Phairy Story

Guernsey McPearson

I attended annual conference again this year and found it to be the usual mixture of hard drinking, wild partying and marathon lecture-sessions. It certainly took its toll on the aging McPearson physique and I have resolved to behave far more sensibly in future and cut back. Next year, therefore, I will be attending far fewer lectures. The cumulative influence of so many fairy-stories is bound to have its effect, even on one as sensible and hard-boiled as Guernsey McPearson.

Certainly, I slept fitfully at the conference. It may have been the fact that the locals seemed to be spending the night shouting drunkenly at each other outside my hotel: you have enough of that at the conference dinner and expect to leave it behind when back in your bed. However, I am more inclined to attribute it to the diet of fanciful and improbable approaches to design and analysis to which I was subjected during the day. (Although the Bayesians are far from being solely responsible for this, I can't help noticing that Time is having a terrible revenge on them. They used to be an intellectual elite, for in days past only the strong and clear-minded could forge an understanding that was independent of the dominant frequentist philosophy. Now it seems that more and more people understand less and less about Bayesian analysis and, quite frankly, it bugs me.) Whatever the cause, my sleep was interrupted by a most irritating dream in the form of a fairy story, which I now reproduce for the benefit of readers of SPIN, with the plea that any who can interpret it will contact me, for my attempts to get my wife to help in that department have left me more baffled than before. (But more of that later.)

So here is my dream, or rather my nightmare.

GMcP's dream: Jack and the Beans-Talk

Jack was a diligent pharma who lived and worked happily and industriously for the company. His job involved tending one of several cash-cows. Others in the business were involved in calving: trying to bring on projects (as they were affectionately known) until they could reach maturity and, it was hoped, also become cash-cows. Still others in the company were involved in carving. This was to do with chopping bits of the company's assets off, and selling them for money. Unfortunately the carving was interfering with the calving and fewer and fewer cash cows were being, brought on stream.

One day, the chief executive officer called Jack in and ordered him to raise some money for new innovative projects by selling the cash-cow. Accordingly, Jack was ordered to take the cow to the stock-market and see what he could get for her. On his way to the market, Jack met a curious little fellow wearing a red bonnet, carrying a bulging sack and with an unpleasant looking black bird, just like a crow only much smaller, sitting on his shoulder. Hello, Jack, said the little fellow, I believe you need to sell your cow. Who are you? said Jack, and how do you know my business?. I am a pharma co-gnome, that is to say I work with pharmas, the little fellow replied, my name is Gene and this is my crow, Micro, who will be very useful to us both in future. And it is my business to know about the business of others.

I see, replied, Jack, but where is your pick, because are you gnomes not well known as miners? You must be thinking of my brother Data, replied the vertically challenged individual, he does that sort of thing. He must be very rich, replied Jack, with all the wonderful jewels he extracts from the data-mine. He is very rich, said Gene, but not because of what is extracted from the data-mine. Most of that is merely fool's gold. The money to be made in data-mining is in selling equipment and advice and that is what he specialises in. But enough of this banter. If you give me your cash-cow, in return I will let you use the magic beans in my sack.

What are your magic beans, said Jack, that I should give my valuable cash-cow for them? They are here in this bag, said Gene, and amongst them are almost certainly one or two that, when manured liberally with cash from your cow, will grow into mighty bean-stalks.

Your point being? said Jack. The point being, replied Gene, that at the top of the beanstalk you will find a magic castle in which a giant is fast asleep snoring away and unable to guard the magic goose that lays the golden eggs.

(At this point gentle reader, I must interrupt with a personal observation. My nightmare seemed to be getting louder and I heard in my ears a distinct sound of vigorous and unpleasant snoring. Thus: snore, snore, SNORE.)

That is truly remarkable, said Jack, but how will we find which beans will work, for there seem to be many in the bag you are carrying? Oh that is easy, replied Gene, this is where my faithful assistant Micro will help us. And so saying he tipped all of the beans in his sack onto the floor, where they formed a small hill. Nova vestis imperatoris, said the gnome magically. No sooner had the fateful words been said than the crow flew down off his shoulder and arranged the beans into a tightly packed regular rectangle.

(Snore, snore, SNORE. The snoring in my dream was growing louder)

This is a Micro-array, said Gene, now we must make the beans talk so that we can find which one to manure with cash. And how do we do this? said Jack. By singing, said Gene. No sooner had the gnome said these words than he launched into a loud but rather tuneless version of the ABBA song Money, Money, Money,

(Snore, snore, SNORE is what I could hear in the background and I couldn't help but note, powerless as I was to stop this nonsense, that by strange coincidence the Gnome's choice of song is one that had featured in the conference disco earlier.)

After a short pause, the beans began to hum. Me, me, me. You see, said the gnome, the beans are telling us which ones to choose. That may be, replied Jack, but there must be dozens if not hundreds of them shouting at once and against the background of all this snoring its very hard to hear which one is shouting the loudest.

That's your problem replied the gnome, but thanks for the cow. I haven't given you the cow, replied Jack. Yes, you have, replied Gene, it's in the bill. And sure enough no sooner had he said that, than Micro opened its beak which had suddenly grown to the size of an elephant (well this was a dream and a fairy story.) and swallowed Jack's cow.

(At this point the snoring grew to a thunderous rumble and I woke to find that I was in danger of being late for the session I was due to chair that morning.)

Mrs McP's baffling observation

What? I asked.

The origin of the snoring, she replied.

Back to Guernsey McPearson Prose Back to Guernsey McPearson Prose