#shirtstorm trepanning

This isn’t a post. It is trepanning. Other people have written very eloquently on #shirtstorm, in a fully informed way, so I hold my hands up: this teeny tiny post only exists because I’ve been sat looking at bits of the internet I can normally ignore, and the disappointment and frustration has given me a headache (pooooor meeeeee!). The only use for this post is to convince my brain I’ve said something, so that I can get on with my evening. It is purely selfish. Apologies if it’s the kind of activity that is actually worse than saying nothing, as I say, this is about improving my own mental state, it is fundamentally selfish.

If you think that shirt was harmless, you either have absolutely no imagination, or are sexist. If the former, I’m sorry that you are going to miss everything that is interesting, if the latter, crikey, really!? Sheesh. OK.

This wasn’t useful. The only useful thing I can do will be in a couple of months, when I get to work with schools as part of my research project, and can dedicate some time to emphasising that science doesn’t belong to men. I’d like to think I would have done this anyway, but perhaps not? Perhaps only spending a little time being reminded what people out there think would have prompted me, as it has now. There’s obviously much more that I could do that is useful, but job, grants, lazy, beer….

I encourage other headache ridden useless individuals to make themselves feel better in the comments below. People who think the shirt was harmless, I won’t be responding to you, if you want me to teach you things you’ll have to be enrolled on a degree course.

Situating Science in the First World War + bonus info on my new postdoc project

It’s been an interesting couple of weeks, so while this post is ostensibly about the excellent history of science in the First World War conference I have just attended in Kent, I am also going to take the opportunity to introduce the new postdoc project I am on. Synergy you lucky devils, synergy! (Synergy is a homophone-portmanteau that means “doing things simultaneously because you’ve no more energy“).


VISIT THE SITE! Have a look at the project, see if there is anyone you know who might be interested.

VISIT THE SITE! Have a look at the project, see if there is anyone you know who might be interested.

Cultivating Innovation’ is headed by Professors Greg Radick and Graeme Gooday here with me at the University of Leeds. The aim is to increase public appreciation and understanding of the role of intellectual property in science today, with a focus on plant breeding and agricultural industries. Over the course of the next 12 months I will be working with teachers to produce A-level materials (which will work within the existing to curriculum to – at the very least –  introduce students to the notion of intellectual property, a fundamentally important concept for all, regardless of intentions to go into industry, public service, business, or higher education etc.), and collaborating with contemporary practitioners (plant breeders, public policy makers, lawyers, economists, anyone who will talk to me really). We have already managed to collect some very interesting people thanks to the website, so please do share these details with people that you think might be interested. There will also be an associated conference next summer, to which I am keen to attract a wide variety of individuals, so like I say; fly my prettys, fly!!

Right, science and the Great War.

A big thank you to Don Leggett who organised the conference, and made sure historians of science could begin the FWW centenary years with a bang. I poked him in the pub and said “publication?” and he seemed to have a plan in mind, so you might all get to see some of the papers in print soon/before the end of 2018.

I am writing this post on the train back up to Leeds, so it is only going to be structured around some key thoughts. Ideally I would give some kind of breakdown of each paper and how they interlinked, but I have to say, for such a potentially ‘narrow’ subject, the papers were attempting a wide variety of challenges, bringing the First World War and the history of science together in some very different ways.

