A Brief History of Everyone who ever lived, by Alex Rutherford, 2016

Genetics is science still in its infancy. The structure of DNA was only identified in the 1950’s, and the human genome was mapped in 2003. Compare that to the study of physics or chemistry where the key building blocks of our understanding have been in place much longer. A lot of what we thought we knew about genetics ten years ago now is considered out of date and inaccurate; what we think in 20 years of what we think we know now, who can say? As such this is more a progress report on genetics in 2016 than a definitive survey of the science, comprehensive though it is.

I have always been fascinated by the puzzle that we all have increasing numbers of great grand parents as you go back each generation, but that the total human population in much higher now than it has ever been. Rutherford calculates that it you go back to the eighth century we will each have required 137,438,953,472 people in our family tree. I make that about 33 generations, but of course many times more than the number of people who have ever lived. It follows that family trees are a misleading presentation of our genealogy. There must be many points across our family history were the lines cross and blend. “What this means is that pedigrees begin to fold in on themselves a few generations back, and become less arboreal, and more mesh or web-like”. Rutherford expresses this point by looking at the genealogy of some of the Royal families of Europe. Charles 2nd of Spain should have had 62 ancestors in his preceding six generations, (2 parents + 4 grandparents + 8 great grand parents and so on). In fact he had only 32 – many of his great aunts were also his great grandmothers, for example. Go back another two generations and instead of over 250 ancestors he had 82. This is obviously an extreme example caused by the shallow gene pool from which the royal families chose their partners, but go back far enough and the same pattern would be seen in all our families.

The other riddle that Rutherford answers definitively here is whether, as is often suggested, we are all eventually related to Attila the Hun. The short answer is if you go back around ten centuries or so then we all share some genetic material from everyone who lived at that point. This is obviously highly counter-intuitive, but Rutherford demonstrates it with precision and statistics. I would struggle to repeat the analysis for myself – it’s complicated – but I take some comfort from knowing where to find it if I need it!

This is an eclectic look at the state of genetics today, including issues as diverse as why the distribution of wet and dry ear wax in humans suggests that the people of South Korea might be the least smelly on earth; why the idea of a Danish Viking conquest of the British Isles involving rape and pillage is not borne out by a genetic legacy; and why monoamine oxidase A, the so-called “warrior gene”, ought not to be a valid defence in criminal trials. Rutherford charts our progression as a species from out of Africa, using evidence provided by ancient DNA. A toe bone of a Neanderthal who died 50,000 years ago in the Siberian reveals our ancestors appetite to mate with other humanoids now extinct, explaining why we all have a little caveman DNA in our genome.

Genetics is complex, and there were pages in the book were my non-scientific eyes glazed over, there’s no point in denying otherwise, however accessible this book was intended to be. The analysis of whether race is a genetic characteristic, or whether it actually exists or not, was a case in point. I think Rutherford concludes that it both does and does not, but I would need to check. The relationship of disease to genetic is equally complex. You start out by looking at the more obvious inherited illnesses such as Tay-Sachs disease or sickle cell anemia, and think yep, that makes sense. But once you start looking at more complex conditions and characteristics, even those most obviously inherited such as height, tracing the precise role our genes play in this process has proven elusive. Or that was what I understood Rutherford to be saying anyway!

I know a little more about genetics than I knew last week, which has got to be a good thing. But I must admit I will return to the comfort of fiction in the coming days with a small sense of relief.

A Walk-on Part, Diaries 1995-1999 by Chris Mullin, 2011

Chris Mullin, MP for Sunderland South for 23 years, had a lot more than a walk-on part (a minor role, a metaphor drawn from the theatre) in the New Labour years. These can be dated from the death of John Smith in 1994, and the ascendancy of Tony Blair from that date, which is where this, his third volume of diaries, starts.

Mullin first entered Parliament in 1987, and at the time was widely perceived as a Bennite, that is to say on the hard left of the party. This was a misconception that slowly changed and he would now more typically attract the label “soft-left”, generally supporting the Labour Government but occasionally rebelling on points of principle. His description of himself as having a walk-on part in the political affairs of these years is undermined by the fact that he was appointed (admittedly to the lowest rung of Government) as a Parliamentary Under-Secretary of State at the Department of the Environment, Transport, and the Regions in July 1999, then Parliamentary Under-Secretary for the Department for International Development in 2001, and lastly in June 2003, as a Parliamentary Under-Secretary at the Foreign Office. In addition he chaired the Home Office Select Committee for several years, all of which gave him a ring-side seat for the roller-coaster ride that was New Labour.

