I am pleased to say that I have recently been added to the list of independent researchers that is maintained by The National Archives. It took some doing: I submitted an application form and examples of my research work, and had a rigorous (but friendly) interview. Upshot is that my name has been added to the lists of specialist researchers who cover the following areas:
Foreign, Colonial and Dominions Office records
General Genealogy
General Research
Registrar General of Shipping and Seamen and Mercantile Marine Records
Royal Air Force Genealogy, Biography and Operation Records
Royal Naval Operations Records
No bad thing.
Thursday, 12 April 2012
Tuesday, 27 March 2012
John Hargrave and the Kibbo Kift Hundred
John Hargrave and the Kibbo Kift Hundred remain largely absent from the collective historical memory of this country; and when the man and his movement do figure it is usually as historical comedic material worthy of the pen of P. G. Wodehouse. Judge Smith, genial co-founder of Van der Graaf Generator, feels this to be an injustice of sorts, and based on the sizeable number of people shoehorned into the room above the Wheatsheaf pub in Rathbone Place to hear him talk on the subject, he is not alone. Judge was speaking to the Sohemian Society, although I am not entirely clear about the precise connection between Hargrave and Soho. Judge offered a succinct history of the KK and its leader, and supplemented his talk with some astounding visuals.
No one should deny that there is much that is comic about this; wearing smocks and stomping about Epping Forest could never be anything other than funny, but there is something else of substance here. To start with Hargrave: he seemed to me to be a familiar figure in some ways - it would be quite wrong to dismiss him as a minor 30s demagogue in an already crowded field, but I have to say that he did seem convinced of the rightness of his cause and was not afraid to use a formidable personality to get his own way. Thus a recognisable personality type, and, on the face of it, a fairly straightforward task to incorporate him into the historical record. Not so the movement he led; it seems to resist the usual analysis, especially in the Green Shirts phase - was it a movement of the Left or the Right? Or both? Judge suggested that among historians the matter was contentious, and I can quite believe it. I personally also detected elements of that long tradition of English pastoralism which persists to this day: think of the Diggers, Thomas Spence and his plans for land reform, William Morris, the Arts and Crafts movement; you might even include the astounding punk band Crass with their commitment to communal living and deep attachment to the land and self-sufficiency.
No one should deny that there is much that is comic about this; wearing smocks and stomping about Epping Forest could never be anything other than funny, but there is something else of substance here. To start with Hargrave: he seemed to me to be a familiar figure in some ways - it would be quite wrong to dismiss him as a minor 30s demagogue in an already crowded field, but I have to say that he did seem convinced of the rightness of his cause and was not afraid to use a formidable personality to get his own way. Thus a recognisable personality type, and, on the face of it, a fairly straightforward task to incorporate him into the historical record. Not so the movement he led; it seems to resist the usual analysis, especially in the Green Shirts phase - was it a movement of the Left or the Right? Or both? Judge suggested that among historians the matter was contentious, and I can quite believe it. I personally also detected elements of that long tradition of English pastoralism which persists to this day: think of the Diggers, Thomas Spence and his plans for land reform, William Morris, the Arts and Crafts movement; you might even include the astounding punk band Crass with their commitment to communal living and deep attachment to the land and self-sufficiency.
Saturday, 24 March 2012
Dr Ian Mortimer and some Krautrock
Of personal note was attending a recent talk at Waterstone's in Picadilly by Dr Ian Mortimer, the prolific historian and author. Dr Mortimer spoke about his new book, The Time Traveller's Guide to Elizabethan England, with characteristic fluency and brio, and I believe that a good evening was had by all. His assured performance and command of his subject was no surprise to me: back in the late 1990s I shared an office with Ian when we worked at the Historical Manuscripts Commission in Quality Court. I think back to those days with great fondness; I don't think a day went by without the pair of us vigorously testing our ideas about history, its meanings, sources, the pleasure of research and writing. Ian was always going to do well; allied to a fertile mind (I read several draft chapters from works that have since appeared in print) was that crucial element that is so often lacking in many would-be authors - an iron determination to succeed in his chosen sphere. A generous man Ian, as well; I remember one impromptu gathering at his place in Stoke Newington where he knocked together a fine meal for eight or nine of his HMC colleagues - it must have set him back a small fortune, but he didn't bat an eyelid. All this, and he's a big fan of Krautrock and Can in particular! I'll always be grateful to him for lending me his copy of Julian Cope's Krautrocksampler; a fine read - why isn't it in print?