War speeding up things already in motion: Firstly, I was surprised by the regularity with which people evoked this sort of notion. At the recent BSHS conference in St Andrews (you can listen to the paper that I gave on Latour and the history of agricultural experiment here) I attended a panel organised by Michael Weatherburn. The panel took the form of an open discussion, and all in attendance agreed that this sort of general ‘the war was a catalyst/sped things up’ was very well worn. I avoided it in my own paper in Kent by relying on a different cliché, that of war as an ‘opportunity’. I chose this cliché, because at the very least it leaves the motivations and actions of my historical actors firmly in view. There is no teleology implied in an ‘opportunity’, which can, after all, enter the category of ‘missed’. Having said this, Michael’s paper in Kent actually gave a pretty good example of why the language of opportunity is problematic. Following the Great War, the advocates for ‘scientific management’ that he has studied in his recently submitted PhD thesis, used the language of the ‘war providing a missed opportunity’ – i.e. the war would have been won quicker and with less loss of life if only scientific management techniques had been adopted –  in their efforts to have them adopted (thereby securing their positions as valuable experts). Translating this lesson to my paper, perhaps by labelling the work that my agricultural scientists got up to during the war as an ‘opportunity’ I am also implying something normative, i.e. this was work they ought to have done. What if it shouldn’t have been? What if scientists were right to refuse to do certain things, or protect certain elements of their habits of work? (By ‘right’ I mean that there were cultural/social/economic/political value judgements going on, all the way up and all the way down, that ought to have been subject to some form of negotiation rather than overthrown in the name of king and country). This potential is all the more troubling, as I myself do not consider these ‘opportunities’ unproblematic. It is not particularly clear how happy agricultural scientists (or scientists more generally) were about taking on war work, even if it had a vaguely scientific air about it. These opportunities are often of the nature ‘I am going to stab you in the eye, unless you take the opportunity to give me all your sweets’. So in short, we still don’t have a general overarching narrative for science and the First World War beyond: bigger, faster, stronger. But then, perhaps we don’t need one? (Unless a broadcaster calls and asks us to have a chat on the telly).

Innovation: It was clear from all of the papers on technology, and there were a nice smattering of different forms of tech, from Liz Bruton’s oscellators, to Adrian Smith’s planes and Paul Cornish’s machine guns, that the First World War prompted a good deal of innovation – some unusual (the pigeons kept inside tanks to act as battlefield messengers in Brian Hall’s paper were a particular high point) while others eminently practical and patentable, such as the Fullerphone that featured in Graeme Gooday’s plenary lecture.  The majority of people – a category which in this case includes scientists – had no compunction about pursuing a strengthening of their own economic position regardless of the wartime context. Indeed, in my own paper, adopting the perspective of the ‘First World War’ has caused me to emphasise the extent to which organisations such as the National Institute of Agricultural Botany and the Welsh Plant Breeding Station, were something of a reward for the wartime service of agricultural science (in the new postwar world of reconstruction, which came with a greater emphasis on the need for autarky – or at the very least a strong agricultural industry) and, perhaps more importantly, a reward for the particular agricultural scientists associated with them; namely George Stapledon and Rowland Biffen. I will be thinking more about this as I go on to turn my paper into a publication, so please do get in touch if you have any suggestions on agriculture/science/First World War. More importantly – what do we make of this connection between war, innovation, and the growth of certain industries? It was provactively suggested in one of the Q and A sessions that to point the arrow in the direction of war-science-industry is – on most readings – to commit oneself to something of a Marxist position. Perhaps no bad thing in and of itself, and surely (as ever) the easy way to sidestep any problematic historiographical consequences would be to remove the essentialist element of this equation; war needent ALWAYS provoke technoscientifc innovation, which needent ALWAYS result in growth for the industry that emerges/takes responsibility for the innovation. However, then we are left with a fairly hollow looking historical argument, something like ‘war is a pretty good reason for scientists/engineers etc. to get out of bed in the morning, on the whole this increases the amount of innovation, which in turn increases the chances of valuable innovation, though even then a whole host of other political/legal/economic conditions need to pertain in order for this potentially valuable innovation to be capitalised upon, leading to industrial growth’. Not very sexy really.

