Doesn’t kill you: makes you weaker

As things stand a scientific assessment would suggest that Britain is Bangladesh for bees.

Here’s a fun experiment. Give your child – or a neighbour’s child, if you don’t have one of your own – a couple of large glasses of Malbec and then send them off to school. The wine probably won’t kill them, just as the neonicotinoid-based pesticides in routine use on our agricultural land aren’t directly killing bees. The child may well make it across the roads safely and get to school, just as most of the bees are still leaving the hive and finding pollen-bearing flowers. The chances are that the child will perform as badly at school that morning as the pesticideridden bees do at bringing back pollen. But you could still choose to label two glasses of wine a safe dose.

Last month, when the UK government told the EU that neonicotinoids aren’t a proven problem for bees, it brandished scientific evidence. Yet the tests it referred to showed little more than whether the likely doses were lethal. They did not look at whether neonicotinoids hamper a bee’s ability to go about its business effectively – to gather pollen, to navigate between flower sources and hives, or to communicate with other members of the colony.

Better tests show that all these activities are hampered by everyday exposure to neonicotinoids, which may have contributed to the ongoing collapse of bee colonies. For instance, studies carried out by researchers at the University of Stirling found that bumblebees will produce 85 per cent fewer queens. And scientists at Royal Holloway, London, discovered that bumblebees exposed to real-world neonicotinoid levels are 55 per cent more likely to get lost while foraging. That makes sense in the light of studies carried out by researchers at the universities of Newcastle and Dundee, which showed a disruptive effect on the honeybee brain, “observed at concentrations . . . encountered by foraging honeybees and within the hive”.

None of this is surprising. These pesticides are toxins that cause disorder in the brain. Just because they don’t cause immediate observable harm to a single bee when the chemicals are assessed individually doesn’t mean they are not a problem when all the various neurotoxins in the bee’s environment accumulate. As the Dundee and Newcastle researchers reported, “exposure to multiple pesticides . . . will cause enhanced toxicity”. There are probably safe doses of gin, vodka and whisky for a toddler. Give those measures all at once, however, and harm will ensue.

Anyone can avoid accepting inconvenient evidence in science, where findings are rarely black and white. A paper published last autumn in the journal Environmental Health Perspectives, for instance, demonstrates how epidemiologists and toxicologists work out the effects of interacting exposures to chemicals in different ways, which can lead to completely different conclusions about whether there is any effect at all.

But arguing over definitions is no good to bees. The collapse of the jerry-built garment factory in Dhaka, Bangladesh, last month offers a salutary lesson applicable to bee-colony collapse: you can rationalise the greedy pursuit of short-term gain all you like, but if catastrophe strikes, you are still responsible for the loss.

Economists put the annual value of insect pollinators to the UK economy at roughly £440m. Moral considerations aside, ensuring that their working conditions are as safe and sustainable as possible seems to make economic good sense. As things stand, however – and soon they might fall – a scientific assessment would suggest that Britain is Bangladesh for bees.

Bees. Photograph: Getty Images

Michael Brooks holds a PhD in quantum physics. He writes a weekly science column for the New Statesman, and his most recent book is At the Edge of Uncertainty: 11 Discoveries Taking Science by Surprise.

This article first appeared in the 13 May 2013 issue of the New Statesman, Eton Mess

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The Tinder dating app isn't just about sex – it's about friendship, too. And sex

The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, as I found out quickly while using the app.

The first time I met someone using Tinder, the free dating app that requires users to swipe left for “no” and right for “yes” before enabling new “matches” to chat, it was an unqualified success. I should probably qualify that. I was newly single after five years in a committed relationship and wasn’t looking for anything more than fun, friendship and, well, who knows. A few weeks earlier I had tried to give my number to a girl in a cinema café in Brixton. I wrote it on a postcard I’d been using as a bookmark. She said she had a boyfriend, but wanted to keep the postcard. I had no date and I lost my page.

