events a real welcoming feel. Personally, snooker appeals more due to its more cerebral nature and the sheer variety of play from match to match. But when I want a good burst of adrenaline, I'll certainly give ice hockey another try.

‘Waiting for Godot’ at the Theatre Royal, Haymarket

Samuel Beckett's 1953 play 'Waiting for Godot' was one of the West End’s hot tickets last year; its pairing of Ian McKellen and Patrick Stewart proving so popular that every seat for every performance was sold. Luckily for the likes of me it has been revived for an additional eleven weeks this year, still with McKellen as Estragon (or Gogo) but now with Roger Rees as Vladimir (or Didi). Tickets now seem to be rather less in demand, which worked out beautifully as I was able to procure Royal Circle tickets for the princely sum of £20 each. Used as I am to sitting in the Upper Circle or the Balcony, I found this whole experience rather novel: going to see a play and not being several stories above the action? Being able to stretch my legs out? Sitting in a seat with a padded back? What luxury! I'd better not get used to it, or things could get expensive.

Anyway, to the play. It's an odd one, this. I can understand why many people don't like it, seeing as the entire plot can be described as 'two old tramps wait for a man called Godot to turn up'. That isn't a summary, by the way, it's all that happens. Most tales can be said to have a beginning, a middle and an end; 'Waiting for Godot' cannot. We simply watch Gogo and Didi over two days, two days that are essentially identical. Then it stops. The audience doesn't need to see any more; if there were to be a third day it would simply be the same as the first two, and so there is no point in carrying on.

Put like this, it all sounds terribly dull, but somehow, and I'm not exactly sure why, it isn't. It definitely helps that the two tramps are quite entertaining characters who keep a veneer of comedy to hide the tragedy of their lives. They are rather like a musical double-act that has fallen on hard times, an impression reinforced by the ruined-theatre setting (the script originally called for a country road) and the little dances and hat-switching routines that they perform. Neither managed to completely conceal their deep-seated despair, however. For Gogo this manifests as grumpiness, resignation and thoughts of suicide. Didi, on the other hand, expresses his discontent in animated monologues and restlessness.

The pair mostly seem to pass the time with brief, intense conversations and by trading insults. Each day this interaction is interrupted by the arrival of the rich, larger than life Pozzo and his slave Lucky. Pozzo, who is played with great gusto by Matthew Kelly, has a rather strange relationship with Ronald Pickup’s dutifully obedient Lucky. The two are linked by a rope that runs around the latter’s neck, and although Pozzo is clearly the dominant one it would seem that neither could do without the other, much as is the case for Gogo and Didi. Pickup has a wonderfully crumpled old face and an impressive head of long, white hair that is probably a wig but that I wish was his own. Most of the time he is left to stand, eyes to the ground, as the action (such as it is) carries on about him. He is not without his moment of glory, however. This comes when he is asked to dance, and then to think, at which point he lets out an incredible, barely-comprehensible monologue that is really rather exhausting to listen to.

There are many themes that could be said to run through 'Waiting for Godot', from the religious to the political, from the existential to the absurd. Many trees worth of paper has been consumed in its analysis, a process that I find rather mystifying especially given that even Beckett didn't seem too clear on what it was about. For me, it was a great evening out at the theatre seeing an interesting, impeccably-acted play in which not a lot happened. That's all it was, and in my mind that's all it needs to be. I would thoroughly recommend it.

Waiting for Godot

The Walnut Orb-Weaver Spider

I found this spider crawling around on the side of a shed last summer. With its dark, leathery, flattened body and disconcertingly slow movement, it seemed rather, well, sinister. It certainly appeared much meaner than most of the spiders to be found in the garden: a sneaky, dangerous-looking creature with something of the night about it. Concerned that it might be capable of a nasty bite, I left it well alone.

In fact, this little beastie is a perfectly ordinary, harmless garden spider. Despite being extremely common it is rarely seen as it is mostly active at night. During the day it squeezes its thin body into crevices, often under bark, hidden well out of sight of any predators. Then in the evening it emerges, cautiously, and spins its flat, circular web. Once it has finished this construction it will move to the web’s centre and stay there perfectly still, waiting for unwary flying insects to get trapped.