The intellectual legacy of the First World War: I didn’t get to ask the question that I was prompted to ask by the second session of the day, so instead I am going to post it here. This session included Roy MacLeod, June Barrow-Green and Robert Bud. Between them they respectively focussed on the First World War and professors, mathematicians, and the consequences of the war for what ‘science’ meant – the latter primarily with regard to the self-identification of scientists and within the public memory of this ‘scientific’ war. Some of you might think the question I wanted to ask – which I will share shortly – is methodologically problematic, or based on some fundamentally flawed assumptions – but I am of the view that HPS is sufficiently sophisticated to handle this question in ways that are exciting, productive and – most importantly – historiographically robust. I wanted to ask – “Was there an intellectual legacy of the First World War?” Big question, and I’m sure there’s plenty of work out there (not all of which I am likely to trust at face value) that addresses it directly. Listening to MacLeod, Barrow-Green and particularly Bud’s paper – which dealt with scientists who were themselves dealing with what science meant/should mean/could mean, and so on – made me wonder how much of some general idea of ‘civilization’ was actually constitutive of intellectual labour in the C2oth? We know from the work of Peter Bowler and others, that the idea of progress for instance was crucially important for science in the nineteenth century, but where do these historiographies lead into the twentieth? Were biology/chemistry/physics changed – either in the models most typically used by scientists, the language they used, their preferred experimental methods etc. – thanks to the war? I’d like to think the answer might be yes, but perhaps we’re still too close to the period – even 100 years on – to be able to attempt the project. Perhaps not.

 I’ve already broken my 1000 word maximum blog post rule so bye!

Listen to my #BSHS14 paper – ‘The History of Agricultural Experiment: A Latourian Synthesis of Genetics’

Hello you.
I have uploaded a video (including slides) of the paper I delivered at the 2014 British Society for the History of Science annual conference, hosted by the University of St Andrews. My very sincere thanks to all the organisers. I would also like to thank Giuditta Parolini, who organised the two panel session on the ‘history of agricultural experiment’ in which I presented my work, and Jonathan Harwood, who gave a thorough and generous response to all the papers presented there. With a bit of luck, some version of this paper might well get submitted to a journal. Exciting! (For me). Lastly, my thanks to Chris Kenny, who gave me his time (when I didn’t know where to begin researching the history of experiment) and then set me to work on Latour. If any of you ever get to ask Dr. Kenny for advice, take both!

It is remarkable to me that someone hasn’t made this argument before, which makes me suspicious. If you know of such an example, or allusion, please do pass it on. I would also welcome any criticisms and comments, which will help as I continue to write. Thanks!

Download my thesis – ‘Genetics, Statistics, and Regulation at the National Institute of Agricultural Botany, 1919-1969’

Hello all, this is a short post to announce that I am making my thesis available online. It can be downloaded via the links below.

There are two main groups of people I am hoping will read it. Firstly, current employees of NIAB (who I kept in mind throughout the writing process) and secondly,  historians of plant breeding/agriculture, (who were the main historiographical audiences). As you can see though, I address a number of different subjects, including the First and Second World Wars, randomized control trials, and genetics.

To my first audience – I hope you enjoy it! I have kept NIAB in focus throughout, and while you might not agree with everything you find, or might want to question some of my interpretations, my main hope is that you can get a sense of the history behind the Institute. If you already have a sense of that history, all the more reason for you to read this! Please do send any criticisms, or questions, or comments to me, or indeed write them in reply to this blog post.

To my second audience – I hope you enjoy it! I understand the vast distance between thesis writing and publishable writing, and with luck, I hope most of this will be coming to you in a much more polished format some time soon (i.e. over the next ten to fifteen years). Working on NIAB was a great challenge, and the archival materials really are worthy of greater study than I could achieve all by my lonesome.

If you want to know why each chapter is titled ‘Seed Multiplier’ or something similar, you will need to read the Introduction. Similarly, if you hate having to read over the watermarks, email me! Depending on how well I know you, you just might get a prettier version. No idea if the watermark does anything other than help me sleep at night, but it’s there.

THESIS: ‘Genetics, Statistics, and Regulation at the National Institute of Agricultural Botany, 1919-1969’




Outsider scientists: D’Arcy Wentworth Thompson, biology and art

One of the things that first attracted me to HPS was that I got to study losers. People who lost debates, people who lost out in the received histories, people who lost credibility. Understanding why they lost, or have been displaced from history, and reviving their views while subjecting them to fresh analysis, are things that I have come to love. It was for this reason that as soon as I saw Outsider Scientists: Routes to Innovation in Biology I immediately wrote to the book reviews editor of the BJHS (who also keeps a very fine blog) to bag a copy. In the preface to this edited collection, Michael Dietrich and Oren Harman write

 No one likes an outsider. They know it all, haven’t paid their dues, and often think little of the rules everyone else has been required to play by – except that outsiders are also sometimes godsends, blowing in like a felicitous wind, carrying new energy and whispering new truths. Outsiders often see things differently than those who have been gazing at a problem for a long time, and it is this perspective that makes them so valuable.

