Earlier this month, I blogged about the way in which Simon Singh is being sued for libel by the British Chiropractic Association, having made an entirely legitimate, scientifically substantiated comment about the ineffectiveness of the therapy for non-spinal-related conditions. The article led to a campaign to Keep Libel Laws Out of Science, orchestrated by the Sense About Science organisation. Today, as part of that campaign, a number of blogs, charities, and news organisations will be reprinting Singh's original article. I have joined in with this; the article - slightly edited - appears below.

Beware the Spinal Trap
Some practitioners claim it is a cure-all, but the research suggests chiropractic therapy has mixed results - and can even be lethal, says Simon Singh.

You might be surprised to know that the founder of chiropractic therapy, Daniel David Palmer, wrote that ‘99% of all diseases are caused by displaced vertebrae’. In the 1860s, Palmer began to develop his theory that the spine was involved in almost every illness because the spinal cord connects the brain to the rest of the body. Therefore any misalignment could cause a problem in distant parts of the body.
In fact, Palmer’s first chiropractic intervention supposedly cured a man who had been profoundly deaf for 17 years. His second treatment was equally strange, because he claimed that he treated a patient with heart trouble by correcting a displaced vertebra.

You might think that modern chiropractors restrict themselves to treating back problems, but in fact some still possess quite wacky ideas. The fundamentalists argue that they can cure anything, including helping treat children with colic, sleeping and feeding problems, frequent ear infections, asthma and prolonged crying - even though there is not a jot of evidence.

I can confidently label these assertions as utter nonsense because I have co-authored a book about alternative medicine with the world’s first professor of complementary medicine, Edzard Ernst. He learned chiropractic techniques himself and used them as a doctor. This is when he began to see the need for some critical evaluation. Among other projects, he examined the evidence from 70 trials exploring the benefits of chiropractic therapy in conditions unrelated to the back. He found no evidence to suggest that chiropractors could treat any such conditions.
But what about chiropractic in the context of treating back problems? Manipulating the spine can cure some problems, but results are mixed. To be fair, conventional approaches, such as physiotherapy, also struggle to treat back problems with any consistency. Nevertheless, conventional therapy is still preferable because of the serious dangers associated with chiropractic.

In 2001, a systematic review of five studies revealed that roughly half of all chiropractic patients experience temporary adverse effects, such as pain, numbness, stiffness, dizziness and headaches. These are relatively minor effects, but the frequency is very high, and this has to be weighed against the limited benefit offered by chiropractors.

More worryingly, the hallmark technique of the chiropractor, known as high-velocity, low-amplitude thrust, carries much more significant risks. This involves pushing joints beyond their natural range of motion by applying a short, sharp force. Although this is a safe procedure for most patients, others can suffer dislocations and fractures.

Worse still, manipulation of the neck can damage the vertebral arteries, which supply blood to the brain. So-called vertebral dissection can ultimately cut off the blood supply, which in turn can lead to a stroke and even death. Because there is usually a delay between the vertebral dissection and the blockage of blood to the brain, the link between chiropractic and strokes went unnoticed for many years. Recently, however, it has been possible to identify cases where spinal manipulation has certainly been the cause of vertebral dissection.

Laurie Mathiason was a 20-year-old Canadian waitress who visited a chiropractor 21 times between 1997 and 1998 to relieve her low-back pain. On her penultimate visit she complained of stiffness in her neck. That evening she began dropping plates at the restaurant, so she returned to the chiropractor. As the chiropractor manipulated her neck, Mathiason began to cry, her eyes started to roll, she foamed at the mouth and her body began to convulse. She was rushed to hospital, slipped into a coma and died three days later. At the inquest, the coroner declared: ‘Laurie died of a ruptured vertebral artery, which occurred in association with a chiropractic manipulation of the neck.’

This case is not unique. In Canada alone there have been several other women who have died after receiving chiropractic therapy, and Edzard Ernst has identified about 700 cases of serious complications among the medical literature. This should be a major concern for health officials, particularly as under-reporting will mean that the actual number of cases is much higher.

If spinal manipulation were a drug with such serious adverse effects and so little demonstrable benefit, then it would almost certainly have been taken off the market.

Simon Singh is a science writer in London and the co-author, with Edzard Ernst, of Trick or Treatment? Alternative Medicine on Trial. This is an edited version of an article published in The Guardian for which Singh is being personally sued for libel by the British Chiropractic Association.