Tuesday, 20 March 2012
Bank of England Archives
Most historians and researchers that I know always find their first visit to an archival repository an interesting experience. Contrary to the usual descriptions in the media (presumably there must be some statute that requires journalists always to use the words 'dusty' and 'archives' in the same sentence) the majority of archival collections are housed in clean and very carefully maintained conditions, but most repositories do seem to have their own quirks and idiosyncrasies. A recent research commission took me to the Bank of England archives for the first time, and I felt a keen sense of anticipation about the whole thing. The Old Lady of Threadneedle Street did not disappoint, although I was surprised by the discreet entrance; a small and unassuming door and lobby rather than the dramatic Grand Central Station-type glory that I had fixed in my mind.
I am unable to comment on the research I was undertaking because of commercial confidentiality, but suffice it to say that I found the material tantalising rather than revelatory: a series of clues, hints and casual allusions unwittingly left by long-dead correspondents who rather thoughtlessly did not have me personally in mind when writing. There are many differences between the working papers of a business or organisation and the personal papers of an individual, but a key distinction, it seems to me, is the fact that however comprehensive they might be, the former can only ever constitute recorded fragments of a greater commercial process, the nature of which the creators of the records did not need to explain because so much would have been implicitly understood by all those involved. Thus it is that rather than the revealing personal letter or intimate diary that reveals much of the inner mind at a certain point, we are left with documents that are full of cryptic comments, obscure commercial phraseology and baffling columns of figures: only the initiate can really extract the full meaning and infer the importance or otherwise of this stuff; to the rest of us it is hard going to say the least. I also got the sense of incomplete documentary survival (some incredibly rich and full files in places, inexplicably sparse in others), although I don't mean to suggest some sinister plot on behalf of the Bank to deprive the historian of the raw materials of his art. Historians are always apt to grouse about records that deliberately haven't been kept or have been lost, without stopping to think that some papers really are just too routine in nature to retain for ever. And who among the armies of clerks working for the Bank of England in the twentieth century were drudging away with the future writing of history in mind? I'd say that, as with their modern counterparts now, they were more concerned with surviving the essential futility of white-collar work.
I am unable to comment on the research I was undertaking because of commercial confidentiality, but suffice it to say that I found the material tantalising rather than revelatory: a series of clues, hints and casual allusions unwittingly left by long-dead correspondents who rather thoughtlessly did not have me personally in mind when writing. There are many differences between the working papers of a business or organisation and the personal papers of an individual, but a key distinction, it seems to me, is the fact that however comprehensive they might be, the former can only ever constitute recorded fragments of a greater commercial process, the nature of which the creators of the records did not need to explain because so much would have been implicitly understood by all those involved. Thus it is that rather than the revealing personal letter or intimate diary that reveals much of the inner mind at a certain point, we are left with documents that are full of cryptic comments, obscure commercial phraseology and baffling columns of figures: only the initiate can really extract the full meaning and infer the importance or otherwise of this stuff; to the rest of us it is hard going to say the least. I also got the sense of incomplete documentary survival (some incredibly rich and full files in places, inexplicably sparse in others), although I don't mean to suggest some sinister plot on behalf of the Bank to deprive the historian of the raw materials of his art. Historians are always apt to grouse about records that deliberately haven't been kept or have been lost, without stopping to think that some papers really are just too routine in nature to retain for ever. And who among the armies of clerks working for the Bank of England in the twentieth century were drudging away with the future writing of history in mind? I'd say that, as with their modern counterparts now, they were more concerned with surviving the essential futility of white-collar work.
Tuesday, 7 February 2012
Britain at Work: Voices from the Workplace 1945-1995
I went along to Congress House last week for the launch of this new online resource, and had an interesting evening of it. I must have passed this building hundreds of times over the years, but I had never set foot inside until now. And I can't say that I felt the weight of history as I stepped through the doors; indeed I was struck by the mundanity of the interior (and it really should be forcibly pointed out to the concierge that reading the Daily Mail anywhere, but in this building of all places, should be a capital offence ...)
The backdrop to the lectern featured some astonishing pictures, and various speakers kept us entertained during the launch. Professor Mary Davis offered a particularly peppery view of things: the post-war consensus never existed outside the political elite (which included union leaders) apparently, and the warped genius of the Thatcher governments was not that they dismantled union power - obviously they didn't manage that in the way that is so often claimed - but the way that they curbed any room the unions had to manoeuvre effectively by using piecemeal legislation. Not for the Tories in the 1980s the single, and possibly doomed, attempt to contain the unions using one overarching and cumbersome law. No, the trick was to emasculate the unions step by determined step, until at the end of it all there was nowhere left to turn. Brendan Barber looked suitably wistful at that point. Professor Davis also took great delight in pointing out that the wesbite is not just celebratory: it's a warts 'n' all job, and the unions had plenty of ugly warts that needed treatment - 'union beauty pageants indeed!' snorted Professor D. in disgust.
But two pictures stuck in my mind: one featured the great Ricky Tomlinson from his days as a builder, and the other was of a multi-racial group of striking seamen; it looked to date from the 60s, and looking at the determined faces on show I thought how even back then we were on the right track. It's just a shame that we never quite seem to arrive.