Outsiders are of course not necessarily losers. The list of figures addressed in this collection include Gregor Mendel (big winner in the long run), Louis Pasteur (winner then and now), Erwin Schrödinger (status indeterminate between winner and loser) and David Hull (tiger blood). Nevertheless, outsiders exist in the same territory as losers, what with the world being set against them. With these general interests explained I can turn to the reason for this post.

The Henry Moore Institute here in Leeds have produced an exhibit on the work of D’Arcy Wentworth Thompson titled ‘D’Arcy Thompson’s on Growth and Form‘. It is still in town until the 17th of August and well worth a visit.

Image courtesy of Wikipedia.

Thompson is not a figure I have worked on, though I know him to be something of an outsider. Best remembered today for his 1917 book  On Growth and Form, Thompson is recorded in the history of biology as a problematic figure, one set against the world as he found it. At the turn of the twentieth century, while the rest of biological science was busying itself with experimentation, turning life on life, uncovering Darwinian evolutionary lineages and so on, Thompson stressed the constraining influence of structure upon organic development, the results of which could be mathematized and modelled. Thompson’s dedication to the close and detailed study of natural forms made him appear anachronistic both then and now. However, it is my pleasure to report that some cutting-edge HPS research has begun to challenge this received view. Thompson can in fact be made much less of an outsider provided we appreciate the disciplinary context(s) in which worked. In research very recently published by Maurizio Esposito, it is instead argued that “Thompson’s mathematical morphology was not the science of a loner and his ideas on evolution were not so ‘heretical‘”.  (If you have trouble scaling the pay wall, let me know). The Henry Moore exhibit can help to flesh out this picture, focusing as it does on two aspects of Thompson’s professional life not typically addressed synthetically; his teaching, and his influence on the artist Henry Moore.

Regarding his teaching, the bulk of the material has been loaned to the Henry Moore by the University of Dundee.

Plaster models used by Thompson. All rights to the image are property of the University of Dundee.

Plaster models used by Thompson. All rights to the image are property of the University of Dundee.

The above photograph is of one of the more colourful series that Dundee have lent to Leeds, a set of plaster models depicting ‘development of a primitive chordate’. The accompanying text explains that nothing is known of its origins. This is where HPS comes in! On looking at them I was immediately struck by how alike they were to the wax models that we have on display at the University of Leeds Museum for the History of Science, Technology, and Medicine. A couple of years back, I was among a number of researchers who studied objects very much like these, which we then blogged about here, here and here. I remembered the name of Ziegler, arguably the most important C19th and early C20th manufacturer of medical and biological wax models, and so with a few google searches, I was able to pinpoint the original wax series that Thompson’s plaster models had been  based on.

Ziegler wax models. No idea who owns the rights to the image! If it’s you, get in touch and I’ll hook your link up.

To be certain that the models on display at the Henry Moore were the same series as these Ziegler models, I looked at the models numbered 17, 4 and 20 (pictured) on display in the Henry Moore, and sure enough, the models correspond to one another. If you actually visit the display in Leeds, you can see what a massive difference there is between the detailed colouring of these wax models, and the more lurid and much less delicate paint job that Thompson’s plaster versions received. Was this deliberate? Either a) to save money, or b) so that Thompson could make clearer more definite points about structure as he taught his students? Either way, breathing life back into Thompson’s class room – by investigating these models and the others currently on display, including Blashka models of a Jellyfish, flatworm lava, and Polychaete –  is one important way to help diminish his status as an outsider or loner.

