The coming of the Maily Express

It makes sense - the two newspapers have printed the same stuff with different fonts for a while now

Talk of a merger between the Daily Mail and Daily Express seems a mixed blessing for those of us who wouldn't ordinarily read either. While it might seem like good news to be rid of at least one of them, how powerful would the resulting über-tabloid become?

It's probably best not to fall into the trap of imagining the worst-case scenario – a monstrous great politically incorrect Death Star of a newspaper blasting out lasers of bile across the galaxy, journalists dressed in scary black uniforms . . . because that's exactly the kind of catastrophistic panic-porn those papers like wallowing in.

No, the reality would be more mundane, less scary. Instead of a gigantic, slavering right-wing chimera, a Brundlefly with a cruel streak for minorities lurking on the shelves in WHSmith, the Maily Express could just end up being a rather dull, mid-market tabloid grasping for the same waning readership.

Instead of two sets of headlines panicking about "them" coming over here and taking our jobs, there would be just one. At least we'd only have to avoid one publication, rather than two.

After the sudden death of the Daily Sport and Sunday Sportwhich leaves a gaping void on the news-stands for upskirt photos of minor celebrities and very little else – it would be another blow to the newspaper industry. Would it be a sign that the tide really is turning, and the inkies running out of time? Those of us who harbour dreams of having gainful employment through the purchase of printed words on paper might like to hope not, but what if this is the second domino falling over?

If the Express and Mail really did merge, I don't think the Express would end up tremendously well represented, given the relative size of its circulation and readership. Just as Spitting Image's David Owen puppet told David Steel their amalgamated party would have "one name from your party and one name from mine . . . from mine, Social Democratic, from yours, Party . . ." you can't help seeing the resultant publication as being anything other than the Daily Mail. That would be disappointing from the point of view of losing the Express name from the news-stands, given its history as Britain's most popular newspaper for decades; but then again, the Express of those days died a long time ago.

Of course, this is all just idle speculation. Why would the Mail want to do anything other than see the Express wither on the vine and die away as its readership gets older? Why would the Express want to admit defeat and couple itself to the Mail as very much the junior partner? None of that seems to make any sense, but perhaps there is some logic in it: with 2.7 million potential readers, any joint force would be in a healthy position.

The two newspapers have been pretty much the same story in slightly different fonts for a while now. It's a sadness, perhaps, that there isn't room for a Daily Express that is markedly different from its main mid-market competitor, but maybe that's just the way these things are going. Maybe we really are going to face a future with fewer national newspapers, and maybe we're just going to have to get used to it.

Patrolling the murkier waters of the mainstream media
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A swimming pool and a bleeding toe put my medical competency in doubt

Doctors are used to contending with Google. Sometimes the search engine wins. 

The brutal heatwave affecting southern Europe this summer has become known among locals as “Lucifer”. Having just returned from Italy, I fully understand the nickname. An early excursion caused the beginnings of sunstroke, so we abandoned plans to explore the cultural heritage of the Amalfi region and strayed no further than five metres from the hotel pool for the rest of the week.

The children were delighted, particularly my 12-year-old stepdaughter, Gracie, who proceeded to spend hours at a time playing in the water. Towelling herself after one long session, she noticed something odd.

“What’s happened there?” she asked, holding her foot aloft in front of my face.

I inspected the proffered appendage: on the underside of her big toe was an oblong area of glistening red flesh that looked like a chunk of raw steak.

“Did you injure it?”

She shook her head. “It doesn’t hurt at all.”

I shrugged and said she must have grazed it. She wasn’t convinced, pointing out that she would remember if she had done that. She has great faith in plasters, though, and once it was dressed she forgot all about it. I dismissed it, too, assuming it was one of those things.

By the end of the next day, the pulp on the underside of all of her toes looked the same. As the doctor in the family, I felt under some pressure to come up with an explanation. I made up something about burns from the hot paving slabs around the pool. Gracie didn’t say as much, but her look suggested a dawning scepticism over my claims to hold a medical degree.

The next day, Gracie and her new-found holiday playmate, Eve, abruptly terminated a marathon piggy-in-the-middle session in the pool with Eve’s dad. “Our feet are bleeding,” they announced, somewhat incredulously. Sure enough, bright-red blood was flowing, apparently painlessly, from the bottoms of their big toes.

Doctors are used to contending with Google. Often, what patients discover on the internet causes them undue alarm, and our role is to provide context and reassurance. But not infrequently, people come across information that outstrips our knowledge. On my return from our room with fresh supplies of plasters, my wife looked up from her sun lounger with an air of quiet amusement.

“It’s called ‘pool toe’,” she said, handing me her iPhone. The page she had tracked down described the girls’ situation exactly: friction burns, most commonly seen in children, caused by repetitive hopping about on the abrasive floors of swimming pools. Doctors practising in hot countries must see it all the time. I doubt it presents often to British GPs.

I remained puzzled about the lack of pain. The injuries looked bad, but neither Gracie nor Eve was particularly bothered. Here the internet drew a blank, but I suspect it has to do with the “pruning” of our skin that we’re all familiar with after a soak in the bath. This only occurs over the pulps of our fingers and toes. It was once thought to be caused by water diffusing into skin cells, making them swell, but the truth is far more fascinating.

The wrinkling is an active process, triggered by immersion, in which the blood supply to the pulp regions is switched off, causing the skin there to shrink and pucker. This creates the biological equivalent of tyre treads on our fingers and toes and markedly improves our grip – of great evolutionary advantage when grasping slippery fish in a river, or if trying to maintain balance on slick wet rocks.

The flip side of this is much greater friction, leading to abrasion of the skin through repeated micro-trauma. And the lack of blood flow causes nerves to shut down, depriving us of the pain that would otherwise alert us to the ongoing tissue damage. An adaptation that helped our ancestors hunt in rivers proves considerably less use on a modern summer holiday.

I may not have seen much of the local heritage, but the trip to Italy taught me something new all the same. 

This article first appeared in the 17 August 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Trump goes nuclear