Mullin identifies very early on the “fault lines which would come to haunt New Labour in the years ahead – control freakery, a soft spot for rich men, the obsession with spin”. Although astute he is probably being too kind here on New Labour – there was more than a soft spot for rich men for example. He deflects a lot of his concern about the political direction of New Labour on to Peter Mandelson, for whom he has a particular aversion. Like many others in the party at the time Mullin was charmed by Blair and time after time gives him the benefit of the doubt on the basis of his personal persuasion.

Another early entry in January 1997 records Blair addressing the Parliamentary party:

“On top form. Passionate, witty, positive…We had plenty to offer…He listed commitments – work, education or training for 250,000 young people; an end to the internal market in the NHS; reduced class sizes; and end to nursery vouchers; an extension of protection in the workplace; we will sign up to the EU Social Chapter; the right to join and be represented by a union; a minimum wage; a Freedom of Information Act; the incorporation of the European Convention on Human Rights into law.”

This is a useful summary of the relatively modest aspirations of new Labour in opposition. By my count most if not all of those commitments were met, and more, even if there were some major compromises along the way. The events of these years are sufficiently fresh in my memory, and the editing is sufficiently ruthless to make the pages zip past quite quickly. One minor point of interest is to spot early appearance of characters who were to go on and play a much larger role in politics in years to come appear briefly – he meets David Cameron for example, a smooth-skinned self confident advisor to Michael Green at Carlton Communications.

Mullin is relatively astute, but he doesn’t always accurately foresee what way the wind is blowing. Some of the clumsier judgments were no doubt edited out, but his editor Ruth Winstone, who also edited Tony Benn’s diaries, left in his comment “We are going to lose. Blair knows it too, I can see it in his eyes” written just two weeks before Labour’s landslide in 1997.

The control-freakery that Mullin diagnoses is evident throughout these years, not least in the ruthless control of candidate selection. A good example appears on late April 1997 with the last minute parachuting-in of a candidate in Dudley where the incumbent was persuaded to take a job in the House of Lords (p271). The machismo atmosphere of New Labour is also apparent. Early on in the first Blair administration a decision was made to restrict single parent benefits. It is interesting to look back on how single parents were demonised at the time and regularly identified as a particular source of society’s ills – now they are almost forgotten as a group. Blair forced through this cut even though there was no evidence it would deliver any savings and possibly ended up keeping this group on benefits longer. Mullin resignedly notes “It is no longer a question of resources, but of virility”. (282). The absence of Cabinet Government is another criticism of Blairism that is fully evidenced here – “Tony has practically abandoned cabinet government. All key decisions are taken by the small cabal around his – Alastair Campbell, Jonathan Powell, Peter Mandelson, and (sometimes) Gordon Brown.” (282/3)

Mullin regularly agonises about the pointlessness of his role as a backbench MP. Factories are closed down in his constituency and all he can do is lobby Government for support. Constituents come to him with intractable personal and social problems – anti-social behaviour and the welfare culture of his area stand out in particular – which he can do little about. The war in Kosovo kicks off and all he can do is vote in favour of the NATO bombing campaign which sparks a refugee crisis. His personal crusades against Freemasonry in public office (especially the police and the judiciary) and for scrutiny of the work of the Security Services are both kicked into the long grass and effectively abandoned by the time he is elevated into junior office.

This is a fascinating inside look at the early Blair years from someone who was very close to the action. It confirms the popular consensus judgment on New Labour, but is no less valuable for that.

Hogfather (Discworld 20) by Terry Pratchett, 1996

In any long running series, especially where the author produces books with the regularity that Terry Pratchett achieved, one looks out for repetition – recycled material, sometimes ironically self-referential, sometimes disguised. So when I tell you that Hogfather features Death leaving his day job and assuming the role of the missing, presumed dead Hogfather, the Father Christmas of Discworld, it will ring some bells. Didn’t that happen before, in Reaper Man and before that in Mort? (It did). To be fair, that’s a minor quibble, because as I am sure I have said before, with Pratchett it is never about the plot.

Here, Death is not taking a holiday, but covering for the Hogfather, who despite being the titled character makes only the briefest of appearances. Death is driven to do this on the basis that the Hogfather is responsible for the sun rising each morning, and for this to happen children have to believe in him. It’s not as awkward and contrived as it sounds.

Having failed to force Death to retire in Reaper Man, the grim Auditors of Reality, “celestial bureaucrats”, hire an assassin from the Assassin’s Guild to kill the Hogfather, symbol of all that is creative and joyful in the Discworld. A particularly psychopathic assassin, Mr. Teatime, is assigned the job.

“Mister Teatime had a truly brilliant mind, but it was brilliant like a fractured mirror, all marvellous facets and rainbows but, ultimately, also something that was broken.”

