And it was going so well, until I got to this...
In the early 1980s, a young geneticist in London named Peter Goodfellow began to hunt for the sex-determining gene on the Y chromosome. A die-hard soccer enthusiast—scruffy, bone-thin, taut, with an unmistakable East Anglian drawl and a “punk meets new romantic” dress sense—Goodfellow intended to use the gene-mapping methods pioneered by Botstein and Davis to narrow the search to a small region of the Y chromosome.
Seriously, people, what is it with the stupid descriptions of other people in pop science books?
Did all of the authors take advice from Bridget Jones on how to introduce people with random and slightly uncomfortable tid bits?
Luckily, the rest of the book is still great enough to mostly make up for this kind of nonsense.