If the spider feels spooked during the night it will return to hide in its crevice, slowly following a guideline of silk. Before the sun rises it completely dismantles its web, leaving no trace that it was ever there. Given that the webs can reach 70 cm in diameter, this daily cycle of building and demolition seems like an extraordinary waste of effort. Maybe all this work just fills the time, or maybe the webs are actually a bit naff and so wouldn't last more than a night anyway.

If you spot one of these spiders it's likely to be a female. These are bigger, at up to 15 mm long, and are active all year. Males on the other hand only ever grow to 9 mm and are only out and about during the summer. Interestingly, if you pick up a male it may bite you, although however hard it chomps down it won't do you any real harm. The Walnut Orb-Weaver would seem therefore not to be the villain it appears. It does 'live in the shadows' as its Latin name Nuctenea umbractica implies, but this is simply because it is too cowardly to come out during the day.

Have the Brecon Beacons ever looked so good?

The Brecon Beacons National Park is an area of outstanding natural beauty beloved of British Army trainees, who frequent it for weekends of exercise, fresh air and teamwork.

Or maybe not.

Maybe it's an area that can look quite attractive on the rare occasions when the cloud lifts and it stops raining and you can haul yourself high enough out of the bog to get a look. And maybe the reason the Army uses it so much is that getting round the place is quite hard work, but not such hard work that they can't load up their recruits with ridiculously heavy bags and still expect them to run for 12 hours non-stop.

The hills themselves are quite strange beasts; their broad, plateau summits and perilously steep sides give them the impression of being vast mountains that have had their tops lopped off. On paper they would appear to be quite easy to conquer, and although they are certainly no great behemoths those flat areas are no walk in the park. Rather, they are a walk through a peat bog. Now, don't get me wrong, bog hopping can be quite good fun if you haven't done it for a while, but its appeal tends to wear off rather suddenly the instant you find yourself thigh-deep in brown, smelly goo. Gaiters will of course help to lessen the effects, but there will almost always be a bit of damp, runny mud that manages to trickle its way into your boot, down your ankle and onto your already-cold toes. And that is not a pleasant feeling at all.

So, as we set off to south Wales last Saturday morning we were expecting to spend the weekend trudging through the mire. We weren't particularly concerned about this as it's what we end up doing a lot of the time, and strangely we do quite enjoy it. However, as we drove further west the world became whiter and whiter. Snow! Amazing! My excitement was tempered somewhat by the fact that I was on hold to the Crucible Theatre box office in an attempt to get snooker tickets and the music they were forcing down my ear was really quite piercing, but by the time we reached the National Park proper the tickets were booked and my attention was turned fully towards the hills. Darn, they looked good!

Our initial plans were for a rather long day out. We parked next to Talybont Reservoir (SO 099197), with an out-and-back trip to Pen y Fan as our goal. As we trudged up through the ever-deepening snow to Allt Lwyd (078189) however, it became clear that this was a little on the over-ambitious side. Not to worry though, the day was quite simply glorious and we didn't really care about tagging summits as we had, after all, been up them all before anyway. We were out and about, with blue skies and sparkling snow, and hardly anyone else was up there with us.

As we ascended a fine ridge up to the first plateau of the day it almost seemed like we were in the Alps, so impressive was the view. Once up on the flat we meandered around in a general north-westerly direction, hoping that the looping tracks we were leaving would make a good pattern when viewed from above. Amusingly, on our way back we discovered that people coming afterwards had used our tracks as a guide, thereby wasting themselves huge amounts of time if they had wanted a direct route to the next hill! We carried on through the col at 057206 and onto the next area of plateau, at which point the view really struck us:

Wow! Pen y Fan looked like a monster! A huge, snow-covered beast with sharp ridges, plunging cliffs and precarious cornices. I desperately wanted to hurry on and climb it. Except, hang on a minute - what's that?

Yuck! People everywhere! Clustering like flies all over the mountain’s towering glory. Maybe we would give it a miss, after all.

