Great performance of The Ladykillers at the Gielgud Theatre in London tonight. Dinner afterwards with David Crane, writer of Friends, his partner and co-writer, Jeffrey Klarik, and Jimmy Mulville at the impeccable Bocca di Lupo on Archer Street. The guys are all working together on one of my favourite shows, Episodes. After a few anecdotes about Matt LeBlanc, we get down to the real business – the suggestion that detection channels at the Large Hadron Collider are showing a “three-sigma” Higgs. While it’s not the five-sigma everyone in narrative comedy is hoping for, it’s a start.
To the glory that is the Royal Opera House for the Oliviers, where The Ladykillers has been nominated for a staggering five awards. Collected a lot of data for my theory that actors’ legs are shorter than those of normal people. Can it be that long-torsoed actors appear larger in close-up, improving their billing and chances of viable offspring? Then a rumour rips across the acres of taffeta and patent leather like a bow wave. Brian Cox is in the house. A girl in high heels loses her footing and does the box splits on the marble floor. No, wait; not that Brian Cox. Brian Cox the actor. Michael Ball helps the girl up. Everyone relaxes. Phew.
Barbecue on the beach in Basse-Terre, Guadeloupe, to celebrate the start of filming on Death in Paradise. Wonderful to hear that Stephanie Beacham, Ken Cranham and Lucy Davis – who I thought was brilliant in The Office–will soon be joining us. This is going to be a long shoot and there is some sadness that we will be missing not only the Diamond Jubilee and the Olympics but also the docking of SpaceX’s Dragon spacecraft with the International Space Station. Danny John-Jules goes so far as to suggest that we are witnessing the dawn of a new era in human space travel. And he should know – he plays Cat in Red Dwarf.
Intense emotional scenes on Death in Paradise today. We are shooting an episode in which my co-star Sara Martins’s character witnesses the murder of a close friend, played by one of my favourite singers, Jamelia. Just when Sara and I feel we have given everything there is to give, we hear a shriek from the green room. Everyone downs tools and rushes in, fearful that some hapless extra has been bitten by one of the island’s venomous giant centipedes. No need to worry; Jamelia has simply managed to image the transit of Venus using an improvised pinhole camera. “We won’t see that again for another 250 years,” says Sara, wistfully. “Actually, if you live in eastern China you’ll see one in December 2117,” says Jamelia.
Jetted in from Guadeloupe for the launch of my popular science book, It’s Not Rocket Science. This morning, I hooked Eamonn Holmes up to a van de Graaff generator on breakfast television; this evening, I gave a talk at the Royal Institution, right where they do the Christmas Lectures. In the spirit of which I attempted the “elephant’s toothpaste” experiment with hydrogen peroxide, potassium iodide and liquid soap. The iodide, I explain, reacts with the peroxide, producing oxygen, and the oxygen then creates impossible amounts of foam when it mixes with the liquid soap.
My unconfined joy is marred only by the celebrity no-shows. Cox, Ben Goldacre, Jim Al- Khalili – no one rocks up. John Sessions commiserates with me in the bar. “Those A-listers, they’re busy guys,” he says wisely. “Three-dimensional chess is nothing next to Cox’s iCal.” I try to smile. “By the way,” he says, “you got that elephant’s toothpaste thing wrong. There’s no reaction to speak of between the iodide and the peroxide. The iodide forms an intermediate complex that catalyses the decomposition of the peroxide. Decomposition of peroxide is a process that goes on all the time, just usually not at a measurable rate.”
It’s hurricane season in Guadeloupe and we’ve been rained off for days. Rocket Science is selling unfeasibly well but I still feel like I have my nose pressed up against the glass, watching my scientific heroes laughing and joking and sharing their impossible wisdom with one another. Then it comes: an invitation to Guildford Book Festival to be interviewed by none other than Jim Al-Khalili. Is this the chink in the armour, the Masonic handshake that will finally see me conjoined with empirical priesthood?
A message from Jim’s office: is it OK if he doesn’t read my book before our interview? He’s got a lot on his plate and is going to have to dash off straight after.
A long day of filming on the feature film Molly Moon. While we are waiting for the shot to be set up, Sadie Frost and Joan Collins strike up a conversation about the rumoured methane traces on Mars and whether or not Nasa will go public before the data is accepted by a peerreviewed journal. Talk then turns to the pos - sibility that Mars may harbour bacterial life and the European Space Agency’s forthcoming Jupiter Icy Moon Explorer (JUICE) and its planned mission to Europa, launching in 2022. “Methane is one thing,” Joan says, “but microbial life in some sort of hydrothermal vent? That would really get my attention.” I have a whole chapter on space travel, the Drake equation and the possibility of extraterrestrial life but I say nothing.
To Matthew Freud’s Christmas party in the Cotswolds. Marquee names rub shoulders with newspaper proprietors and cabinet ministers. It’s as if Leveson never happened. No, it’s as if Leveson was just a Fifty Shades of Grey-type prelude to an orgy of make-up sex. Then suddenly I spot him, like a stag on a hilltop: Goldacre. I sidle up. “I loved Bad Pharma.” He takes me in with wet, pitiful eyes. “I’m a lookalike, mate.” He hands me a business card. “I’m doing 40 minutes just to get things warmed up.” He drains his flute of pink champagne and hands me the empty glass. “Right, that’s your lot. Elton’s thing kicks off at ten and he’s a sucker for evidence-based medicine.”
Ben Miller is the author of “It’s Not Rocket Science” (Sphere, £12.99)