He recruits a gang of Ankh-Morpork’s more unpleasant thugs (and that’s saying something) to capture the Tooth Fairy’s kingdom, steal all the collected teeth, and use them to control the children of Discworld, commanding them to no longer believe in the Hogfather. Again, still not awkward, contrived, or even twee. Honestly. Pratchett gets away with this because the narrative doesn’t give us this summary – the reader is left to work most of this out themselves, and the immediacy of the action – we are just shown what is happening in the moment – is realistically portrayed. There’s a darker element to the novel as well – when Mr Teatime kills people they stay killed.

Death, becoming aware (somehow) of the Hogfather’s absence, decides to fill in for him. Along the way he visits his granddaughter, Susan Sto Helit, tricking her into investigating the Hogfather’s disappearance. This is not the first time Susan has been called upon to help Death, although at least this time she is not collecting souls for him. She tracks a missing tooth fairy to the Hogfather’s Castle of Bones, on the way meeting Bilious, the “Oh God” of hangovers (one of Pratchett’s better throw away jokes). I am not going to spoil for you what happens there, but I bet you can work it out!

As well as spending time with Death and his assistants the Death of Rats and the ever-hopeful raven, exploring the Hogswatchnight traditions of Discworld and gently satirising the commercialism of Christmas along the way, we also follow the wizards of the Unseen University as they get ready for their great midnight feast, at the same time try to understand why new minor magical creatures keep popping into existence, such as the hair-loss fairy:

“No sense in being bashful about goin’ bald,” said Ridcully evenly. “Anyway, you know what they say about bald men, Dean.”

“Yes, they say, ‘Look at him, he’s got no hair,’” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes.

Susan and the Oh God try to work out what has happened to the missing tooth fairy, and why Death is substituting for the Hogfather, while Mr Teatime and his gang ransack the Tower of Bones. It’s all handled flawlessly by Pratchett, and the reader happily suspends disbelief for the duration, not least because all the characters themselves are constantly telling one another how unlikely everything is.

The Discworld version of Christmas is inevitably a much earthier version of our own Dickensian yuletide. The Hogfather’s sleigh is pulled by four fearsome wild boars, Gouger, Rooter, Tusker and Snouter. But even in Discworld traditions are being slowly sanitised. In earlier times the Hogfather gave households pork products, and naughty children a bag of bloody bones; now all the Hogfather brings is soldiers, dolls and noisy toys for that 4.30 am start.

Pratchett as ever is a great moral philosopher, with Death as his most articulate spokesperson:

“All right,” said Susan. “I’m not stupid. You’re saying humans need… fantasies to make life bearable.”

REALLY? AS IF IT WAS SOME KIND OF PINK PILL? NO. HUMANS NEED FANTASY TO BE HUMAN. TO BE THE PLACE WHERE THE FALLING ANGEL MEETS THE RISING APE.

How’s that for poetry – “where the falling angel meets the rising ape”? I rarely feel the need to justify reading what some people (entirely wrongly) consider children’s books, but here Pratchett provides the answer himself in one elegant, poetic and profound phrase.

 

Play review: Cleo, Camping, Emmanuelle and Dick, by Terry Johnson, 1998

I rarely review plays, but this is after all a reading diary, and I did read this play recently, so I am including it here for completeness. Plays should be seen, not read. Of course read them as well, but the text will only come to life once it is staged, blocked, and performed, when you work out what people are doing while other actors are saying their lines, where people are on the stage, and so on. You can do all that from a read through, but it is a very different experience from reading a novel. I didn’t read Cleo, etc that way – I just read the lines. Which probably took two hours, at most, and may well explain why I was underwhelmed by the experience.

Cleo, etc is a behind the scenes look at the lives and romances of the central characters of the Carry On films – Sid James, Kenneth Williams, and Barbara Williams. Imogen Hassall, who appeared in only one of the Carry On movies, also has a brief appearance intended to bring some pathos to the slapstick and show that all the rampant sexism is not without a price. The play spans a decade or more from when the movies were first popular – Cleo in 1964, the tenth film in the series, regarded sometimes as the best, to Emmanuelle (30) in 1978 in which the already well-scraped barrel was given a final going over.

If you are fan of the Carry On movies, or feel a sense of nostalgia for their amateurish slapstick and smuttiness, this play will act as a reminder of all that was awful about them, as well as their darker side – they seem to have been a bleak experience to make. It is not a coincidence that Johnson has Kenneth Williams sign-off with the line that was to be the last sentence in his diary – “Oh, what’s the bloody point” – before his suicide. There is also a passing reference to murder suicide of Joe Orton and Kenneth Halliwell in 1967.