You see, a major part of the attraction of the hills for me is the sense of solitude. We live our lives in towns and cities, surrounded by other people, crowded and hemmed in, and so every once in a while (actually, as often as possible) it's good to get away, to stand somewhere in the countryside and have no one else in sight. I am too antisocial to enjoy walking up a hill in a line with tens of others; I want it to be my hill, with my view, and I don't want to share it with anyone other than my close friends. Selfish, I know, but that's the way it is. So I was happy to leave Pen y Fan to the masses and instead enjoy getting knee-deep on Gwaun Cerrig Llywdion.

We did go and tag Fan y Big (036205), mostly because we are shockingly immature and find its name hilarious. But otherwise we were happy to stumble about on our plateau, keeping to the centre so as to avoid the people following the line of the paths which skirt the edge. It was hard going pushing through untrodden snow, and walking through the peat hags felt rather eerie, but I was happy. The hags themselves may have been imposing, but the icicles forming on their sides were beautiful. I broke one off to try as a free 'lolly', but didn't get very far through it as, somewhat predictably, it tasted rather too much of grass and peat.

We wandered back through the col and onwards to the eastern edge of the hill, where we had a decision to make: same way down, or different? Obviously we plumped for the different way, which turned out to be a most excellent choice. The first part of the descent was fairly steep and fairly uninteresting, but then the gradient became even more extreme. There was no way we were going to bother walking down that. Not when we could slide! Richard pulled on his friction-reducing waterproof trousers, I jumped into a survival bag, and we were off!

Initially, Richard was having a great time sliding rapidly downwards, but unfortunately for me we had gone at about the same time and it was all I could do not to slam into his back. Even with my elbows jabbed into the ground to try and brake I was gaining on him. Just as I was about to lose control I lurched over to the right, pulling myself clear. I then careered at an incredible speed down the hill, going faster faster faster. This was better than any rollercoaster ride! After what must only have been a handful of seconds, but which felt much longer, the ground flattened out and I spun myself to a halt. That had been amazing! A university group had watched our descent, and I could tell they were impressed. Casually, we packed the survival bag and trousers away and continued on back to the car.

The Libel Reform Campaign

If you have any interest in maintaining the freedom of speech, the openness of scientific debate and the ability of people to question the actions of corporations, the Libel Reform Campaign needs your help. The extent to which the UK’s woeful libel laws are harming not just the individuals being sued but the public at large is frightening. Defendants are presumed guilty until they can prove their innocence, injunctions are rushed out to block any reporting of cases, and lawyer’s bills quickly mount up to millions of pounds. It doesn't matter whether the alleged slur took place in the UK either; cases can be dragged into London from pretty much anywhere in the world in what is known as 'libel tourism'.

People certainly need a means of recourse if something false and reputation-damaging has been said about them, and so the campaign is not suggesting that the libel laws are abolished altogether. However, it does question whether large companies should be treated in the same way as individuals, whether comments made on Internet chat forums should be treated in the same way as the formal articles in the national press, and whether payouts should be so huge that making a libel claim is seen as a valid way of earning money. With the laws as they are, the only real winners seem to be lawyers and those rich enough to afford their exorbitant fees.

A lawyer, the only sort of person who really benefits from the law as it stands.

There have been three recent cases involving scientists which highlight quite how dangerous the current situation is. Firstly, there is Simon Singh, a mathematician and author of many popular science books. His problems started when he wrote a comment piece in the Guardian newspaper in which he accused the British Chiropractic Association (BCA) of promoting bogus treatments. Following the piece’s publication, the BCA sued for libel.

Now, if Singh had been rubbishing the whole of chiropractics with no supporting evidence, the BCA may have had a point. However, all he was pointing out was that no evidence exists for chiropractors’ claims that they can cure things like infant colic and asthma with their back manipulations. If anyone was at fault then surely it was the BCA for promising results from treatments that have been shown to be ineffective? Not according to Mr Justice Eady, who ruled against Singh. Aware of what a damaging precedent this could set for freedom of speech, Singh decided to risk his money on an appeal, which has yet to take place.

Another example is the case of Henrik Thomsen from the University of Copenhagen. Thomsen, a radiologist, had long been concerned about the safety of a gadolinium-containing contrast agent (something given to patients before they have an MRI scan to help things show up better) called Omniscan. Worrying numbers of patients suffering from kidney problems who had taken Omniscan ended up developing a very serious medical condition known as nephrogenic systemic fibrosis. As any responsible scientist would, Thomsen spoke about his fears at a conference in Oxford.

