It is a truth not sufficiently acknowledged that somebody trying to sell you something on the basis of its “scientifically proven” quality or effectiveness is probably attempting to pull a fast one. I realised this when I went looking for evidence to prove my GP wrong.
We were discussing a device branded Tenex, a “tennis elbow shock absorber”, which I have worn for years. It retails here for around $80.
Strapped on like a wristwatch, it is a small half-globe filled with a “specially formulated liquid metal” (it’s 20g of mercury, the only metal that is liquid at room temperature) that produces “a counterwave action that … neutralises” the shock of the ball’s impact.
I told my doc it had resolved an attack of what he called lateral epicondylitis (tennis elbow), and prevented its recurrence. “Show me the studies,” he snorted.
So I wrote to the chief executive of Tenex and asked him for links to the 10 studies cited on his website and attesting extravagantly to the device’s effectiveness. I wanted to wipe the smirk off my doctor’s face.
The slightly aggressive reply provided no links, but what piqued my interest was the claim that the device “has been approved for all of the European Union by the Health Authority [sic]”. No such body exists.
I quickly established that one of the scientists named is unknown to the institution where he did his “research”, several of the others left no other footprint on the internet in their entire careers, and one, a former professor of mechanical engineering at Massachusetts Institute of Technology, now deceased, is quoted as saying, “I have never tested such an efficient device”, which any scientist will immediately recognise as something no scientist would ever say.
The CEO, one Jean Michel Krief, sprayed ever wilder evidence-free claims as we exchanged emails. Then, abruptly, he said he no longer found our correspondence “amusing”, which was disappointing because I was having a great time. Since then, silence.
So it’s one-nil to the GP. Unless the research, assuming any exists, is randomised, double-blind, placebo-controlled and replicated, it has about as much value as my solemn assurance that the device works. Never mind: a placebo effect is still an effect, right?
But there’s a salutary lesson here. As consumers, we owe it to ourselves to drill down when advertisers say, “Doctors recommend …” their product. Which doctors? Where is the survey data? Or “clinical research has shown ...” What research? Who funded it? Where was it conducted and published? That’s what Consumer NZ recommends.
We laugh now at the Lucky Strike cigarette advertisement of the 1930s showing an avuncular white-coated doctor wearing pince-nez and holding out a packet of fags: 20,679 physicians said Luckies protected the throat against cough. (The figure was “checked and certified” by a major firm of auditors, so you can trust it).
But we are as gullible as those smokers if we fall for advertising that boasts scientific support without evidence. The three scientists I spoke to, experts in physics, liquid metals and dynamic microfluidics, respectively, strongly doubted that the science for Tenex was sound, not least because the “research” is so secret and mercury does not compress, so can’t absorb shock. Meanwhile, scholarly research I tracked down suggested impact vibration plays little or no part in developing lateral epicondylitis: it’s down to poor technique, of which I have some command. This may explain why professionals don’t get it, despite hitting millions of balls a year.
I’m not saying Tenex doesn’t work; I’m just saying that if there is any evidence that it does, the company has done a poor job of publicising it. And I have played – pain-free – without it for a year now.
Peter Calder is an Auckland journalist and reviewer.