The backdrop to the lectern featured some astonishing pictures, and various speakers kept us entertained during the launch. Professor Mary Davis offered a particularly peppery view of things: the post-war consensus never existed outside the political elite (which included union leaders) apparently, and the warped genius of the Thatcher governments was not that they dismantled union power - obviously they didn't manage that in the way that is so often claimed - but the way that they curbed any room the unions had to manoeuvre effectively by using piecemeal legislation. Not for the Tories in the 1980s the single, and possibly doomed, attempt to contain the unions using one overarching and cumbersome law. No, the trick was to emasculate the unions step by determined step, until at the end of it all there was nowhere left to turn. Brendan Barber looked suitably wistful at that point. Professor Davis also took great delight in pointing out that the wesbite is not just celebratory: it's a warts 'n' all job, and the unions had plenty of ugly warts that needed treatment - 'union beauty pageants indeed!' snorted Professor D. in disgust.
But two pictures stuck in my mind: one featured the great Ricky Tomlinson from his days as a builder, and the other was of a multi-racial group of striking seamen; it looked to date from the 60s, and looking at the determined faces on show I thought how even back then we were on the right track. It's just a shame that we never quite seem to arrive.
Tuesday, 3 January 2012
Recent research
It's been a busy few months, with plenty of research work and editing to be getting on with. Much of my time has been spent down at TNA, where I have been immersed in the mysteries of ADM 12, which contains the so-called Index and Digest volumes that should, in theory, provide access to documents contained in ADM 1 and elsewhere. The contents of at least some of the I&D volumes are, however, quite baffling; indeed, even the staff at TNA have been confounded by some of the cryptic references I have turned up. Why the Admiralty chose to instigate such an impenetrable system can only be a matter for speculation; one eminent historian I spoke to at the reception to celebrate the 40th anniversary of the founding of the Journal of Imperial and Commonwealth History mischievously suggested that 'talent' in the nineteenth century preferred the Foreign Office and the Colonial Office to the backwaters of the Admiralty, and the record-keeping system of which I complained was one manifestation of that dearth of adminstrative ability. I'm not sure about that, but whilst not expecting any government department to organise its records with the covenience of future historians in mind, surely they could have come up with something more usable.
Also of interest was some work I did for a scholar in Australia who was interested in an obscure article from The Spectator that dwelt on the fate of two Aborigines who were executed in Western Australia in the early 1840s; there is evidence of a miscarriage of justice, a gentle euphemism for state murder if ever there was one. It took some time, but I'm pleased to say that I eventually found the relevant piece. Curious to relate, given that magazine's general temper today, the author was highly sympathetic to the plight of the victims.
Also of interest was some work I did for a scholar in Australia who was interested in an obscure article from The Spectator that dwelt on the fate of two Aborigines who were executed in Western Australia in the early 1840s; there is evidence of a miscarriage of justice, a gentle euphemism for state murder if ever there was one. It took some time, but I'm pleased to say that I eventually found the relevant piece. Curious to relate, given that magazine's general temper today, the author was highly sympathetic to the plight of the victims.
Thursday, 20 October 2011
Society for Editors and Proofreaders conference
Apart from several recent visits to the Guildhall Library and The National Archives (in pursuit of some records relating to naval matters) I have temporarily put aside historical research to concentrate on editorial work. I gained a place on the mentoring scheme run by the Society for Editors and Proofreaders, and the material I have been sent to work on has been challenging, to say the least; I was gratified that my mentor saw fit to congratulate me on making a decent fist of editing a lengthy and arcane text on Chinese archaeological discoveries!
I also attended the conference of the Society for Editors and Proofreaders, which proved to be useful and surprising in equal measure. I was asked to contribute a short review of the session on the current state of epublishing given by the head of Faber Digital, and this piece is due to appear in the special conference supplement that will shortly be published by SfEP. I do not consider myself a chronic technophobe, but I am suspicious of technology as so often it seems to take away as much as it gives. However, I must concede that the two Faber iPad apps that were demonstrated (the Solar System and The Wasteland) were simply stunning; so much so that at several moments during the session I did wonder if I was witnessing the redefinition of what it means to read a book.
I also attended the conference of the Society for Editors and Proofreaders, which proved to be useful and surprising in equal measure. I was asked to contribute a short review of the session on the current state of epublishing given by the head of Faber Digital, and this piece is due to appear in the special conference supplement that will shortly be published by SfEP. I do not consider myself a chronic technophobe, but I am suspicious of technology as so often it seems to take away as much as it gives. However, I must concede that the two Faber iPad apps that were demonstrated (the Solar System and The Wasteland) were simply stunning; so much so that at several moments during the session I did wonder if I was witnessing the redefinition of what it means to read a book.
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