Rather than looking at Thomsen’s research and considering whether they should act to stop Omniscan from being used on vulnerable patients, its manufacturer General Electric Healthcare instead decided to sue Thomsen for libel. It claimed for damages and legal costs (probably more than £380,000) and attempted to gag the radiologist, preventing him from spreading his message further. Luckily, GE Healthcare have now dropped their suit, but what if similar companies are doing similar things? What if deaths are being caused by companies hiding evidence in this manner? In this light, the need for libel reform seems really rather urgent.

Peter Wilmshurst, a consultant cardiologist at the Royal Shrewsbury Hospital, has been sued for libel by NMT Medical over comments he made about their product STARFlex, a device that is designed to close holes in the heart. Wilmshurst was involved with research that was investigating whether STARFlex helped to reduce the incidence of migraine in some patients. The result of the trial was negative; the device didn't seem help with what it had been designed for. Wilmshurst came up with some ideas as to why this was so, but NMT Medical disagreed. When the cardiologist spoke about the trial at a conference, criticising the company, they sued.

Science will just stop working if things carry on in this way, with scientists at risk of being sued for libel if they say anything, however justified, that criticises a company or its products. This is not a system designed to let the truth win out; rather it allows the people or entities with the most money to stifle debate. Singh and Wilmshurst are risking everything they own in order to fight the charges against them. Not every scientist is in a position to do this, nor would every scientist be willing to, believing the risks to themselves and their families to be just too great.

And it's not just science that is the issue here. Journalists, comedians, broadcasters, anyone who writes or says something potentially controversial is at risk. Things need to be changed.

Please go to www.libelreform.org and sign the petition there.

The Victoria and Albert Museum

The Victoria and Albert Museum is hardly 'unknown' London, being as it is the world's largest museum of art and design containing over 4.5 million objects. And yet, even on supremely busy days when the queues to get into the Natural History and Science Museums are snaking their way down Exhibition Road, it is possible to find a quiet spot where you can peruse the exhibits in peace. This is for two main reasons: firstly the museum's sheer size (I have visited a fair few times now and am still finding a wealth of new galleries on each visit), and secondly the fact that it doesn't really appeal to children. This is not a museum filled with hands-on displays, flashing lights and electronic beeps; instead it simply presents its objects as they are, letting the sheer quality do the talking.

The variety of exhibits is astounding. Where else is it possible to view samurai swords, Renaissance sculpture, one of Mick Jagger's stage outfits and a hurdy-gurdy all under one roof? And remarkably it is all interesting. Even the things that sounded hugely dull to me before I visited turned out to be fascinating. For example, a gallery dedicated to ironwork that I expected to walk straight through ended up containing extremely intricate locks with their mechanisms completely visible as well as imposing gates and a rose with petals so delicate they almost looked real.

My most recent visit was this Saturday, and as usual I covered a considerable amount of new territory. Here are some of the objects that I regarded as highlights:

Samson slaying a Philistine by Giambologna, 1562, Florence.

My favourite sculpture in the whole of the museum, this grand piece has recently been moved near the entrance to give it the prominence it deserves. One of the very few works by Giambologna to have left Italy, it was based on an idea of Michelangelo and was his first major commission. It depicts the Old Testament Judge Samson slaying a Philistine with an ass’s jawbone; a common subject but one rarely executed with such skill.

Despite having spent more than three hundred years outside, the marble is still incredibly detailed and we can see clearly the lean muscle of the men, the intricate folding of the cloth and the texture of their hair. Unlike many sculptures this was designed to be viewed from any angle; it does not have a 'front' and so the viewer has to walk all around to appreciate it fully. The cold stone may be immobile but this does not prevent it from having a real sense of movement, of violence and of urgency. The men's faces also tell a tale: the features of the Philistine convey real panic, whereas Samson shows only cool dispassion.

The Upas, or Poison Tree, on the Island of Java by Francis Danby, 1820s, Britain.

