The recent BA Science Communication Conference highlighted diverging ideas about the aims of science outreach. But surely its primary purpose can only be to inform and excite the public about science?

I have a guilty secret: despite being a lowly PhD student, I've always jumped at the chance of giving talks to any group who'll listen.  When I explain to fellow researchers that I particularly love talking to teenagers, the response ranges from bewilderment to disgust. Why do I do it? Perhaps it requires an element of narcissism that I'd rather ignore - but, at the same time, something whispers to me that my own field (cosmology) is almost impossible to justify as an endeavour except through its ability to enrich human culture and inspire future generations.

So after splashing about at the shallow end for a few years, I decided to peek over at the deep end - the world of the professional science communicator - by attending the BA's annual Science Communication Conference this May. The BA (British Association for the Advancement of Science) was established in 1831 and exists to promote public understanding and accountability of science and engineering. Since then, scientific fields have migrated from side shows onto the main stage of public life.  But engendering meaningful, widespread understanding as the pace of development increases remains a key challenge; and so the BA's work continues through enterprises such as the highly successful annual BA Festival of Science, last held in September.

The conference was opened by accomplished writer and broadcaster Melvyn Bragg. Despite having no formal background in science, his Radio 4 programme In Our Time has consistently succeeded in breaking the perceived barrier between science and culture. According to Bragg, the programme's ever-growing ratings prove "an unmistakeable, measurable appetite for science".  Delivering an impressive survey of the importance of science to society, he emphasized the difficulty in promoting and sustaining genuine appreciation for the technical details: "The road to the arts is broad and easy. The road to science is straight and narrow."

It's hard to disagree. The sheer weight of technical knowledge required to build a coherent overall picture of nature - or even some small aspect of  it - can be overwhelming. The artist can continue to create while learning. The scientist, unless exceptionally talented, can do little at first but learn. It's the challenge of sustaining enthusiasm through this process that we need to face square on: "We live in an age of the instant. Society is afflicted by a disease of ease" mused Bragg.

But following the superb clarity of these opening remarks, much of the conference felt like a disappointing confluence of sophistry and buzzwords.  If a focus was discernible, it was directed towards public consultation projects. To an extent, I can appreciate the importance of such ventures; on the other hand, their political nature forces fundamentals of  science into the periphery. By the time one of the plenary speakers started a rambling story about the closure of a local swimming pool, I was lost.  Lord Robert Winstone, along the row, seemed similarly underwhelmed and took to playing with his new iPhone.

In fact Winstone, despite being a proponent of public consultation, was on hand to remind the conference that projects can become counterproductive without careful management. The recent UK-wide debates on stem cell research, culminating with the human embryology and fertilisation bill, have led to exaggerated claims on both sides. Winstone has previously warned that "there is a real risk with stem cells that we are raising expectations that they will be much more successful than they are likely to be". In the long term, that cannot be conducive to public appreciation of science.

So communication of science is, to my mind, quite distinct from consultation.  For the final session, the BA had scheduled a taster of what can be achieved: chemical ecologist Graeme Jones' lecture, "The Science of Saturday Night".  

But this turned out to be singularly unnerving.  After performing a little homage to John Travolta (a suitably cringe-inducing dance to Saturday Night Fever) Jones began his session with a rhetorical question: "Can we use science to have a more successful night out?"

There must be a plethora of entertaining biological topics which could answer this question.  But instead, we were subjected to a series of stretched, jarring analogies with chemistry: "How do we lower the activation energy for a boy-girl reaction?" he asked the audience. Apparently the answer is to use the "catalyst" of sweat. Once we'd got to learning dance moves based on oscillations of triatomic molecules, I could take no more and ran for the exit.

It's not just that I had bitten my fist off through embarrassment. It's not just that the science had been diluted so far as to be homeopathic. It's more that there is something terribly, horrendously wrong with Jones' message - and, vicariously, the BA's message.  

If we think the way to make science interesting and accessible is through meaningless analogies, we're admitting that the work is intrinsically uninteresting or inaccessible to the very people we're trying to reach. Of course we don't have to bore everyone with lofty reverence. But Bragg's straight and narrow path needs to be faced, not sidestepped.  Otherwise we wander with no tangible goal, giving no glimpse of the true excitement which makes the trip worthwhile.

We need to stand up for real science communication. We need to stand up for the scientific method. And we need to stand up for expert opinion carrying more weight than uninformed claptrap.

Andrew Pontzen is a PhD student at the Institute of Astronomy