Move over Che, there’s a new Guy in town

Iconography of protest gets a 17th century upgrade.

Whether it is used to issue ultimatums to Mexican drug cartels or for demanding economic equality in financial districts the world over, the image of Guy Fawkes has become synonymous with 21st century popular protest.

Take the cover of last week's New Statesman for instance - under the headline "Young, angry and... right?" a Guy Fawkes-masked protester stares directly at the camera; the symbol of Western disillusionment is the face of a 17th century English Catholic, executed for high-treason and popularised by the Hollywood version of an 80s English comic book. How has this come to be?

The answer lies more in events of 2006 than 1605, when Warner Brothers released V for Vendetta, a film adaptation of Alan Moore's graphic novel of the same name. Set in Britain in a dystopian future, the film's hero adopts the Fawkes mask in his attempt to bring down a corrupt totalitarian regime. It culminates with the destruction of the Houses of Parliament, set to Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture.

This Saturday much of the country will celebrate Fawkes's foiling, by setting of fireworks and burning effigies of him, while protestors across the world adorn his mask.

Although some wearers of the mask are sure to be drawn to the powerful imagery of this archetypal anti-establishment figure, there are probably equally as many who just think it looks cool. After all it's not like everyone who wears a Che Guevara T Shirt is a bona fide guerrilla. Perhaps it would be churlish to suggest that the Occupy movement's association with the image is ill-advised given that Fawkes was in essence the scapegoat of a failed revolution.

And much like Che, Fawkes has seen his visage commoditised to such an extent that if he wasn't dead, he wouldn't be able to show his face among any self-respecting revolutionaries.

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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