The work of Francis Danby belongs to the school of Romanticism with its towering hills, dazzling sunsets and epic vistas. 'Romantic' scarcely seems like an appropriate word to describe this painting, however. At first it appears simply to be a view of a clearing surrounded by steep-sided mountains; dark, yes, and certainly grand, but nothing too unsettling. A step closer, and everything changes. The man in the foreground who from a distance could be thought simply to be leaning over is revealed to be turning away in disgust and fear, patterns on rocks are resolved into skeletons, all suddenly reeks of death and decay.

The inspiration for this painting came from a poem by Erasmus Darwin, who wrote the following notes:
'There is a poison-tree in the island of Java, which is said by its effluvia to have depopulated the country for twelve or fourteen miles...condemned criminals are sent to the tree...and are pardoned if they bring back a certain quantity of the poison.'
A grim subject indeed. The painting is not without a ray of hope, however. Far away in the distance are the snow-covered peaks of less doom-filled mountains and the stars are still twinkling in the blue-black sky.

Iron comb, Berlin, 1820s.

The Victoria and Albert Museum contains a great many shiny things, and the highest concentration of these is found in the jewellery section. 'Dazzling' is the only word that can adequately describe this gallery, surely a criminal's dream with so many diamonds and precious gems all lined up together. I personally am not a great jewellery fan and so found many of the items hideous, but it was nonetheless impossible not to admire the skill of the craftsmen who had created such things.

One case in particular stood out to me, being as it was an oasis of light relief in the midst of all that sparkling. There were no jewels to be found here; instead all the pieces were fashioned out of cast iron, giving them a delightfully Tim Burton-esque feel. The comb above is a prime example. Its dark, Gothic decoration makes it seem suited to the graveyard, and yet such items were only worn by women in the very upper echelons of Society. The style is known as 'Berlin iron' and was not widely popular outside Germany. Unfortunately most examples have now rusted away.

The Ommeganck in Brussels on 31 May 1615: The Triumph of Archduchess Isabella by Denis van Alsloot, 1615.

This remarkable oil painting, which shows a grand circus-like procession, is one of the first exhibits to be seen in the Theatre gallery. The above scene is only a tiny portion of the painting, which in turn depicts only one sixth of the entire parade. The whole event, bizarrely held to celebrate the moving of an image of the Virgin Mary across Brussels a long time earlier, must have been truly spectacular!

The style of painting is not the most accomplished and is rather cartoony, but given the subject matter this seems appropriate. Most impressive is the sheer amount of detail that has been crammed in. We can see each individual performer, each crowd member (some of whom appear to be engaged in scuffles), each horse and rider, each banner. It is a scene full of energy, full of excitement, full of spectacle, and as such is a perfect introduction to all the aspects of theatre that are explored later in the gallery.

Plaster cast of the Tomb of St Sebaldus, Peter Vischer, 1519, Nuremberg (original).

I will never tire of the cast rooms in the Victoria and Albert Museum, they are quite frankly amazing. Unfortunately one is undergoing work at the moment, but the other is fully available to wander around and gape at. The idea behind them is this:
In most cases if the British wanted something archaeological or cultural from a different country they just took it (see the British Museum for extensive examples of this). However, in some countries, such as most of Europe, this sort of stealing wasn't an option, and so instead plaster casts were taken. These plaster replicas allowed students of architecture, for example, to learn and be inspired by all sorts of objects without having to actually go abroad to see them. Lots of these casts now have ended up in the Victoria and Albert Museum, collected together in these huge rooms. Tombs, archways, Tabernacles, pulpits, statues and (most impressively) the enormous Trajan’s column, are all sat there right next to each other. It is completely bonkers. Go and see it.

Once you have got over the sheer wow-factor of the room it is possible to take in and appreciate some of the detail. When looked at closely, the Tomb of St Sebaldus shown above is hard to beat. Little creatures and people are everywhere, playing instruments, arguing with each other, looking bored, looking menacing. No surface is left undecorated, even those too far into the centre to eyeball closely. St Sebaldus himself is something of a mystery. No one seems to really know when he lived or what he actually did; he might have been a hermit and was probably a missionary, but as for anything else, who knows? Regardless of whether it was deserved or not, there's no denying he got a cracking tomb. My favourite thing about it? It's supported by snails!

All pictures are from the website of the Victoria and Albert Museum.