Lastly, the exhibit includes drafts and sketches by Henry Moore, which we are told were heavily influenced by Thompson’s scientific work. They are amorphous, flowing, ambiguous, with faces in the wrong places, that sort of thing. (You can tell I know quite a bit about art). Here I would like to have seen something of the ‘evolution’ of Moore. We are given only the point at which he is supposed to have come under the influence of Thompson, but without seeing his earlier sketches and ways of working, we (or rather I) can’t see what difference Thompson made. There is every chance that studying Thompson’s influence within the art world, and the extent to which he himself was influenced by art, particularly his interests in classicism – which gained greater social significance at precisely this time, following the First World War and into the years of reconstruction – might embed his science all the more firmly in his historical context, helping to make Thompson much less of a loner or outsider.

On writing an institutional history (with special #histsci emphasis)

Though my thesis is many, many, extraordinary things, it is – when all is said and done – an institutional history. (By the way, I’ll be making it available online when all the paperwork is signed off and I’ve PAID to have it bound). Five chapters, each focusing on a 10-15 year chunk of time, chart the first fifty years of the National Institute of Agricultural Botany (NIAB), a scientific and regulatory organisation based in Cambridge.

When first starting out, I was directed towards Mary Douglas’ ‘How Institutions Think‘. I remember enjoying it, but it became clear very early on that NIAB was not going to be an appropriate place to explore these ideas; Douglas’ institutions tended not to have ‘Institute’ in their name. Rather than continue casting around, I decided to dive straight into the mountains of untouched archive material held by the Institute, which for the years 1900-1970 have now been catalogued. The files, notebooks, folders, and boxes that make up the NIAB archive had been salvaged and organized by Tricia Cullimore and Paul Thompson, two employees at NIAB with a deep appreciation for the Institute’s history. These materials were then subsequently discovered on behalf of HPS by Berris Charnley. From there, and thanks to a grant from the AHRC, my PhD emerged. It was obvious from the beginning that this archive was going to make or break the thesis, and thinking about it now, it’ll probably make or break my career!

There were one or two good models at my disposal when it came to thinking about how to write the history of an institution such as NIAB. The official history of NIAB was a particularly obvious one, but just as obvious was that its authors (two past employees of the Institute) weren’t writing for an HPS audience.  Beyond this there was Eileen Magnello’s history of the National Physical Laboratory – significant for my purposes not only as a scientific institute, but one similarly patronised by the state and with a strong industrial standardising remit, paralleling much of NIAB’s work in enlightening ways.  In addition, there were the series of excellent and thoroughly researched John Innes Centre timeline’s, written by Sarah Wilmot, Outreach Curator and Science Historian at the Centre. That both of these latter resources had been compiled with an eye to their respective institution’s centenaries was also significant, as NIAB itself will be enjoying these celebrations in 2019 (and that of the Official Seed Testing Station, housed in the same Cambridge building, in 2017). From both of these works I learnt that it was possible to make exposition entertaining (sooooo much exposition in an institutional history) and that it is imperative never to take your eye off the ball; the institute is the key, or main thread, around which the rest must be woven. But what IS the Institute?

NIAB Headquarters, completed in 1921. Image property of the National Institute of Agricultural Botany.

NIAB Headquarters, completed in 1921. Image property of the National Institute of Agricultural Botany.

It’s this place, dummy!

I am only partly joking. Pointing to the buildings, grounds, and staff isn’t a ‘wrong’ answer in an institutional history. Pointing to these things and saying that this is all an institution is, that would be wrong, and is a common problem within more traditional institutional histories. Other problems include myopia (failing to see the institute as but one part of a much larger picture), taking the organisation too seriously (failing to see its fuzzy edges, incoherence, the constraints on its decisions), and being too hesitant to address darker episodes in the institute’s life, either due to developing too much affection for the place or (more worryingly) due to pressure from the institute’s contemporary staff. This last problem is of particular concern for that growing number of us funded by an AHRC Collaborative Doctoral Award (CDA). Students working on a CDA are closely bound to the collaborating partner from day one. You can imagine the kinds of problems this might throw up when researching and writing an institute’s history. I was exceptionally lucky that my NIAB supervisor, the Institute’s Director, Tina Barsby, allowed me my own head, and while her questions and suggestions contributed greatly to the ultimate form of the thesis, there was never even a wiff of ‘brand management’ or ‘interference’ in my research and writing. Tina always made the effort to find in my work points of comparison, often very direct, to her own experience, and I hope the thesis will go on to be something of a reference point for those responsible for NIAB’s future.