Settling into life after my PhD, and finding it now only mildly frantic, it is scary to contemplate re-entering the full pace of academic life. But that is precisely what I have been doing over the last month or so, applying for every plausible academic job that comes up in the hopes of hitting that all important first post. If nothing comes through I may be able to stay teaching part-time at my current university next year, and I have several other temporary jobs that keep the economic wolf from the door, but these are nothing compared to the long-term security an academic post would bring.

So far I have sent off six applications, and been invited for three interviews, which is not a bad success rate (though despite having a generally free summer, one interview was unfortunately scheduled on a rare day I could not do, so I had to drop out). However, interestingly, all the jobs I have been shortlisted for have been for teaching-only roles. It seems clear that the old adage about publish or perish still stands. I may have a few journal articles to my name, but it is only having a book publication that opens the door to a full academic role. And revisiting my PhD to prepare it for publication is something for which I don't quite have the stomach yet.

So what have been my experiences of the two interviews for teaching-only posts that I have just been through? As ever, my thoughts and advice to you, dear reader, are most relevant to someone interviewing in English literature, but can probably be extrapolated across subjects.

Firstly, there was an odd difference in the duration of each interview. One was an hour and a half marathon, in which the interviewers went through my CV step by step, challenging gaps in my experience, whilst also encouraging me to show how other facets might compensate for my weaknesses. The other interview, by contrast, was short, just thirty minutes. The questions were more directed, asking me to give examples of certain points where I could show I met the person specification. Additionally, the first ten minutes were occupied by a presentation I had been asked to prepare, on "The Challenges of Teaching Contemporary Fiction."

From these two experiences, I can draw the following conclusions. In the case of the longer interview, I tended to waffle, because the interview was so broad and lengthy. I may have ended up speaking a great deal, but I'm not sure I put myself across in the best possible light. I am convinced myself that I met the needs of the post, but I gave the interviewers a hard task in trying to extract the relevant pieces from my long responses, so they could connect them to the person specification. In the latter, by contrast, I knew - because I was told how short it would be from the outset - that I had to be more succinct and to the point. I spoke less, but in the thirty minutes my voice really had to work, if I was to distinguish myself from any of the other applicants.

On the other hand, I am not sure how my presentation was perceived in the second. Not knowing who would be on the interviewing panel, I decided to pitch it at a fairly colloquial level rather than with the detail of a conference paper. I tried to deliver it from memory and ad libbed at times, though in actuality I'd written a 2000 word essay to work from. I also tried to give examples of "The Challenge of Teaching the Contemporary" with reference to texts and modules on the course at that university. However, I fear I may not have been innovative enough. Candidates were asked to present "in any manner deemed appropriate." Speaking a presentation that originated on paper, to a panel who unnervingly gave little feedback other than an occasional nod, may not have portrayed a sense of my enthusiasm for teaching, or my ability to talk about texts in the spontaneous, largely unprepared way required in the classroom. But maybe there is no right way to give a presentation of this kind, and maybe, given that a successful interview depends a great deal on confidence, it is better to be over-prepared and to do a safe presentation, rather than to risk showing off and using unusual approaches on the day.

That ambiguity aside, to anyone preparing for an academic interview, the following specific advice is worth passing on. To make the interviews relevant, ensure you have the person specification at the top of your mind, so that you know precisely what the interviewers are looking for. Discoursing on the science fiction film Forbidden Planet, as I did in my first interview, may have been interesting to me as it was based on my research, but did not really demonstrate my knowledge of textual adaptations as the role required, since the film was never a book to begin with. By contrast, when one of the panel in my second interview asked how I had got a flagging tutorial re-energised, I had the example of a tutorial on Toni Morrison's Beloved at the top of my mind, which given the racial subject matter allowed me to show not only my teaching methods, but also the way in which in that tutorial I had integrated opinions of students from diverse backgrounds, which was another element of the person specification.

One factor that was common to both interviews was that although these posts were teaching-only, both nevertheless asked how my research might integrate with my teaching. Go in with a quick and easy synopsis of your research at the tip of your tongue, and do not be afraid to simplify, as if for a lay audience. It is probably not good, as I found in my first interview, to talk about obscure postmodern theories that are irrelevant to the post, and outside of the specialisms of the interviewers.