I can imagine that in performance this play would have its amusing and touching moments, although the central figure, Sid James, is the least likeable of the cast. But on the page it fails to take off. The challenges of staging this play must be considerable. Most of the action takes place inside the caravan that Sid uses as his dressing room. At one point it rocks side to side as he has sex; on another occasion as a scene climax it collapses. It can imagine this would appear cramped on a large stage with most of the space unused.

Johnson is covering some very familiar territory here – few will be surprised that the clowns of the films had a melancholic side, or that extra-marital affairs and other misdemeanours were commonplace. The point that the smuttiness of the films covered an unhealthy attitude towards sex is hardly a revelation. So ultimately I am not sure there’s much more to say than to echo Kenny’s question – “what’s the bloody point?”

Anansi Boys, by Neil Gaiman, 2005

Anansi Boys tells the story of Charles “Fat Charlie” Nancy. Fat Charlie is an accountant, engaged half-heartedly to Rosie, whose monstrous mother is set on disrupting their engagement. Their wedding preparations are put on hold when Charlie has to travel to the Caribbean to attend his father’s funeral. There Charlie learns that not only was his father an incarnation of the West African spider god, Anansi, but also that he has a brother, and that he can be contacted by asking a spider.

Charlie takes this news relatively well, considering, and returns to his humdrum life in London. Inevitably he can’t resist summoning up his brother, Spider. Spider is everything Charlie is not – confident, charismatic, persuasive. He sets up home in Charlie’s flat, and begins to take over this life, with, as they say, disastrous consequences, losing him both his job and his fiancee.

The supernatural is invoked powerfully in Gaiman’s previous novel, American Gods, because it is taken seriously; here the whimsicality undermines the impact of the narrative. There’s never any genuine threat from the gods who resent Anansi’s status, or from the more earth-bound Grahame Coats, Charlie’s sleazy boss, who has been embezzling his clients for years. Most readers will realise very early on that Charlie is going to end up with the petite officer investigating his case, Daisy, that Charlie and Spider and going to be reconciled, and that Mr Coats is not going to get away with his crimes. This lack of threat, even from the personification of the malevolent tiger god, led to one reviewer describing the novel as “whimsical supernaturalism” which feels about right. The New Your Times review of the novel used a similar phrase, talking of “an Uncle Remus folksiness to the stories that sends the airy blitheness of the farce plummeting down to earth”.  

The other aspect of the novel that I found a little disappointing was the humour. Whimsy is always a tough one to pull off, and stripped of its context just about any joke can fall flat, but the jokes in the novel are consistently weak. Here’s some examples:

Spider: Things came up.
Fat Charlie: What kind of things?
Spider: Things. They came up. That’s what things do. They come up. I can’t be expected to keep track of them all.

More dialogue between Charlie and Spider:

“The ties of blood,” said Spider, “are stronger than water.”
“Water’s not strong,” objected Fat Charlie.
“Stronger than vodka, then. Or volcanoes. Or, or ammonia.”

This isn’t repartee. Ammonia’s not a comedic example of something unexpectedly strong is it?

The narration aims for Pratchett or Adams, but consistently misses.

“It was England in the autumn; the sun was, by definition, something that only happened when it wasn’t cloudy or raining.”

Does this mean anything? Does it say anything about the English weather, or is it just repeating a very tired cliche? Compare how Adams turns that idea completely inside out with the cursed rain god/lorry driver in (I think) Mostly Harmless. 

“There was reality and there was reality; and some things were more real than others.”

“Nothing happened. Nothing continued to happen. More Nothing. The Return of Nothing. Son of Nothing. Nothing Rides Again. Nothing and Abbott and Costello meet the Wolfman…”

Not all the jokes fall flat. Rosie’s mother is a fine portrait of a prospective mother-in-law who could put anyone off the institution of marriage. Here she is allocating guests to tables at the wedding reception, applying the fine judgments of status that matter so much on these occasions:

“I’ll put her down for table H,” said Rosie’s mother. “She’ll be more comfortable there.” She said it in the same way most people would say things like, “Do you wish to die quickly, or shall I let Mongo have his fun first?”

Later there is this fine description of an outraged dragon:

The beast made the noise of a cat being shampooed, a lonely wail of horror and outrage, of shame and defeat.

But these are isolated exceptions of otherwise disappointingly flat

This novel is really aimed at the young adult market. Adults will find it mildly engaging if a bit superficial, but younger readers will be gripped by the story and their hope that it all works out well for Charlie and his family. 

One final quibble – “nancy boy” in idiomatic English is a homosexual slur – was it really necessary to use this phrase in the book’s title?