Having said this, I did develop an affection for the place. I think there are two main ways in which this shaped my thesis.

Firstly, I left out the more ‘journalistic‘ elements of historical writing. I placed my level of interpretation at a steady 10,000 feet and maintained it throughout. It would have been very easy to dip down time and time again, to interpret exchanges and arguments as ‘heated’ or ‘incoherent’, pointed out when somebody said something stupid, or whatever, but I simply left this kind of thing out. After all, NIAB matters, and has mattered, to many more people than just me. Writing a history of the place does not give me ownership over NIAB’s identity, there are many other people out there with memories of the Institute, and perhaps histories of their own. Trying to put my greasy little fingers over every moment, every face, every surface of the Institute, would not only have made my history off-putting to this wider audience of people interested in NIAB, but would also have been petty.

Secondly, when writing, I tried to imagine my thesis being read by the people who currently work there. I met quite a number of them, and got to spend extended periods of time with a few of the exceptionally friendly ones, drinking tea, eating cake, listening to them discussing their working week, institutional politics, family life, hobbies etc. Developing this sense of ‘NIAB today’ was, I think, important, because the history of the Institute can and should be a resource for these guys just as much as it should be for any historian. Having their imaginary eyes just over my shoulder has (I hope) helped me write fewer things that will come to make me cringe over the years ahead. An appreciation for ‘NIAB today’ also helped me select my problems (in a way that is not unproblematic). NIAB’s staff today have to worry about the purpose of the Institute, the arrangement and value of trialling, developments in genetics, regulation of plant matter, and the global agricultural industry. (That is Chapter’s 1 -5 in a nutshell). I am 99% certain that if a NIAB employee were to sit down and read that brief list, they would nod in recognition of the deep problems at the heart of each, and the unique way in which they are put together at the Institute.*

To end this post, I’d like to consider the value of writing an institutional history. In the last few weeks before submission, while working on the period of the late 1960s and approaching NIAB’s 50th anniversary (and thus the end of my thesis) I began to find material relating to their then anniversary plans. It was suggested that an institutional history should be commissioned. You can imagine my little heart skipping a beat at the thought of finding some unpublished manuscript at the 11th hour, rivalling my very own history of the same period. Unfortunately it quickly became apparent that the project had never been completed. What was interesting though, were the terms in which NIAB representatives saw the value of this enterprise, as it gave me something of a mirror to my own experiences.

This is a good idea to mark the 50th anniversary and as a propaganda effort. But it all hinges on cost – both £.s.d. for publication, and in time compiling such a record… I should have thought that if anything more than a base recital of facts is envisaged then you [Frank Horne, Director of NIAB] are about the only one who could make a good readable history of the Institute.

I have certainly achieved more than a base recital of facts, and if ‘all publicity is good publicity’ then you can consider my thesis a succesfully completed propaganda effort. As far as costs go, I think you’ll struggle to find a more productive unit than a PhD student. We work hard. Really hard. And keep ourselves poor just for the privilege to do so. Is it ‘a good readable history of the Institute’? Well folks, that’ll be for you to decide. Till then, God bless.

Dominic Berry will be making his thesis available online as soon as possible. In the meantime he is rediscovering the human world and drinking too much. He has decided to end this post as though you had been reading a proper journalistic piece because it makes him feel grand and powerful.

*I now await a flood of NIAB employees telling me I’m talking shit. What’s that you say? They don’t read this? Oh. Oh yes, quite right.



Three embarrassing stories from #phdlife

Hello you.

Well as I’m at the end of the PhD now, I thought I’d share some of my most embarrassing moments. Why?