In order to show this synergy, it is important to be thoroughly acquainted with the modules you may be required to teach, so that you can point precisely to how you can match research and teaching. There may, for example, be particular texts that you have already written on, even if you have not taught them. Because an early-career academic like myself is unlikely to have taught all the books on a reading list, it is important to show how one's research has given one a confident, broad coverage of a field or period, even if not the specific works. But, even if you think that you are knowledgeable about a work that is on one of the modules, ensure that this confidence is justified. Asked about Jane Eyre, a novel I must have read tens of times and taught just six months ago, it probably did not show me in the best light that I could not remember the name of Bertha Mason, the madwoman in the attic.

On a positive note, though, I got the impression from both interviews that the interviewers were quite open-minded about the demands of teaching at university level. At this level, in discursive subjects in the arts and humanities, teaching in tutorials and seminars is definitely not about conveying information. It is, rather, about effectively stimulating, guiding, and summarising a debate amongst students, so that they are then enthused to explore the nitty gritty detail for themselves. In this context, it is not your own knowledge that matters so much as your soft skills: the ability to communicate succinctly, to be sensitive to students' differing abilities and the validity of their different opinions, to convey passion for a subject. It is not essential that you know the works to be taught intimately. In fact, this can sometimes be a negative thing, leading you to lecture to, rather than respond to, a student discussion. And, of course, if selected to teach a particular course, you have as a PhD graduate presumably got the ability to research a new topic efficiently - with courses not starting until September, both interviews made clear that there would be ample time for preparation of new texts before the start of term. Consequently, the interviews were not, as I had feared, tests of my current knowledge - In what year was Wide Sargasso Sea first published? Who won the Booker Prize in 2003? - but tests of my underlying ability to teach anything that happens to be required by a syllabus.

Responding to these perceptions would not, of course, guarantee a successful interview. It is easy to forget, when one is focused on preparing, that there may be many other candidates shortlisted for a role. However, even if unsuccessful it is always better to reflect on the outcome as being due to the fact that the panel pro-actively chose a candidate with more and better experience, rather than that they simply dropped you because your interview was so poor. On that note, I must confess: just this morning I've received a letter confirming I've not been accepted for the second post. For the first, I have to wait until the university knows its student numbers, but I'm not hopeful here, either. What I do know is that the two interviews were quite productive experiences because quite different, and next year, with more teaching and a few more articles (maybe even that first book) behind me, things could be looking up.

In my short life, I have only lived near two towns: first Shrewsbury, and now Durham. Like many medieval English towns, both hold an uneasy contract with the rivers that surround them. In times of war, the rivers Severn and Wear respectively promised defence for the inhabitants; a couple of times each year, though, and long after the risk of war has passed, that contract continues to be broken as the rivers burst their banks, and the blue noose which encloses the towns creeps and closes together.

Over the last couple of days, Durham has seen some unseasonal and unusually dramatic flooding, caused by twenty-four hours of continual, heavy rain. By Friday evening, although the river was high, it was the drains which were the source of traffic chaos. That evening Mrs. Ishmael had a miserable commute back from Sunderland. Cars were lying abandoned along major routes; a key roundabout was completely submerged. As she called me at home and I poured over a map - which seemed an important, militaristic response, although I know the roads like the back of my hand - I felt, briefly, like some sort of commander in a siege. Of course, it was not truly serious. Her return simply involved retracing her drive back to the motorway to the north, and following it south to approach our house, which is in a village about three miles to the south of Durham, from behind.

Later that evening, we drove down the road to the Rose Tree pub, a spot that usually gets flooded. But though water lay across the road, the bolder cars could still pass, creating curls of spray and emerging dripping and chugging slightly. The next morning, though it had not rained much overnight, I biked down to the same spot. This time, I was surprised to see the road entirely closed. The river Wear, receiving the rainwater pouring off the hills in Weardale, had burst its banks at 7.00 that morning. The bubbling drains had been a mere precursor to this, the real threat of the bloated river.




[The first image above was taken in the evening of Friday, 17th July. The next photo was taken the next morning, on the 18th July. To take the first photo, I had been standing where the bin is in the second, which is now two feet deep in running water.]

I immediately set off into town by another route, discovering that the farm track I usually bike along must have been, overnight, a river. Its usually stony surface had been churned to sand, mud and pebbles. The small bridge had been partially washed away.

