I went to Leicester to punch melons and tomatoes for science. No, seriously

On the last train from Ludlow, I notice that one of my knuckles is squeaking. I know why. The day before I punched eight melons (galia, honeydew, water), a cabbage, a lettuce, a coconut and three tomatoes. 

It was for scientific and slapstick research. My Edinburgh Fringe show of 2023, MELONS, began with me drawing the face of Vernon Kay on a melon as Nick Cave’s Jubilee Street played, before punching it to a pulp and singing Mustang Sally. Variety is very much alive. 

As I was hosting many events for Bristol’s Slapstick Festival, I suggested to the organiser that I create a show where I punch various melons while a material scientist, Mark Miodownik, explains the different properties that make them splatter as they do. 

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The nervous venue asked for a carefully laid plastic covering to protect the carpet. As it was rolled out it looked like we were preparing to assassinate a mobster rather than some tropical fruit. The performance greatly benefitted from the presence of a greengrocer in the front row. 

At the end of the hour, my socks sodden with the juice of the destroyed, I was approached by a pig keeper who asked if she could have the fruit salad. And so we collected the pulp and rind and it is now feeding her litter. It felt like a delightfully stupid escapade mixed with Reithian values. I rushed off to watch a Laurel and Hardy film with live accompaniment by Rick Wakeman, but didn’t stay for the main feature as I noticed I was beginning to smell like poisoned fruit punch. 

At the beginning of the week, I had performed the original show that inspired this violence at the Leicester Comedy Festival. Arriving early, I wandered to Leicester Museum and Art Gallery to look at paintings of David Attenborough and dinosaurs.

There is a room that celebrates the people of Leicester: Penny Walker was a tireless campaigner for refugees and for peace, Arif Voraji helps the homeless, Surjit Kaur was the city’s first female Sikh doctor. And then there was Ruth Miller, who started Rutland Records and the band Po!, before launching the Unglamorous music movement to encourage women of all ages to create music. I was inspired, ready to seek out the records of Po! and an Unglamorous compilation of bands such as Pretty Dirty Rats and Bad Toaster. 

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I looked at the lampposts etched with golden leaves, and crossed the park admiring the brutal buildings of the University of Leciester. With much time still to spare, I found a coffee shop that looked both open and delicious. The woman serving was explaining to a regular that her bedroom wardrobe had collapsed on her the night before, no injury, just a chaos of clothing. What it is to go to sleep in Leicester and wake up in Narnia.

I ordered a scone and a coffee and when a man brought the scone to my table, I thanked him and he said, “Well you did pay for it, didn’t you.” Finding I still had room for a biscuit, I returned to the counter. “Have the biscuit for free,” he said. “We haven’t had someone as friendly as you for ages.”

Now, this is not me boasting ‘ain’t I lovely?’. It surprised me. I try to be friendly with anyone I interact with, whether barista, Big Issue seller or train conductor. What I did here was so little, but it ended up creating a much longer conversation on many things. 

Gentle friendliness is now an act of rebellion. To engage is the start of the revolution. I aim to treat everyone as an equal – I don’t consider that any sacrifice at all – but I think if we fail to perform this tiny gesture, we offer victory to those who wish for division and hate. 

He told me that even though the coffee shop closed at 5.30pm, I was more than welcome to stay until he locked up, but I explained I had to go and punch a melon.

Thank you, JP. 

Robin Ince is a comedian, broadcaster and poet.

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