1) They are funny.

2) Each was caused by a lack of professional maturity (and so each can be learnt from).

3) So that other people either beginning their PhD or part way through it, who might also have found themselves in these sorts of situation, can enjoy a wee moment of recognition.

Doing academic work puts you in a whole host of scenarios that no part of your previous life prepares you for. For instance, doing my PhD put me in Philadelphia. Being in Philadelphia was not a likely thing to have happened to me. Nor does it particularly suit me. Nevertheless there I went and was.

On with the cathartic exercise.

Story 1)

Straight out of the gate, I went to a big conference. I wasn’t presenting any work, but there were some people who I knew I should really talk to. After the panel that they were all in (during which I had asked an eager-beaver question that really should have been answered by the pop of a silenced pistol) I went over to them. There they were having a perfectly nice time. A little chat. There was no room at the inn. But I’m important right? I’m a first year PhD student a few weeks into my project. So I say something sycophantic to one of them, who is now wrenched out of the conversation that they were enjoying and forced to talk to me. After explaining a little about my project and talking about their presentation, it soon transpires that there isn’t much more I can say. Then came “well, when you’ve done a bit more work we can talk about it”. I FELT SO SMALL! In retrospect, I was feeling the distance between my imagined size and my actual size. I said my thank you’s and made a bee line for my hotel room, where I had a little cry. There’s one for you Thomas Dixon, more tears for your coffers.

Lesson: Relax! There are years of the PhD. You will meet people in lots of different places. Sometimes they might even come and try and find you. If you want to talk to someone, don’t make ‘talking to them’ the aim of the conversation. You’re there to work and have fun, not gush over people you admire. You dumb shit.

Story 2)

This one is a bit worse. I was at a book launch at the end of which the decision was taken to make a presentation to ‘BIG PROF’ who had recently won an award of some kind. An impromptu speech was given, the presentation was made, a quick ‘thank you’ speech was given in return, and then everyone got back to enjoying the wine and nibbles. At this point my brain said ‘go congratulate BIG PROF by giving them a glass of wine’. Fucking brain. The number of times it’s done stuff like this to me…euch, anyway, I go get a glass, walk over with a small respectful smile and find – surprise surprise – BIG PROF already has a glass of their own. But my arm was going forwards. My balance had shifted and everything. The glass was going forwards now and there was no way to stop it. There were two options a) turn the movement into a threatening one and throw the wine over their face, b) force them to take the glass. Which is what I did, and then walked away.

Lesson: Don’t do it. Don’t. It’s not a good idea. Save it for friends. Hell, save it for people who know your first name.

Story 3)

Another conference, but this time I was presenting. I made the effort to memorise the paper because I’m always impressed by people who can do that, or who can give the appearance of doing it but are really making it up as they go. A fortnight’s solid effort and I had the thing memorised. On the day of the presentation, I get two lines in and go blank. I had to go back to the podium and read from my script (only at certain points did my memory kick in, but I’d lost confidence by then and felt pretty dejected about the whole sorry thing, which was reflected in my performance). I got through it, got asked some very generous questions, but it took everything in my power not to immediately lock up the room and burn it down with everyone inside so that nobody would ever know what had gone on in there. “Why did this happen?” the relatives of those who perished would ask. “Because someone who spent a couple of weeks learning a twenty minute paper by heart, fluffed it pretty much straight away, and wished to kill everyone.” That evening, rather than grow up a bit, I was very insular at dinner, to the point of being rude to the kind people who had made the effort to take our panel out for some food. I’d like to go back and slap that guy.

Lesson: Play to your strengths. I now write my scripts in a conversational tone, and don’t worry about reading them aloud. I just make my presentations interesting and engaging for my audience in different ways. If everyone went around giving dazzling unscripted performances all the time, academia would be a terrible place to work. A terrible terrible peacocky place.

Well that’s all. No doubt more embarrassing things will happen to me, but by then I’ll be so well established in the field that people will just write them off as eccentricities.

That’s enough of me enjoying myself, back to work now. Bye.