Of course, the main bridges in the city itself have seen this before. Elvet Bridge, the second oldest in town, dates back to 1160, when it was built by the masonry-minded Bishop Hugh de Puiset, who also made substantial additions to the Cathedral. The bridge was badly damaged by a flood in 1771, but since then has stood rigid. This time, it has dealt as easily with the huge tree washed against a buttress, as it does when it is grazed by novice rowing crews trying to squeeze through its narrow arches. But it is from Framwellgate Bridge, the oldest bridge from 1120, that the extent of the flood is clear. Up- and down-stream, the two weirs have largely vanished. If you know where to look, you can just about trace a thin, diagonal line of turbulence; but otherwise the river has become one wide, monotone, brown eddy. Half of a sculling boat passes beneath the bridge, hits the bank, crunches and sinks, and then emerges split in half again.


[From Framwellgate Bridge. Just downstream of the bridge at the top of the photo, Prebends, you can make out the weir, which is usually about four or five feet high.]

There are two comments that are heard from the heads peering over the parapets of the bridges. Local seers glance for a moment, then turn away, muttering: "It's not as bad as..." The dates, of course, are never the same from one commentator to the next. But when one has lived somewhere all one's life, memories like these are not informed by statistics, but by the context in which they occurred: the year the wedding was missed; the year the family had to boil water; the year the car had to be abandoned. The floods in Shrewsbury, where I grew up, were never bigger - and, for me, never will be bigger - than 1987 when I, small in the back seat of the car, clutched nervously as Dad negotiated the waters into town. I have not been able to find decisive records for the worst ever floods in Durham, but these must be close: the river has risen around 6 feet in as many hours.


[Taken from Elvet Bridge, looking towards the submerged beer garden of the Half Moon pub.]

The other comment, perhaps more accurate but always said with an edge of schadenfreude, is "They were silly to build that there..." That being the brand new Raddison hotel at the river's edge, or the refurbished bar, or the Chinese restaurant, or the apartments which sell for fractions of a million. If in the town's medieval founding the risk of flooding was balanced against the benefits of defence, in the modern era the trade-off is with prime real estate. The cost may be felt, though, not by property developers, but by council taxpayers who have to foot the bill for riverbank repairs and the clean-up.

In Shrewsbury, though, the borough council have already worked a clever equation. Moving into new, £10 million offices right by the river Severn, they coupled this with a long-awaited flood defence scheme, costing £6 million. The image of robed councillors forced to wave white handkerchiefs from the windows of their plush but swamped offices was one that had to be avoided. Unfortunately, in heavy floods in 2004, whilst the council offices were saved, the plebian residents of other parts of the town still suffered.

If you were one of Britain's most respected science writers, you might expect that you had the right to publish articles surveying the evidence for the effectiveness of certain clinical techniques, without this costing you hundreds of thousands of pounds. If you were a voice on science to whom people listen, you might in fact think it your core duty to bring make the public aware of the claims being made by certain medical practitioners about remedies for which there is simply no evidence of benefit. If you did this, protecting the public from medical quackery, you might expect to be applauded rather than be dragged through the courts.



However, the latter is precisely what has happened to Simon Singh, bestselling author of books such as Fermat's Last Theorem. In 2008, Singh wrote an article for The Guardian which focused on chiropractic. This discussed its founder's belief that manipulating the spine could treat almost all diseases, by alleviating blockages in the flow of energy through the nervous system. Though the article acknowledged that many modern chiropractors have moved away from this extreme position, concentrating instead on alleviating back pain, some continue to claim that it can be used to treat various childhood conditions, including asthma.

Though the article has since been removed from The Guardian's website, it is still circulating freely online. Reading the article, it seems quite clear that Singh's doubts about the effectiveness of chiropractic in treating non back-related conditions are valid, and supported by evidence. In particular, Edzard Ernst, with whom Singh co-authored on a book on alternative medicine, Trick or Treatment? Alternative Medicine on Trial, had done a meta-study of 70 trials on chiropractic treatments related to the back, and found no evidence of effect. Ernst's research articles, all peer reviewed, can be found on PubMed.

Singh must, therefore, have been surprised to receive a letter notifying him that the British Chiropractic Association intended to sue him for libel, and for defaming the reputation of their organisation. Out of necessity, The Guardian could not support Singh, who was left to fight the case alone, which he did. Unfortunately, on 7th May, 2009, a preliminary ruling at the Royal Courts of Justice deemed that the article was a statement of fact rather than personal comment, and that the article contained "the plainest allegation of dishonesty and indeed it accuses them (the BCA) of thoroughly disreputable conduct."