My Tinder date was a master’s student from Valencia called Anna (her name wasn’t really Anna, of course, I’m not a sociopath). When I arrived at the appointed meeting place, she told me I was far more handsome IRL (“in real life”) than my pictures suggested. I was flattered and full of praise for the directness of continental Europeans but also thought sadly to myself: “If only the same could be said about you.”

Anna and I became friends, at least for a while. The date wasn’t a success in the traditional sense of leading us into a contract based on exclusivity, an accumulating cache of resentments and a mortgage, but it had put me back in the game (an appropriate metaphor – people speak regularly of “playing” with the app).

According to Sean Rad, the co-founder who launched Tinder in late 2012, the service was invented for people like me. “It was really a way to overcome my own problems,” he told the editor of Cosmopolitan at an event in London last month. “It was weird to me, to start a conversation [with a stranger]. Once I had an introduction I was fine, but it’s that first step. It’s difficult for a lot of people.” After just one outing, I’d learned two fundamental lessons about the world of online dating: pretty much everyone has at least one decent picture of themselves, and meeting women using a so-called hook-up app is seldom straightforwardly about sex.

Although sometimes it is. My second Tinder date took place in Vienna. I met Louisa (ditto, name) outside some notable church or other one evening while visiting on holiday (Tinder tourism being, in my view, a far more compelling way to get to know a place than a cumbersome Lonely Planet guide). We drank cocktails by the Danube and rambled across the city before making the romantic decision to stay awake all night, as she had to leave early the next day to go hiking with friends. It was just like the Richard Linklater movie Before Sunrise – something I said out loud more than a few times as the Aperol Spritzes took their toll.

When we met up in London a few months later, Louisa and I decided to skip the second part of Linklater’s beautiful triptych and fast-track our relationship straight to the third, Before Midnight, which takes place 18 years after the protagonists’ first meet in Vienna, and have begun to discover that they hate each others’ guts.

Which is one of the many hazards of the swiping life: unlike with older, web-based platforms such as Match.com or OkCupid, which require a substantial written profile, Tinder users know relatively little about their prospective mates. All that’s necessary is a Facebook account and a single photograph. University, occupation, a short bio and mutual Facebook “likes” are optional (my bio is made up entirely of emojis: the pizza slice, the dancing lady, the stack of books).

Worse still, you will see people you know on Tinder – that includes colleagues, neighbours and exes – and they will see you. Far more people swipe out of boredom or curiosity than are ever likely to want to meet up, in part because swiping is so brain-corrosively addictive.

While the company is cagey about its user data, we know that Tinder has been downloaded over 100 million times and has produced upwards of 11 billion matches – though the number of people who have made contact will be far lower. It may sound like a lot but the Tinder user-base remains stuck at around the 50 million mark: a self-selecting coterie of mainly urban, reasonably affluent, generally white men and women, mostly aged between 18 and 34.

A new generation of apps – such as Hey! Vina and Skout – is seeking to capitalise on Tinder’s reputation as a portal for sleaze, a charge Sean Rad was keen to deny at the London event. Tinder is working on a new iteration, Tinder Social, for groups of friends who want to hang out with other groups on a night out, rather than dating. This makes sense for a relatively fresh business determined to keep on growing: more people are in relationships than out of them, after all.

After two years of using Tinder, off and on, last weekend I deleted the app. I had been visiting a friend in Sweden, and took it pretty badly when a Tinder date invited me to a terrible nightclub, only to take a few looks at me and bolt without even bothering to fabricate an excuse. But on the plane back to London the next day, a strange thing happened. Before takeoff, the woman sitting beside me started crying. I assumed something bad had happened but she explained that she was terrified of flying. Almost as terrified, it turned out, as I am. We wound up holding hands through a horrific patch of mid-air turbulence, exchanged anecdotes to distract ourselves and even, when we were safely in sight of the ground, a kiss.

She’s in my phone, but as a contact on Facebook rather than an avatar on a dating app. I’ll probably never see her again but who knows. People connect in strange new ways all the time. The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, but you can be sure that if you look closely at the lines, you’ll almost certainly notice the pixels.

Philip Maughan is Assistant Editor at the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 26 May 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The Brexit odd squad