Singh objects to this ruling that he was accusing the BCA of being dishonest and disreputable. He argues that although calling chiropractors are deluded and reckless, he was not suggesting that they are dishonest. Additionally, the judge ruled only on meaning and the way in which Singh's statements affected public perceptions of the BCA, not whether that meaning was supported by valid evidence and was therefore a legitimate case to argue. Finally, the burden of proof is reversed in libel cases, which means that Singh is guilty until proven innocent. He has to prove the accuracy of his statement, rather than the BCA having to prove why Singh was wrong - something they would find difficult to do, given the balance of scientific evidence about the effectiveness of chiropractic.

Rather than going to trial (which would be expensive) or settling out of court (which would be to acquiesce to the BCA in spite of the weight of valid scientific evidence behind Singh's statements), Singh has boldly decided to take the case to the Court of Appeal and then, if that fails, to the European Court of Human Rights.

Luckily, Singh is a bestselling author who can afford to pursue his case, whilst he is supported by various organisations. The point is, other scientists may not be so fortunate. The case has drawn attention to the serious flaws in the English libel system, that threaten the ability of scientists to express opinions based on sound scientific evidence, opinions that might be of benefit to the public if disseminated through the media.

In particular, it is too easy in English law for anyone to launch a libel action. And, from the point at which an action is launched, the burden of proof is on the defendant, rather than the defendent being judged innocent until proven guilty, as is the case for criminal trials. Consequently, defending cases - even those for which there is sound scientific evidence - becomes both time-consuming and costly. Organisations such as the BCA know this - and as a result libel can be used as a way of silencing scientists who, unlike Singh, are unstandably unwilling or unable to pursue their defence further.

Additionally, English libel cases are very costly and do not qualify for legal aid support. Going to trial can cost £1 000 000, which could be many times more than the damages at stake. By contrast (using this handy graph), a case in Sweden might cost a mere £10 000. Taking a case to trial puts one in a lose-lose scenario. Win, and you lose some money. Lose, and you lost a lot of money. Again this means libel can be used to bully publishers and authors into silence, even if they have solid evidence for their claims, as is true of the vast number of scientific studies that endorse Singh's view against chiropractic as a treatment for non back-related syndromes.

As David Colquhoun wittily puts it in his Patient's Guide to Magic Medicine:

Libel: A very expensive remedy, to be used only when you have no evidence. Appeals to alternative practitioners because truth is irrelevant.

Clearly the stilted, unfair nature of English libel law is a problem in many areas of publishing, not just in science communication. Alan Rushbridger of The Guardian puts the case very well. But the problem is particularly evident in the case of science, because libel cases can be used maliciously to silence honest scientists, even though the scientists speak with the weight of evidence on their side. Statements supported by clear scientific facts can still be sued against, and the burden of proof means is up to the scientists to prove otherwise, by which time the scientist will be broke, exhausted, regardless of whether he or she ultimately wins.

I am, therefore, very worried about this phenomena, and the effect it may have on scientific communication and practice, particularly in England where, we are continually told, the government is keep to promote innovation. Luckily, an army of bloggers, writers, commentators, publishers and scientists is fighting back, marshalled by the Sense About Science organisation. They have a campaign to Keep English Libel Laws Out of Science. For what it's worth, appropriately situated beneath the Irrepressible.info button campaigning for free speech, you will now see my own badge of support for this campaign. And if, having read this post, you feel similar concern about the way libel can be used to stifle legitimate scientific argument, I would urge you to sign up too.

When a drunk member of the audience, cat-calling and muttering much of the way through a performance, is more coherent that the play on stage, you know you are in trouble. Heartbreak Productions' version of As You Like It, which is touring outdoor venues across the UK this summer, starts off promisingly, but ultimately degenerates into a farce, forgetting its linguistic roots and becoming a musical bawdy - and a badly sung one at that.

The premise is good. As the audience munches on cous cous and Italian breadsticks beforehand, the stage set places us in a hippie camp in the 1960s, with rainbow spinners and Beatles soundtrack, whilst the cast mingle with the audience and proclaim peace, man. Once the play opens, though, the stage is transformed into the grey state of oppressive Duke Frederick. The cast emerge, changed from their colourful wool cloaks into brown trench coats, wielding loudhailers and throwing torches over the audience. A poster of the Duke glowers above. Choosing the 1960s as the setting for this comedy makes sense, with the dichotomy between free love and totalitarian Communism appropriately matched to the rupture between the life of the court in Act One of Shakespeare's comedy, and the festival passions of the Forest of Arden in the later Acts.

However, having hatched this conceit, director Peter Mimmack and his young cast let it loose with decreasing restraint. Whilst the first act sticks fairly closely to the language of the original, it starts to introduce folksy sing-songs and audience interaction. The court wrestler, for example, leaps on stage like some anachronistic Hulk Hogan, and exorts the audience to support him. His duel with Orlando is laugable, as the thing is made like a hammed-up WWF fight, with only the pretense of contact. Whether this is bad dramatic acting, or part of the plan, either way the ambiguity of the wrestle, that Orlando actually kills his opponent but Rosalind is unreserved in her affection for him, is lost.

However, it is the language which suffers the most violence. In the interval, we are told to wave our right hands in the air whenever we hear the word forest, and to rock a baby whenever we hear the word love. Martext, the country vicar in Shakespeare's original, becomes a loved-up American preacher who acts like some sort of perverse Widow Twanky, urging the audience to join in. The whole thing becomes a pantomime, as we listen for the cues rather than hearing what is said. Soon, Shakespeare's play turns into the soundtrack of the 1960s, with songs by Bob Dylan, the Beatles and other old favourites. Anyone of middle age must take a nostalgia trip when characters break into song rather than keeping to speech. By the end, Ganymede's revelation that she is in fact Rosalind, which neatly ties up her relationship with Orlando, and ensures Silvius and Phebe form their unlikely partnership, is not delivered through speech at all. Instead, we are all told to get to our feet and sing along with "All You Need is Love." No, all I need is some of the transformative but subversive magic that comes with all Shakespeare's comedies, the pleasure of revelation and satisfied relationships that is tempered by the fact that we are, ultimately, aware that this is pure wish fulfillment. Whilst Jacques would have it that all the world's a stage, this metaphor only works so far, which is precisely the point of this play: it ends as we would like it, but not as we could have it in reality. But instead of these complexities, we get childishness.

I may sound snobby here, so I will make clear that I do not agree with the drunken woman who kept shouting "It's not Shakespeare," implying that Shakespeare's plays should be treated as revered relics that cannot be tampered with. Shakespeare may transcend his historical moment, but it is only through adaptation that we can keep imagining his possibilities in our own times. So I am by no means against adaptation or liberal interpretations. Last year, I saw a remarkably effective version of Cymbeline produced by Kneehigh Theatre, which used radio-controlled cars and largely dispensed with the original language entirely. It may not have been Shakespeare in any pure sense, but it certainly helped to convey the mood of what is probably Shakespeare's most chaotic and unstructured play. As Heartbreak's director notes in the programme, As You Like It poses similar problems, with a series of self-contained love scenes not really integrated with the action of any over-arching plot. But the reason for the success of Kneehigh's Cymbeline was that it had the boldness to do away with the language almost entirely: it was an interpretation, not an adaptation. Heartbreak's As You Like It simply does not know where it stands. It opens as adaptation, and a clever one at that in transporting the play to the 1960s; but it ends as interpretation, and a daft one too. And because we have sensed the possibilities of Shakespeare's play in the language that is offered, such as the deeply troubling and metatheatrical nature of Jacques the melancholy jester, the spill into music and adlibbed interaction holds up badly in contrast. The whole thing is, frankly, a mess.

It is not helped by the fact that Dan McGarry as Orlando lacks the eloqution when the play does opt to stick with the original language. His words slur together, perhaps appropriate for a teenage rebel but hardly helpful in an outdoor setting with naturally difficult acoustics. There are a couple of better performances. Michael Sabbaton as Frederick and a Welsh Corin is excellent, but miscast as Frederick, for his wiry frame does not convince that he could ever be a Stalin-esque dictator. Helen Rynne as Rosalind/Ganymede is also quite effective, transforming from a doe-eyed girl to a chippy lad - though the old cliche of dressing a woman as a chimney sweep with a Cockney accent is a very sad one.

At the end of the play, the cast, back in their free-loving colourful costumes, exort us all to spread the word of peace and tell our friends about this production, which is on tour around the UK until the 30th August. If you are gathered by the camp fire of this blog, I have one phrase for you: don't do it, man.